This story is a follow up to the January 23, 2014 post, SEAL Tryouts. The event I'm about to recount actually predates the previous post by about three years.
Before, I took my shot at making the Teams at Great Lakes, I had an earlier brush with joining the SEALs. But not as a SEAL. I'll explain...
I was two years into my tour with the Naval Security Group Detachment at Atsugi, Japan when a notice came in over the secure, message line. It was from SEAL Command in Virginia Beach. The SEALs were requesting two operators from the NSG to augment SEAL Teams in the field. The idea was to attach/imbed an individual with our unit's unique talents directly into a squad of SEALs. The operator would provide direct support for missions which took them close to countries that were, ah shall we say, less than friendly to the U.S.
[A short side story: The Naval Security Group is not the same thing as Naval Security. Naval Security are the guys and gals that provide the physical security on the base. We'd often get calls from people on base trying to fix traffic tickets. For awhile the guys answering the phone would try to explain, hey that's not what we do. But eventually we got tired of repeating ourselves over and over. So whenever anyone called to fix a ticket, the routine response became, "Yah, no problem. We'll take care of it." Click]
The secure transmission went out to the NSG Aircrew Detachments. The theory being Aircrew members would be fitter than their surface and sub-surface counterparts. And therefore better able to keep up with the super-fit SEALs.
Our Senior Chief, 'Skip', the Command Operations Chief at Atsugi, called an all hands meeting at the SCIF (Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, also sometimes referred to as the SeCure Intelligence Facility). With all hands present, he outlined the jist of the communique and asked for volunteers.
I raised my hand. Along with several other of my shipmates.
Senior Chief made an on the spot call and picked myself and another Aircrewman. The other volunteer/selectee was a junior petty officer with about a year under his belt at Atsugi. A stocky blond kid (for the life of me I cannot remember his name) whose idea of fun was to load up a backpack with rocks, then run the five miles from the Atsugi Naval Air Facility over to Army Camp Zama, grab a quick bite, then run back.
For the next week or two, he and I started conditioning and honing up our professional skills. Then Senior Chief called us in and told us the operation was off. So what happened?
Apparently, in typical SEAL fashion, the SEAL High Command decided they needed our support and sent out the request. ... Without asking or clearing it through anyone at the NSG Command.
The Admiral in charge of the Naval Security Group naturally got wind of the request and called over to Virginia Beach. The word for word conversation has never been relayed to me directly but this is what I gathered...I'm going to take a little creative license at this point but the storyline is true to what was relayed to me.
Admiral NSG: Ah Admiral, we've received word that you sent out a request for several of our
operators to be re-assigned to the SEALs.
Admiral SEAL: Yes that's right, is there a problem?
Admiral NSG: Well, a little communication would have been nice. And yes we do have some
concerns about what your proposing with our sailors. Our guys have a large
amount top-secret information stuffed into their brains. If they were to be captured
it could cause serious damage to the country's national security. We're not so sure
this is a good idea.
Admiral SEAL: Not a problem Admiral. We've already thought of that. If it looks like
our guys are in danger of capture, a SEAL will shoot your man in the head
before that can happen. We've got it all worked out.
I KID YOU NOT!!!
Shoot us in the head while we're not looking? Wow. I'm certain that if you'd ordered a SEAL to shoot another SEAL in the back of the head, he'd tell you where you could go. And maybe punch your ticket for good measure. But apparently we were expendable.
The Admirals' conversation turned rather frosty at that point and ended quite abruptly! As did my assignment/selection. ... needless to say, the SEALs did not get their way.
Post Script:
Another short SEAL vignette.
When I was training at Goodfellow Airforce Base in Texas, one of the guys a couple weeks ahead of me decided to take the SEAL PST entrance test. A SEAL grader was coming through recruiting and was going to administer the test at the base.
The advanced student and my two roommates all decided to all go and give it a shot. My roommates, Dave and Ed, were just going along for the fun of it and to encourage their buddy. However, their buddy, the advanced student, was actively trying to get into the SEALs.
But Ed was a stud. He was an East Coast kid whose hero was Bruce Lee. He worshiped Bruce Lee. And tried to live his life by Lee's code. And one of Bruce Lee's codes was, "I forge my body in the fire of my will".
And Ed had a lot of will.
He ran marathons as warm ups. Then after he was done running, he'd do hundreds of calisthenics. He was also blessed with the body type where running didn't make him skinny. It built him up. He had legs like tree trunks and a total body fat of about 2%.
Ed wasn't a swimmer though. But his conditioning was good enough to score him a passing grade on the swim portion. After the swim, he blew the test away. The SEAL grader came over to Ed with drool running down the side of his mouth.
He told Ed he'd put up the highest score (outside the swim) the grader had ever seen by a non SEAL. He then started hard selling Ed on the Teams. That's when Ed told him he was color blind. The recruiter paused, then said. "No problem". You just can't go into explosives but you can still be in the Teams.
That's when Ed told him about his food allergy. Ed had an allergy to certain nuts that was potentially fatal.
The SEAL grader walked over with drool on his mouth and walked away with tears in his eyes.
....Ed was my roommate for almost two months at Texas. And he had some of the most unusual eating habits. Habits that had nothing to do with his allergy. He ate Gerber's Baby food out of the jar.
Because he liked it.
He drank Pepto Bismol straight out of the bottle like it was Pepsi.
Because he liked it.
And man could he eat. Once, after a mid-shift training session on base, I watched him and Dave polish off two dinner entrees at Denny's (that's two entrees for each of them). After finishing their dinners they then ordered the entire dessert menu. Yes, the ENTIRE dessert menu.
The waitress was staring at them like they were crazy and then sarcastically asked, "And what would you like to drink with that?" Without a seconds pause, Ed answered, "A diet Pepsi".
Yah, a DIET Pepsi to wash down the entire dessert menu.
The waitress then gave him the "Ok, now I know your NUTS" stare, while her mouth hung open.
Ed shot back, "Hey, I like the taste of the Diet".
They ate it all too.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
SEAL Tryouts
Where:
This story takes place at the US Naval Station - Great Lakes (NAVSTA) in Chicago.
Great Lakes contains the Navy's Recruit Training Command and Training Support Center. It's the United States Navy's largest training station. It's located in Northern Chicago and sits on Lake Michigan. I didn't see much of it. But what I did see was a sprawling base that stretched on and on.
The particular patch I wound up on was the Aquatic Center and fitness track. Both located not very far from the front gate.
What:
I found myself there during springtime in the early 90's. I drove up from C-town to take the Navy SEALs Physical Screening Test. Or PST as it's commonly called.
The winter prior, I had completed my active duty tour and enrolled in classes at OSU. My master plan was to use my reserve status (I was still listed as inactive-reserve even though my tour was done) to take the SEAL PST. If I didn't pass or some other gremlin kept me from qualifying, then I'd return to campus, finish my degree, and begin life as a civilian.
If I did pass, then it was off to San Diego and 6 months of hell.
So on a Friday during Spring quarter, I told my professors I would miss Monday's class and made travel arrangements to Chicago. It's a five and a half hour drive up to Chicago and the PST started at 8:00 am. There was no way I was going to head out at 2:00 am, drive five and half hours and then attempt to pass the physical fitness test from hades. So I made a hotel reservation and drove up the Sunday before.
Physical Screening Test
So what exactly is the PST?
It's the basic physical fitness test that all would be SEAL recruits must pass in order to qualify for training.
If you pass the PST (and meet all the other medical, psych and IQ requirements) then you're off to Basic Underwater Demolition School. Commonly referred to as BUDS. A six month training program in San Diego.
The PST itself consists of five events. Each event must be completed to at least the minimum standards or you fail. A No-Go in Navy parlance.
The events are, in order:
1 - A 500 meter swim. The swim had to be completed in 12 minutes and 30 seconds or less. You were only permitted to use two strokes on the swim. Either a combat sidestroke or the breast stroke. Meaning the crawl, the fastest stroke, was verboten.
2 - Two minute timed push-ups. You had two minutes to complete a minimum of forty-two push-ups.
3 - Two minute timed sit-ups. You had two minutes to complete a minimum of fifty-five sit-ups.
4 - Pull ups no time limit. You had an unlimited amount of time to complete a minimum of eight pull ups.
5 - And the last event was a 1.5 mile run. The run had to be finished in 10 minutes and 30 seconds or less. The run also had to be completed while wearing boots and long pants.
The above standards have changed slightly back and forth over the years. In terms of number of push-up, sit-ups, etc.. But when I took the PST that Spring morning, this was the standard in place.
So I drove up Sunday and checked into a cheap hotel on the North side of Chicago. I found an Italian restaurant, loaded up on carbs, then went back to the hotel for an early bedtime.
The alarm went off the next morning at O'Dark 30. I threw my gear in my ride and drove North to the base. It was early spring and a bit of fog was hanging over city from the lake. The temperature wasn't bad though, dawn was just breaking threw and it was cool but not cold.
I pulled into the front gate and showed the guard my reserve ID. Then I asked for directions. The guard pointed back down the main road to a turn and said to follow the turn along to the left till I saw the indoor aquatic center. So with some trepidation I eased the camaro down the road, past a grove of trees, and into the aquatic center's lot.
I un-assed the car, grabbed my gear and slowly walked up to and through the doors.
I knew the test was administered by SEALs and I had mentally prepared myself to be met by a phalanx of hulking spec-op warriors with bad attitudes. I couldn't have been further off the mark. A quiet group of men, maybe six or seven, sat around a table waiting for us hopefulls to file in. They were soft spoken and looked ... well, very average. If you had walked past them on the street you would not have given them a second glance. They were just regular Joe's there to do a job. To do a job professionally, and to exacting standards.
I was directed to a locker room where I could change into swim trunks. I changed quickly and filed back out to the pool. There were eight of us total there that morning to take the test. Myself and seven recruits from Great Lakes who were in boot camp. A total of eight, middle-class white kids with aspirations to become steely eyed killers. (I thought I knew what that meant then, but as I grow older I'm not so sure I did)
The Pool Phase
The SEALs lined us up into our pool lanes and explained the swim portion. They then asked if we had any questions.
[At this point I need to skip back for a hot second to my first footstep into the center. I expected to find a large indoor pool with cool air and cooler water. Boy was I wrong.
It was a large indoor pool. I got that part right. But the SEALs had turned up the thermostat to sub tropical levels. I stepped through the door and was hit by a wall of steamy moisture. It was like the world's largest indoor sauna. You could literally see the water moisture hanging in the air. My initial thought was, "This is great. I'm not going to freeze my ass off and get the shivers. That's pretty nice of them". ... I would change my opinion...]
Nobody had any questions, we were a pretty quiet and subdued bunch. So the SEALs had us hop into the water (you were not allowed to dive in, which would have given you a free half lane of pool real estate) and take up a position on the wall. In addition to not being allowed to dive in, you also were not allowed to push off after completing each pool length.
Then they yelled "GO" and we were off.
It wasn't a race in the sense of competing against the guy next to you. You were only racing the clock. I started off with sidestroke which is a faster stroke. But laying sideways in the water with a narrow build (front to back) and heavy body mass it took a lot of energy to keep moving. I quickly switched to breast stroke with the frog kick and double arms. And I laid out flat along the top of the water for better buoyancy. The breast stroke also let me glide for a short length after each stroke.
It was right about then that I figured out why the SEALs had cranked up the heat. And it wasn't to be nice. Oh, no. It was because they were total bastards. After swimming a couple laps, cool air would have been perfect to suck in large lungfulls of and power on. The sauna like, moisture laden soup that passed for 'air' in the center was like sucking in oxygen through a hot wet rag. You just couldn't get enough O2.
The air was so laden with steamy water that I had difficulty telling when my mouth had cleared the surface of the pool and it was safe to breathe. That is not an exaggeration. I actually had trouble figuring out if my mouth was out of the water. So I started lifting my head a couple extra inches higher when I came up. Just to be sure.
I finished around 12 minutes. Towards the back of the pack. I knew the swim portion was my weakest event. And honestly I was just happy to come in under the mark. Most if not all of us were still in the game.
Push Up Phase
After completing the swim, the SEALs had us line up along the front of the pool. They then placed us into the push up position. With a SEAL grader in front of each us. It was then that it hit me what a double whammy the heat was. Not only had it made it a bitch to breathe but it acted like a sauna on the muscles. The heat had turned our arm and leg muscles into hot, limp wet noodles.
And just in time for push ups. Bastards! (yes, this will be a recurring theme!)
As we got into the push up position, a SEAL grader laid down on the deck in front of each of us. Each grader then extended his arm, with a clenched fist, out and under each our chests. They explained that in order for your push ups to count, you had to lower your body until it touched the grader's fist. You then had to extend and fully lock out your arms in the up position. After the completion of each good push up, the grader would count out the number. That way you could keep track of where you were during your two minute timed phase. They said "Go" and we were off. I started knocking out perfect push ups.
But there was one small problem. Emphasis on the word "small'.
The SEAL grader who was counting my push ups was the smallest, shortest SEAL in the building. The guy was so short, he looked like a SEAL hobbit. I think the name tag on his uniform said "Baggins". Not only was he short in height but he had little short hobbit arms.
The guy's outstretched fist only just cleared my adam's apple. It didn't come anywhere close to being under my chest. So as I lowered my body down, my chest wasn't hitting his fist. I'd knocked out ten picture perfect push ups and he had only counted one. In desperation I started slamming my entire body down onto the deck in an attempt to get the furry footed bastard to count my f-ing push ups.
They called time. I looked up at Baggins and locked eyes with him. By my count I was in the upper 80's. He looked back at me and said, "42". The bare minimum. My chest ached but I'd passed. Later that night when I took off my shirt, I'd find black and blue ribs all along both sides of my chest.
Sit Up Phase
With the push ups complete, we were instructed to roll over into the sit up position. Our graders then held our ankles and explained what constituted a sit up. We were required to touch our shoulder blades to the deck then sit up until we laid our chests flat against our thighs. While training for the test, I'd been coming up until my elbows, with hands locked behind my head, touched my knees. Then back down.
This was going to be a lot harder. Bastards!
They said "Go" and we were off. I was consistently scoring in the 120's during my training (this was one of, if not my strongest event) under SEAL standards I knocked out 65. But still ... a passing grade.
Pull Up Phase
We then stood up and walked the short distance over to a set up pull up bars which were bolted into the side of the pool's far wall.
The SEALs explained the standards for pull ups. You were to jump up and grab the bar. Then you were to hang there until your body came to a complete rest. Once your body was still, the grader would call out, "Up". You were then to pull yourself up until your collar bones touched the bar. Once the grader was satisfied that you were far enough up he would call out the number of the pull up. You were then allowed to lower yourself down. You then had to wait until your body was completely still and the grader once again gave you the 'up' command to attempt the next repetition.
Most people when practicing pull ups get a rocking motion going to help propel themselves up. Not here. No way baby. Bastards!
But I finished with ten and moved on.
Run Phase
With the pull ups complete, they gave us a short break to change into long pants and boots. We were then to muster back out on the pool deck. This was our first rest. All of the four previous events had been done back to back with almost no break time in between. The breather was welcome.
We came back out and they went over our scores. Only two of us were still in the game. Myself and a very tall, lanky recruit.
They then took the eight of us and marched us out of the center and across to the outdoor track. We had 10 minutes and 30 seconds to run 1.5 miles in boots and long pants. As a reservist, I'd brought light weight, panama style jungle boots and light weight, jungle cammies for pants. Cammies, also known as BDUs or Battle Dress Uniform.
The other seven guys were all "boots" still in basic with no options but what they'd been issued for basic training. Clunky boon docker, mid calf, heavy leather boots with thick rubber soles and steel toes. And bell bottomed dungaree work pants. I looked over at the lanky recruit who was still in it and knew he'd never make it wearing that stuff.
They walked us out the the track at a fast clip and got us started. I finished well under time then looked back to see where the lanky recruit was. I got a shock. He was hauling ass in boon dockers and dungarees. But it was going to be close. The SEAL grader and I started yelling at him. Urging him on. He was doing the best he could in those giant boxy boon dockers but he came across the line a couple seconds over.
However, the good thing about the PST... It's not a one shot deal. If you don't make it you can try again. I had no doubt this kid would give it another shot after boot camp with some better gear and make it.
Post Script
The test was over and I'd made it through. I was beat to hell and it was a rough drive back to C-town. But I'd made it.
Just one last hurdle. The medical exam. ... and I failed it.
My left eye was over the uncorrected vision limit. And in the early nineties, lasik was not yet perfected or accepted by the military. Neither could I get an eyesight waiver. It was possible to obtain one, but at this time there was a glut of recruits and all waivers were stopped.
In fact, I called a shipmate from my unit who had just arrived at SEAL training and asked about getting a waiver. He told me a guy checked into the quarterdeck that afternoon with an approved waiver in hand and the command told him don't even in-process. Instead they turned him around and sent him straight to the transiting personnel barracks. Right back to where ever he came from.
And that killed my dream. That's not to say, if I'd gotten a waiver, or been born ten years later when lasik was accepted, that I'd have made it through. Hell, half the guys who go to San Diego wash out. So who knows?
But, when God closes one door he usually opens another. And so he did with me.
.
This story takes place at the US Naval Station - Great Lakes (NAVSTA) in Chicago.
Great Lakes contains the Navy's Recruit Training Command and Training Support Center. It's the United States Navy's largest training station. It's located in Northern Chicago and sits on Lake Michigan. I didn't see much of it. But what I did see was a sprawling base that stretched on and on.
The particular patch I wound up on was the Aquatic Center and fitness track. Both located not very far from the front gate.
What:
I found myself there during springtime in the early 90's. I drove up from C-town to take the Navy SEALs Physical Screening Test. Or PST as it's commonly called.
The winter prior, I had completed my active duty tour and enrolled in classes at OSU. My master plan was to use my reserve status (I was still listed as inactive-reserve even though my tour was done) to take the SEAL PST. If I didn't pass or some other gremlin kept me from qualifying, then I'd return to campus, finish my degree, and begin life as a civilian.
If I did pass, then it was off to San Diego and 6 months of hell.
So on a Friday during Spring quarter, I told my professors I would miss Monday's class and made travel arrangements to Chicago. It's a five and a half hour drive up to Chicago and the PST started at 8:00 am. There was no way I was going to head out at 2:00 am, drive five and half hours and then attempt to pass the physical fitness test from hades. So I made a hotel reservation and drove up the Sunday before.
Physical Screening Test
So what exactly is the PST?
It's the basic physical fitness test that all would be SEAL recruits must pass in order to qualify for training.
If you pass the PST (and meet all the other medical, psych and IQ requirements) then you're off to Basic Underwater Demolition School. Commonly referred to as BUDS. A six month training program in San Diego.
The PST itself consists of five events. Each event must be completed to at least the minimum standards or you fail. A No-Go in Navy parlance.
The events are, in order:
1 - A 500 meter swim. The swim had to be completed in 12 minutes and 30 seconds or less. You were only permitted to use two strokes on the swim. Either a combat sidestroke or the breast stroke. Meaning the crawl, the fastest stroke, was verboten.
2 - Two minute timed push-ups. You had two minutes to complete a minimum of forty-two push-ups.
3 - Two minute timed sit-ups. You had two minutes to complete a minimum of fifty-five sit-ups.
4 - Pull ups no time limit. You had an unlimited amount of time to complete a minimum of eight pull ups.
5 - And the last event was a 1.5 mile run. The run had to be finished in 10 minutes and 30 seconds or less. The run also had to be completed while wearing boots and long pants.
The above standards have changed slightly back and forth over the years. In terms of number of push-up, sit-ups, etc.. But when I took the PST that Spring morning, this was the standard in place.
So I drove up Sunday and checked into a cheap hotel on the North side of Chicago. I found an Italian restaurant, loaded up on carbs, then went back to the hotel for an early bedtime.
The alarm went off the next morning at O'Dark 30. I threw my gear in my ride and drove North to the base. It was early spring and a bit of fog was hanging over city from the lake. The temperature wasn't bad though, dawn was just breaking threw and it was cool but not cold.
I pulled into the front gate and showed the guard my reserve ID. Then I asked for directions. The guard pointed back down the main road to a turn and said to follow the turn along to the left till I saw the indoor aquatic center. So with some trepidation I eased the camaro down the road, past a grove of trees, and into the aquatic center's lot.
I un-assed the car, grabbed my gear and slowly walked up to and through the doors.
I knew the test was administered by SEALs and I had mentally prepared myself to be met by a phalanx of hulking spec-op warriors with bad attitudes. I couldn't have been further off the mark. A quiet group of men, maybe six or seven, sat around a table waiting for us hopefulls to file in. They were soft spoken and looked ... well, very average. If you had walked past them on the street you would not have given them a second glance. They were just regular Joe's there to do a job. To do a job professionally, and to exacting standards.
I was directed to a locker room where I could change into swim trunks. I changed quickly and filed back out to the pool. There were eight of us total there that morning to take the test. Myself and seven recruits from Great Lakes who were in boot camp. A total of eight, middle-class white kids with aspirations to become steely eyed killers. (I thought I knew what that meant then, but as I grow older I'm not so sure I did)
The Pool Phase
The SEALs lined us up into our pool lanes and explained the swim portion. They then asked if we had any questions.
[At this point I need to skip back for a hot second to my first footstep into the center. I expected to find a large indoor pool with cool air and cooler water. Boy was I wrong.
It was a large indoor pool. I got that part right. But the SEALs had turned up the thermostat to sub tropical levels. I stepped through the door and was hit by a wall of steamy moisture. It was like the world's largest indoor sauna. You could literally see the water moisture hanging in the air. My initial thought was, "This is great. I'm not going to freeze my ass off and get the shivers. That's pretty nice of them". ... I would change my opinion...]
Nobody had any questions, we were a pretty quiet and subdued bunch. So the SEALs had us hop into the water (you were not allowed to dive in, which would have given you a free half lane of pool real estate) and take up a position on the wall. In addition to not being allowed to dive in, you also were not allowed to push off after completing each pool length.
Then they yelled "GO" and we were off.
It wasn't a race in the sense of competing against the guy next to you. You were only racing the clock. I started off with sidestroke which is a faster stroke. But laying sideways in the water with a narrow build (front to back) and heavy body mass it took a lot of energy to keep moving. I quickly switched to breast stroke with the frog kick and double arms. And I laid out flat along the top of the water for better buoyancy. The breast stroke also let me glide for a short length after each stroke.
It was right about then that I figured out why the SEALs had cranked up the heat. And it wasn't to be nice. Oh, no. It was because they were total bastards. After swimming a couple laps, cool air would have been perfect to suck in large lungfulls of and power on. The sauna like, moisture laden soup that passed for 'air' in the center was like sucking in oxygen through a hot wet rag. You just couldn't get enough O2.
The air was so laden with steamy water that I had difficulty telling when my mouth had cleared the surface of the pool and it was safe to breathe. That is not an exaggeration. I actually had trouble figuring out if my mouth was out of the water. So I started lifting my head a couple extra inches higher when I came up. Just to be sure.
I finished around 12 minutes. Towards the back of the pack. I knew the swim portion was my weakest event. And honestly I was just happy to come in under the mark. Most if not all of us were still in the game.
Push Up Phase
After completing the swim, the SEALs had us line up along the front of the pool. They then placed us into the push up position. With a SEAL grader in front of each us. It was then that it hit me what a double whammy the heat was. Not only had it made it a bitch to breathe but it acted like a sauna on the muscles. The heat had turned our arm and leg muscles into hot, limp wet noodles.
And just in time for push ups. Bastards! (yes, this will be a recurring theme!)
As we got into the push up position, a SEAL grader laid down on the deck in front of each of us. Each grader then extended his arm, with a clenched fist, out and under each our chests. They explained that in order for your push ups to count, you had to lower your body until it touched the grader's fist. You then had to extend and fully lock out your arms in the up position. After the completion of each good push up, the grader would count out the number. That way you could keep track of where you were during your two minute timed phase. They said "Go" and we were off. I started knocking out perfect push ups.
But there was one small problem. Emphasis on the word "small'.
The SEAL grader who was counting my push ups was the smallest, shortest SEAL in the building. The guy was so short, he looked like a SEAL hobbit. I think the name tag on his uniform said "Baggins". Not only was he short in height but he had little short hobbit arms.
The guy's outstretched fist only just cleared my adam's apple. It didn't come anywhere close to being under my chest. So as I lowered my body down, my chest wasn't hitting his fist. I'd knocked out ten picture perfect push ups and he had only counted one. In desperation I started slamming my entire body down onto the deck in an attempt to get the furry footed bastard to count my f-ing push ups.
They called time. I looked up at Baggins and locked eyes with him. By my count I was in the upper 80's. He looked back at me and said, "42". The bare minimum. My chest ached but I'd passed. Later that night when I took off my shirt, I'd find black and blue ribs all along both sides of my chest.
Sit Up Phase
With the push ups complete, we were instructed to roll over into the sit up position. Our graders then held our ankles and explained what constituted a sit up. We were required to touch our shoulder blades to the deck then sit up until we laid our chests flat against our thighs. While training for the test, I'd been coming up until my elbows, with hands locked behind my head, touched my knees. Then back down.
This was going to be a lot harder. Bastards!
They said "Go" and we were off. I was consistently scoring in the 120's during my training (this was one of, if not my strongest event) under SEAL standards I knocked out 65. But still ... a passing grade.
Pull Up Phase
We then stood up and walked the short distance over to a set up pull up bars which were bolted into the side of the pool's far wall.
The SEALs explained the standards for pull ups. You were to jump up and grab the bar. Then you were to hang there until your body came to a complete rest. Once your body was still, the grader would call out, "Up". You were then to pull yourself up until your collar bones touched the bar. Once the grader was satisfied that you were far enough up he would call out the number of the pull up. You were then allowed to lower yourself down. You then had to wait until your body was completely still and the grader once again gave you the 'up' command to attempt the next repetition.
Most people when practicing pull ups get a rocking motion going to help propel themselves up. Not here. No way baby. Bastards!
But I finished with ten and moved on.
Run Phase
With the pull ups complete, they gave us a short break to change into long pants and boots. We were then to muster back out on the pool deck. This was our first rest. All of the four previous events had been done back to back with almost no break time in between. The breather was welcome.
We came back out and they went over our scores. Only two of us were still in the game. Myself and a very tall, lanky recruit.
They then took the eight of us and marched us out of the center and across to the outdoor track. We had 10 minutes and 30 seconds to run 1.5 miles in boots and long pants. As a reservist, I'd brought light weight, panama style jungle boots and light weight, jungle cammies for pants. Cammies, also known as BDUs or Battle Dress Uniform.
The other seven guys were all "boots" still in basic with no options but what they'd been issued for basic training. Clunky boon docker, mid calf, heavy leather boots with thick rubber soles and steel toes. And bell bottomed dungaree work pants. I looked over at the lanky recruit who was still in it and knew he'd never make it wearing that stuff.
They walked us out the the track at a fast clip and got us started. I finished well under time then looked back to see where the lanky recruit was. I got a shock. He was hauling ass in boon dockers and dungarees. But it was going to be close. The SEAL grader and I started yelling at him. Urging him on. He was doing the best he could in those giant boxy boon dockers but he came across the line a couple seconds over.
However, the good thing about the PST... It's not a one shot deal. If you don't make it you can try again. I had no doubt this kid would give it another shot after boot camp with some better gear and make it.
Post Script
The test was over and I'd made it through. I was beat to hell and it was a rough drive back to C-town. But I'd made it.
Just one last hurdle. The medical exam. ... and I failed it.
My left eye was over the uncorrected vision limit. And in the early nineties, lasik was not yet perfected or accepted by the military. Neither could I get an eyesight waiver. It was possible to obtain one, but at this time there was a glut of recruits and all waivers were stopped.
In fact, I called a shipmate from my unit who had just arrived at SEAL training and asked about getting a waiver. He told me a guy checked into the quarterdeck that afternoon with an approved waiver in hand and the command told him don't even in-process. Instead they turned him around and sent him straight to the transiting personnel barracks. Right back to where ever he came from.
And that killed my dream. That's not to say, if I'd gotten a waiver, or been born ten years later when lasik was accepted, that I'd have made it through. Hell, half the guys who go to San Diego wash out. So who knows?
But, when God closes one door he usually opens another. And so he did with me.
.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Scotch the Wonder Dog
Correction -
First off, I need to make a correction to my dorm/apartment history at Ohio State University. When I originally transferred out of the dorms and off campus, I did move into the Castle (See post - OSU Roommates, and Tear Gas). But I didn't move directly in with Don, Fred and gang. I was actually invited to move into the apartment one over. On the end unit of the Castle. A coworker of mine at the OSU Faculty Club asked me to move in with her and her roommates.
Yes, I said her and her roommates. Three co-eds, one other guy, and me. Deb, Cheryl, Karen, Bill and yours truly. Later a fourth co-ed moved in. It was a LARGE apartment. The Castle was huge. This was just one of four units that the original, turn of the century boarding house had been divided into.
So how did I end up next door with the sociopaths? (aka Don, Fred and gang.)
We all knew each other from the OSU Faculty Club. Where we worked. We'd work all evening then head out to the strip of bars (that's 'strip-of-bars' NOT strip-bars (although sometimes the distinction wasn't so clear!)) along High Street.
(OSU Faculty Club, front view from Oval)
The High Street Bars at OSU:
Back in the 80's and early 90's at OSU, High Street, which fronted campus, was home to a dozen or so college dive-bars. Back then, the drinking age was 18, Just Say No was Just Say Yes, and AIDs was still a distant concern. Things could get pretty crazy at these "establishments" and often did.
Some of the better known bars were Papa Joe's, The Oar House, Marco Polo's, Mean Mr. Mustards, The Travel Agency, South Heidelberg and Jousters. Along with the bars, there were dollar gyro shops (Apollo's), head shops, grunge clothing stores (back then they called it Goodwill) and a bunch of other post hippie crap.
Papa Joe's
Papa Joe's was one of the more notorious dives. It was one of the larger more crowded bars. PJ's had a lower level and an upper balcony that overlooked a fair sized dance floor. The whole place was built out of wood which was stained dark by rivers of spilled beer. It smelled and was always crowded. Every weekend, someone in the balcony would either puke or would spill/deliberately dump beer down onto the dance floor below. It was a great place.
And they served beer by the bucket. Yah, the bucket.
We drank there often. That is until one night I saw something that turned my stomach. And that's saying something. I was there with the gang and an old high school acquaintance. We were drinking buckets of watered down Old Milwaukee (or some other cheap swill) when I noticed my high school buddy hadn't got up to go to the bathroom. Very unusual. Especially when you're drinking those volumes of suds.
So I said, "Hey John (not his real name), don't you have to piss?"
John replied, "Yah, I am. I just go in the empty buckets."
With a raised eyebrow, I looked under the table and sure enough. He'd put an empty Papa Joe's beer bucket at his feet and filled the bottom with urine. I gagged a little. Then I turned positively green when he picked it up and placed the bucket on the bar for the barkeep.
The barkeep grabbed the bucket and without a glance dumped the toxic contents into a deep sink, rinsed it out with a quick dash of water, then filled it back up for the next customer. I never drank there again.
We usually went straight out to the bars from the Faculty Club. On nights when we weren't working, Don and Fred had to come over and get me. Every now and then they'd knock on the door like normal people. But most of the time, they'd crawl over the lower level roof to my room and bang on the window. Or just pound on the wall as loud as they could.
Not surprisingly, this tended to piss off my roommates.
One night, after heavy drinking, Don and Fred decided this was too much work. And crawling over was too much of a hassle. So they hit on a plan. They decided to punch a hole through the wall from their apartment directly into my bedroom. That way they could yell over at me anytime they wanted.
They grabbed and iron crowbar and proceeded to start bashing it into the cinder block firewall separating our units. I think they got about half way through before my roommates threatened to call the police.
After that, I figured it would be simpler and more peaceful for everyone if I just moved next door!
Scotch the Wonder Dog:
But back to (or start on as the case may be) the main story -
Early that Fall quarter with Deb and the rest, there was a house meeting to decide on whether to get a puppy. A vote was taken. The vote went four "ayes" and one "nay".
I was the single 'nay' vote.
So the rest of the house went down to the pound and picked out Scotch, aka "Scotch the Wonder Dog". A dog that would become famous on campus in record time.
Scotch was a mutt mix. He looked to be part Golden Lab, maybe a little Shepard, with some Terrier thrown in for good measure (later I'd wonder if he wasn't all blood hound). He was a fair sized puppy with a light butterscotch colored coat....hence the name. To be honest, he looked a hell of a lot like the dog Petey off of The Three Rascals. Minus the black circle around the eye.
However, the other guy in the house, Bill, would grab dark mascara from one of the girls, hold Scotch down and actually paint a black circle around his eye. Then he'd put a bandanna on him and take him out to the Oval on campus to meet girls. Shockingly, it worked on a number of occasions.
As the lone roommate who voted against getting a dog, I vowed not to take part in his care. I had enough on my plate. I didn't need taking care of a pet added to it. I chose to ignore the dog and let my roommates care for and enjoy him.
So who does the dog decide to follow EVERYWHERE? Yah, yours truly. Everywhere I went that hound would follow. Right underfoot. Like I gave birth to it. Fortunately, over time it wore off. I didn't feed him and eventually his heart followed his stomach.
Wander Lust:
I have to admit Scotch was a decent dog. Other than the occasional puppy teething and chewing on everything, he was well tempered and playful. But he had a problem...
He liked to roam.
Any chance he got, and there were lots of them with five people coming and going to classes, he'd bolt out the door and be gone. He had a collar with our number on it and we'd get calls from all over campus.
He wound up in apartments, dorms, classrooms. You name it. The other roommates would then have to go get him. On one occasion we got a call form a co-ed dorm on the 18th floor of Morrill tower. The mutt had somehow gotten up the elevator and was running around the dorm. Bill usually volunteered to go get him. I think it gave him more opportunities to meet co-eds.
The Scotch Bar:
One night, Scotch outdid himself.
Don and Fred had climbed over the roof and kidnapped me to come out to the bars on a weekend night. So we gathered up the rest of the gang and proceeded the two blocks down West 10th Avenue towards the watering holes on High Street.
We wound up in the back patio of the Oar House. We sat down at a picnic table, bought a couple pitchers of cheap beer, and then started to shoot the shit while enjoying the 'scenic' view of the adjacent Wonder Bread factory's second floor. We'd been there almost an hour when I got the shock of my life.
I was sitting at the table with the gang and a co-ed from the Faculty Club, sipping a beer, minding my own business when something wet hit my leg and went up and down it. I jumped straight out of my seat and screamed.
Which scared the crap out of Scotch the wonder dog.
He'd tracked me the length of West 10th. Then down High Street to the Oar House where he got past the bouncer at the front door and made it back to the patio and our table. Like I said, that dog followed me everywhere!
I picked him up and carried him back to the Castle. On the way back, two co-eds stopped me on 10th and said, "Hey, I know that dog."
Mirror Lake:
Scotch's crowning moment came one day at Mirror Lake on campus.
Mirror Lake is a small pond on campus that's about three feet deep with a fountain in the center. It has an amphitheater next to it and ducks swim on its surface. The ducks were there year round. The university took care of them and their wings were clipped to keep them put for the scenic ambiance....
Scotch got loose again one afternoon. We got a call a couple hours later from a highly irate OSU trustee. Highly irate. Scotch went straight to Mirror Lake. Then had a field day hunting down stranded, clipped winged ducks. Literally, ducks in a barrel. Albeit a really big barrel. He killed or maimed a half dozen of them before alarmed students and staff corralled him. Thus ending the slaughter...and Scotch's fun.
The very next day, Scotch's picture was on the front page of the OSU Lantern, school newspaper. The article, 'Dog Terrorizes Ducks at Mirror Lake!' The university removed the ducks after the incident. It would be almost 10 years later before they put ducks back.
I was on that campus for four years and never once even got my name in the paper. Scotch made the front page, with photo, inside of his first quarter. Wonder dog indeed.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Messing with the Mob
Where:
This story takes place at a Middle Eastern café in Central Ohio. The café is a favorite date night destination for my wife and me. We dine there several times each year. It’s small and cozy. The décor is (not surprisingly) Middle Eastern with arched supports, ornate pillars, oriental rugs and braziers.
The staff is warm and friendly. Most hail from the Middle East and Balkans. The waiters tend to be males and there’s always a stunning hostess to greet patrons as they enter.
The menu specializes in Turkish foods, kabobs in particular. When we go, we usually order a beef kabob along with a shrimp plate in cream sauce. The trick is to take the steak off the kabob and then pour the shrimp’s cream sauce over the beef. Fantastic! Then wash it all down with a Turkish coffee.
What:
This story focuses on a winter’s evening dinner at the café.
My mother-in-law (see previous post) was over kid watching and my wife and I were out for dinner and movie.
We decided on the café since it was also close to the theatre. So we set out in our trusty, old, and paid off 1998 Honda Civic (I hate car payments! I’ll drive that thing till the wheels come off). A few minutes later we arrived at the mall where the café is, found a parking spot, and fast walked out of the cold to front door.
Inside a tall blonde dressed in a white jump suit greeted us. Every time we go there’s a new hostess up front. Apparently all picked from Turkish supermodels. Almost like they’re running a human trafficking ring for high priced call girls.
There was a table open along the wall and we were seated immediately.
[Quick aside – the café is adjacent to a Mongolian Barbecue joint. The line for the Mongolian All-You-Can-Stuff-in-Your-Face Barbecue is always out the door. I’ve never understood this. For literally as little as two clamshells more you can walk next door, sit down without waiting, and be served a meal that puts Mongol meat to shame.]
We knew what we wanted and as soon as our waiter came for our drinks we placed our order. Our waiter was one of the long-timers and I suspect a part owner. An older gentlemen with a heavy Balkan accent.
With the order placed, we settled in and started discussing the night’s agenda. Probably a cheesy action/sci-fi movie followed by some drinks. Yeah, my wife actually likes those flicks. One of the reasons I married her! Then it happened.
The mob walked in.
Specifically, three gentlemen came through the front door. Two older men. One in a full length black leather coat with slicked back salt and pepper hair offset with a Mephisto goatee. The other a little heavier set with a full length brown leather coat. The third guy was huge. A young guy, probably late 20’s, around 6’1” or 6’2” and well over 300 pounds of not-so-handsome. Admittedly a lot of it was fat but still an imposing figure.
The guy in the black coat was obviously in charge – no doubts. The other old guy hung on his elbow and whispered to him while the ‘kid’ stood to one side intently studying his i-phone.
As soon as our waiter (owner) caught site of them, he rushed over and grabbed the head mofioso’s hand and kissed the guy on both cheeks. He doesn’t even look at the other two. He’s now profusely shaking the guys hand and walking them to a table. The owner walks them over a sits them down at the table right next to us.
The night just got a little more interesting…
My wife is actually sitting on the same wall bench that ‘Mephistopholes’ has his butt planted on. She’s about two and a half feet away. She has also not picked up on this turn of events. Sometimes she can be a bit oblivious to her immediate surroundings (not unlike her mother) but thank god not to the same degree.
(I actively work on her situational awareness. Stay alert, Stay alive! … There have been times, well Ok one time, when driving on vacation, late at night, the van loaded with kids, when she pulled off the freeway for gas. One gas station on the right, well lit, well travelled and another on the left. Dark and empty except for the hookers coming to and from the no-tell-motel next to it and some guys exchanging cash for small items by the pumps. But the one on the left is selling gas for 2 cents cheaper. One guess which station she pulled into.)
But back to the story…the owner sits them next to us. Mephistopholes right by my wife. His lackey sitting next to him. And across the table, blocking them off from the rest of the café the 300 pound mountain gorilla. The owner stands by their table and proceeds to chew the ear off Mephisto for the next 20 minutes straight. The guy is waiting half the tables in the café but ignores them completely. Thank god we’d got our order in.
Finally, the owner takes his leave. After which, every single waiter in the café comes over. One guy at a time. Introduces himself to the head grease ball and then proceeds to give a five minute oration on where they’re from back in the motherland and brief life history.
This is great. Dinner AND a show.
While the waiters are paying their respects, food starts to show up at their table. Food is arriving even though they haven’t ordered. And the food that’s coming is NOT on the menu.
My wife looks over and sees a bread platter that’s not on the menu. Then she gives me an aneurism when she pokes Mephisto on the shoulder and says, “Hey what’s that dish?”
All conversation at their table stops. The gorilla looks up from his i-phone for the first time that night and stares at my wife. The owner catches sight and scurries over. He inserts himself between my wife and the un-holy trinity next to us.
And I’ve got to give the owner credit. He covered nicely.
All smiles, he went on for a few minutes about the traditional bread plate. Had a sample brought to our table and told my wife to flag him down the next time we were in and he’d fix us up.
With things smoothed over, the waiter introductions continued. I’ve now completely tuned out my wife and am listening 100 percent to our neighbor’s conversations. From one of the waiter’s treatises I figure out our gangsters are Armenian mob. Armenia is a small exceptionally poor country just to the East of Turkey. It’s bordered on the North by Georgia, the East by Azerbaijan, the South by Iran and of course Turkey on the West.
The Armenian mob is rather well known in law enforcement circles. At one point in my career I took part in multiple raids on Armenian residences in Glendale, CA (heavily Armenian) …. but that’s another story.
So back to ours. Finally, the waiters finish paying their respects and dinner at both tables proceeds. The gorilla never looks up from his phone or his plate. And never says a word. Not one word. He just sits there. While Mephistopholes and his chief lieutenant, Beelzebub, confer in low tones.
Fortunately, they’re right next to us. I can hear everything.
But the conversation is mostly in Armenian. It’s actually flowing in and out of English and Armenian. Even within the same sentence. Part of the sentence in English and part Armenian.
However…Uncle Sam (at great expense) rammed Russian down my throat for six hours a day, five days a week, for one year straight….with hours of homework at night. It was so much Russian I started having dreams in Russian. Nightmares to be accurate. One recurring nightmare to be precise. Which was, I’d be sitting in my Russian classroom all alone except for my teacher. Just me and my Russian born defector turned U.S government slave driver, er teacher. He would fire off a Russian grammar question at me and just when I thought of the answer, he’d yell “Too Late!” then fire another question at me. In the waking world, my Russian teacher was quite a character. He had a favorite saying which I now routinely use on my kids. Whenever anyone would complain about the pace he would pause, look up at the ceiling and say in a heavy accent, “Mmmm how you Amerikans say? Ah yes, this is not for you to like … it’s for you to do.” It was an intense school and full of stress. If you failed out then you were, as the Navy liked to phrase it, “Haze gray and underway”. That’s not a good thing. But it did teach me Russian and Russian is pretty damn close to Armenian.
I could follow most of what they were saying. Not all of it but most of it. The two head guys were talking intently about sports cars and expensive real-estate properties. Nothing juicy. No chopped up bodies or anything like that. Just their mortgage fraud schemes and what cars they were going to buy with the profits.
While they were talking I had leaned over and discretely clued in my wife as to the nature of our neighbors. Our own conversation then came back to movies and the usual fare. My wife had actually had a brief exchange with Mephisto about the bread and I’m sure they heard us talking in our distinct American mid-west dialect. They pegged us for run-of-the-mill white folk out for a night’s diversion.
We finished our dinner and paid our bill. Then we got up and started walking for the door.
But I couldn’t resist. Just as I was passing the mountain gorilla, I turned and to the two headmen I said, in perfect unaccented Russian, “Have a good evening gentlemen.”
Their conversation stopped. The two chiefs looked up and their eyes were the size of saucers. Even Mr. 300+ turned around from his i-phone and stared.
We covered the remaining distance to the door at a half-trot. Once outside, my wife turned to me and said, “You know, that was pretty stupid. Let’s get out of here.”
Yep it was pretty dumb. But damn it felt good!
This story takes place at a Middle Eastern café in Central Ohio. The café is a favorite date night destination for my wife and me. We dine there several times each year. It’s small and cozy. The décor is (not surprisingly) Middle Eastern with arched supports, ornate pillars, oriental rugs and braziers.
The staff is warm and friendly. Most hail from the Middle East and Balkans. The waiters tend to be males and there’s always a stunning hostess to greet patrons as they enter.
The menu specializes in Turkish foods, kabobs in particular. When we go, we usually order a beef kabob along with a shrimp plate in cream sauce. The trick is to take the steak off the kabob and then pour the shrimp’s cream sauce over the beef. Fantastic! Then wash it all down with a Turkish coffee.
What:
This story focuses on a winter’s evening dinner at the café.
My mother-in-law (see previous post) was over kid watching and my wife and I were out for dinner and movie.
We decided on the café since it was also close to the theatre. So we set out in our trusty, old, and paid off 1998 Honda Civic (I hate car payments! I’ll drive that thing till the wheels come off). A few minutes later we arrived at the mall where the café is, found a parking spot, and fast walked out of the cold to front door.
Inside a tall blonde dressed in a white jump suit greeted us. Every time we go there’s a new hostess up front. Apparently all picked from Turkish supermodels. Almost like they’re running a human trafficking ring for high priced call girls.
There was a table open along the wall and we were seated immediately.
[Quick aside – the café is adjacent to a Mongolian Barbecue joint. The line for the Mongolian All-You-Can-Stuff-in-Your-Face Barbecue is always out the door. I’ve never understood this. For literally as little as two clamshells more you can walk next door, sit down without waiting, and be served a meal that puts Mongol meat to shame.]
We knew what we wanted and as soon as our waiter came for our drinks we placed our order. Our waiter was one of the long-timers and I suspect a part owner. An older gentlemen with a heavy Balkan accent.
With the order placed, we settled in and started discussing the night’s agenda. Probably a cheesy action/sci-fi movie followed by some drinks. Yeah, my wife actually likes those flicks. One of the reasons I married her! Then it happened.
The mob walked in.
Specifically, three gentlemen came through the front door. Two older men. One in a full length black leather coat with slicked back salt and pepper hair offset with a Mephisto goatee. The other a little heavier set with a full length brown leather coat. The third guy was huge. A young guy, probably late 20’s, around 6’1” or 6’2” and well over 300 pounds of not-so-handsome. Admittedly a lot of it was fat but still an imposing figure.
The guy in the black coat was obviously in charge – no doubts. The other old guy hung on his elbow and whispered to him while the ‘kid’ stood to one side intently studying his i-phone.
As soon as our waiter (owner) caught site of them, he rushed over and grabbed the head mofioso’s hand and kissed the guy on both cheeks. He doesn’t even look at the other two. He’s now profusely shaking the guys hand and walking them to a table. The owner walks them over a sits them down at the table right next to us.
The night just got a little more interesting…
My wife is actually sitting on the same wall bench that ‘Mephistopholes’ has his butt planted on. She’s about two and a half feet away. She has also not picked up on this turn of events. Sometimes she can be a bit oblivious to her immediate surroundings (not unlike her mother) but thank god not to the same degree.
(I actively work on her situational awareness. Stay alert, Stay alive! … There have been times, well Ok one time, when driving on vacation, late at night, the van loaded with kids, when she pulled off the freeway for gas. One gas station on the right, well lit, well travelled and another on the left. Dark and empty except for the hookers coming to and from the no-tell-motel next to it and some guys exchanging cash for small items by the pumps. But the one on the left is selling gas for 2 cents cheaper. One guess which station she pulled into.)
But back to the story…the owner sits them next to us. Mephistopholes right by my wife. His lackey sitting next to him. And across the table, blocking them off from the rest of the café the 300 pound mountain gorilla. The owner stands by their table and proceeds to chew the ear off Mephisto for the next 20 minutes straight. The guy is waiting half the tables in the café but ignores them completely. Thank god we’d got our order in.
Finally, the owner takes his leave. After which, every single waiter in the café comes over. One guy at a time. Introduces himself to the head grease ball and then proceeds to give a five minute oration on where they’re from back in the motherland and brief life history.
This is great. Dinner AND a show.
While the waiters are paying their respects, food starts to show up at their table. Food is arriving even though they haven’t ordered. And the food that’s coming is NOT on the menu.
My wife looks over and sees a bread platter that’s not on the menu. Then she gives me an aneurism when she pokes Mephisto on the shoulder and says, “Hey what’s that dish?”
All conversation at their table stops. The gorilla looks up from his i-phone for the first time that night and stares at my wife. The owner catches sight and scurries over. He inserts himself between my wife and the un-holy trinity next to us.
And I’ve got to give the owner credit. He covered nicely.
All smiles, he went on for a few minutes about the traditional bread plate. Had a sample brought to our table and told my wife to flag him down the next time we were in and he’d fix us up.
With things smoothed over, the waiter introductions continued. I’ve now completely tuned out my wife and am listening 100 percent to our neighbor’s conversations. From one of the waiter’s treatises I figure out our gangsters are Armenian mob. Armenia is a small exceptionally poor country just to the East of Turkey. It’s bordered on the North by Georgia, the East by Azerbaijan, the South by Iran and of course Turkey on the West.
The Armenian mob is rather well known in law enforcement circles. At one point in my career I took part in multiple raids on Armenian residences in Glendale, CA (heavily Armenian) …. but that’s another story.
So back to ours. Finally, the waiters finish paying their respects and dinner at both tables proceeds. The gorilla never looks up from his phone or his plate. And never says a word. Not one word. He just sits there. While Mephistopholes and his chief lieutenant, Beelzebub, confer in low tones.
Fortunately, they’re right next to us. I can hear everything.
But the conversation is mostly in Armenian. It’s actually flowing in and out of English and Armenian. Even within the same sentence. Part of the sentence in English and part Armenian.
However…Uncle Sam (at great expense) rammed Russian down my throat for six hours a day, five days a week, for one year straight….with hours of homework at night. It was so much Russian I started having dreams in Russian. Nightmares to be accurate. One recurring nightmare to be precise. Which was, I’d be sitting in my Russian classroom all alone except for my teacher. Just me and my Russian born defector turned U.S government slave driver, er teacher. He would fire off a Russian grammar question at me and just when I thought of the answer, he’d yell “Too Late!” then fire another question at me. In the waking world, my Russian teacher was quite a character. He had a favorite saying which I now routinely use on my kids. Whenever anyone would complain about the pace he would pause, look up at the ceiling and say in a heavy accent, “Mmmm how you Amerikans say? Ah yes, this is not for you to like … it’s for you to do.” It was an intense school and full of stress. If you failed out then you were, as the Navy liked to phrase it, “Haze gray and underway”. That’s not a good thing. But it did teach me Russian and Russian is pretty damn close to Armenian.
I could follow most of what they were saying. Not all of it but most of it. The two head guys were talking intently about sports cars and expensive real-estate properties. Nothing juicy. No chopped up bodies or anything like that. Just their mortgage fraud schemes and what cars they were going to buy with the profits.
While they were talking I had leaned over and discretely clued in my wife as to the nature of our neighbors. Our own conversation then came back to movies and the usual fare. My wife had actually had a brief exchange with Mephisto about the bread and I’m sure they heard us talking in our distinct American mid-west dialect. They pegged us for run-of-the-mill white folk out for a night’s diversion.
We finished our dinner and paid our bill. Then we got up and started walking for the door.
But I couldn’t resist. Just as I was passing the mountain gorilla, I turned and to the two headmen I said, in perfect unaccented Russian, “Have a good evening gentlemen.”
Their conversation stopped. The two chiefs looked up and their eyes were the size of saucers. Even Mr. 300+ turned around from his i-phone and stared.
We covered the remaining distance to the door at a half-trot. Once outside, my wife turned to me and said, “You know, that was pretty stupid. Let’s get out of here.”
Yep it was pretty dumb. But damn it felt good!
Friday, October 11, 2013
The Helo-Dunker from Hell
Where:
This story takes place at the Naval Air
Station – Pensacola, Florida. Yes, the
same one made famous in the Richard Gere movie, ‘Officer and a Gentlemen’. Except I wasn’t there for Naval Flight
Officer School. I was there for the
enlisted version, Naval Aircrewman Candidate School. (little side note, the
Richard Gere movie was actually filmed in Washington State. They wouldn’t let them on the base. That’s why the whole movie has that gloomy vs
sunny look)
I won’t lie, NAS Pensacola was a great
base to train on. It’s located in the
panhandle of Florida, has pristine white-sand beaches, blue surf, and tan
women. It rocked. It was also the main location for Naval
flight officer training and enlisted aircrew training. For the officers it was like a second boot
camp. Discipline was strict and they got
hazed mercilessly by the instructors.
For us enlisted it was a lot
better. We weren’t boots. We were free to do what we liked when the
training day was over and we had weekends off.
That’s not to say the training was easy.
It wasn’t. But the base was small
and quiet, the weather was great, and did I mention the beaches?
What:
I was there for Naval Aircrewman
Candidate School. A school designed to
give Aircrew volunteers (they only took volunteers) the basic skills needed to
operate in and around Naval aircraft. It
was a demanding school with long hot runs up and down the sea wall, obstacle
courses, pool training and of course the infamous helo dunker.
The Helo Dunker;
The subject of this story, the dunker,
was a long, large metal tube (about fifteen feet in length) designed to mimic
the inside of a CH-46 troop transport helicopter. Inside were about eight rows of seats facing
forward. Each row had a window next to
it and there was an open main door on the right side of the tube. The whole thing was suspended by cables from
the ceiling of a giant indoor pool.
Steps from poolside lead up to a platform from which you could enter the
dunker. Its purpose was to teach aircrew
how to escape from a helicopter which had ditched or crashed into the ocean.
The helo dunker is not to be confused
with the dilbert dunker, again made famous in ‘Officer and a Gentlemen’. The dilbert dunker simulated a fighter
jet cockpit, which crashed into the sea.
It was a single seat inside of a cut down cockpit. The whole thing is on a track that leads
straight down into the pool. The track
then turns the dilbert dunker upside
down while underwater.
It sounds bad. But it isn’t.
There’s only one way out of the dilbert and once you’re out you just
follow the rail to the surface. You can’t screw it up. Despite what you see in the movie, the worst
thing that can happen in the dilbert is water shoots straight up your nose. That’s it.
I know because I went through the dilbert at a different base for a
special project.
The helo dunker was a different
animal completely. It was a device
straight from hell.
The helo dunker was dropped into the
deep end of the pool where it would submerge completely. Then as it sank, it could be rotated, via the
cables, to the right or left or upside down.
Once submerged and rotated, all the trainees inside had to extract
themselves and find their way to the surface.
To exit the dunker you had two
options. The first was to exit out the
window next to your seat. The other
option was to work your way to and out the main door.
The window was by far the easier of the
two, (unless you got the seat right next to the door). Otherwise if you were going out the door you
would have to fight your way over about eight other guys all trying desperately
to get out as well. Kicks to the head
were common.
To complicate matters, you were not
doing this dressed in a bathing suit.
Oh, no. They had you completely
geared up. You went in wearing a full
flight suit, gloves, mid-calf leather boots with steel toes, a flight helmet
and an SV-2 survival vest.
[A note on the SV-2. The first day we got to the pool to start drown
proofing courses the instructors showed us the vests. They sat the class down on metal bleachers in
front of the pool. The SV-2 vests were
all hanging on hooks on a wall to our right.
An instructor came out and pulled one
off the wall and carried it in front of us.
“Class!” he said.
“This is the SV-2 survival vest which
you will be wearing during your training.”
“All of the survival gear has been
removed and replaced with wooden blocks in each of the vests’ cargo pockets.”
“Now I know all you swinging dicks have
heard that these wood blocks are saturated with water and don’t float. I’m here to tell you that’s BULLSHIT.”
“These vests float! And I’m going to prove it to you!”
He then threw the vest into the
pool. It sat there on the surface for
all of about, oh… one second …then went straight to the bottom like
a rock. The instructor stood there, legs
braced, hands on hips staring into the pool.
He then turned around and yelled, “Well
all the other ones float. Now go grab
one and get in!” … Classic. (To
this day I don’t know if they were playing a joke or if he really thought it
would float.)]
My Turn in the Barrel;
After about a week of drown proofing it
was time to take our test in the helo dunker.
The test consisted of four
evolutions.
Round One;
In the first evolution the trainees
filled the dunker, took a seat, and rode it down. Once it stopped, everyone went out the window
closest to them then swam to the surface.
Not bad, hard to screw up. About
the worst thing that could happen was if the safety diver (who was inside with
you) gave you a face full of water. If
he saw you trying to take in a huge breath right before you sank under the
surface, he’d splash water right in your face so you’d suck it in instead of
O2. They didn’t do it to be cruel. They expected you to sit there calmly and
ride it down. This was there way of
reinforcing that lesson.
Round Two;
Second evolution, was identical to the
first except…yup, everyone had to go out the main door instead of the
window. Now things were starting to get
dicey. Eight guys, or thereabouts, all
trying to get out one door before their air ran out. It could get pretty wild. Kicks to the head,
shoved this way and that. A couple guys
had trouble making it to the surface before sucking in water. One guy in particular, a Marine sergeant I’ll
call Sgt.-W was really having issues.
Round Three;
Now things got very interesting. Everybody filed in and took their seats. The instructions for this evolution were
again to go out the window next to you.
Easy, except that you had to do this with the visor on your flight
helmet down. The visor which the
instructors had spray painted black!
This was done, again not out of cruelty,
but to train you for a night crash.
Once you were out, you still couldn’t
see. You also didn’t know if the dunker
was tilted to the left, the right, or upside down when you exited. In short, you had no idea if you were pointed
up, down, or sideways. You didn’t know
which way to swim to the surface.
However, our ever knowledgeable
instructors had drilled us on how to solve this puzzle. You made your body long and rigid then
waited. Your flight boots were leather
with steel toes. Your helmet was foam
padding and plastic. Meaning your feet
were a lot heavier than your head. As
you floated in the water, your body would slowly, ever so slowly, orientate
itself with your feet down and your head up.
If you were running short on air when
you got out, this could be a torturous wait.
The other disconcerting thing was you didn’t know how far it was to the
surface. If you were claustrophobic or
let your fears get the better of you, you were going to have a very bad day.
Even though the windows were right next
to us, several trainees got disoriented.
I was watching from the side of the giant pool as I waited my turn. A couple guys were trying
to bash their heads through steel plating that definitely was not a
window. The divers had to pull them
out. Sgt. W was one of them. He had quite a bit of water in his lungs that
he coughed out.
Round Four;
Now for the final round. You filed in took your seat and strapped
in. The blacked out visor was again down
so you couldn’t see. The safety diver
splashed water in your faces as the dunker slowly sunk and rolled over. You could feel the water rising up over your
body and head as you went down and this time it was everyone out the main door.
No window for you.
This sucked. You had to memorize your position in the
dunker. Place a hand on something,
usually the seat in front of you, so you could maintain a mental anchor point. Then climb over the correct number of seats,
which you had counted beforehand, until you were at the door. Then hands on the door and a big push
outside.
At this point you hoped you had enough
air left to figure out which way was up.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. If you were out and waiting to point head-up
you were lucky. Because getting to the
door with eight other guys all trying to do the same thing, in the blind, was a
royal pain in the ass. People were
climbing over you, kicking you with steel toed boots, pulling and pushing
you. If you could keep your head and
your orientation with all this going on it was a miracle. And the farther back you were in the dunker
the harder it was.
Again I was watching from the top of the
pool. Surprisingly, most of the guys
made it out without tooooo much trouble.
By now you’d had several turns and most guys were getting the hang of
it. Which was the point. But a few still had problems. Including Sgt. W. Once again the divers had to pull him out.
Pump his lungs out and stand him up.
Then it was my turn. I got lucky.
I was only one seat back from the door.
They dropped the dunker and it started to sink. I popped my seat belt and held myself in the
seat till the dunker stopped. One seat
over and out. Big push. Feet sank down and up I swam. Piece of cake and I was done!
Or so I thought.
We all climbed out. Then the instructors called out the failed
seat numbers. They called mine with the
comment, “early release”. What
the?!?! Ok, I kept my mouth shut and
lined up for a re-test. My whole
military training strategy to date could be summed up in three words. ‘Under-the-Radar’. Keep your mouth shut. Do what your asked as fast and as well as you
could and DON’T attract attention. So I
did just that.
I lined up with the others for scenario
four again. Sgt. W was with us. He was visibly shaking at this point. And who could blame him. The dude had just had his lungs pumped out
three times.
They called out our seat
assignments. I hit the jackpot. I had the seat right next to the door. Yes, oh yes there is a God.
We filed in sat down, strapped in and
rode that bitch down. I popped the
safety harness as we sank then clamped my hands down on the seat to hold my ass
firmly in. The dunker sank, rolled and
stopped. I still didn’t let go. I kept my ass glued to the seat for a good
five count. Guys were climbing over me
but it didn’t matter. I knew right where
I was and I was going to make the most of this gift. Yeah, I dare you to call ‘early release’ on
me this time.
So out I went. Feet down, head up. Swim to the surface and I’m gold. I climbed out and the instructor looked at me
called my number and said, “Early release, fail.” MOTHER
FUCKER!!!
Calming myself, I asked, “Excuse me sir
but what do you mean?”
“You popped your seatbelt early again recruit.”
Oh shit.
“Get back in line for a final retest.”
This was it. Do or die.
There would be no more chances and I’d just blown my golden ticket. Also in line with me were a couple other guys
and, you guessed it, Sgt. W.
Sgt.
W had again become disorientated in the dunker. He’d lost his anchor point then lost track of
where the door was. The divers pulled
him out as he tried to ram a hole through the metal skin of the dunker with his
head. Pump out lungs, prop him up and
back you go.
Sgt. W was in front of me in line. They ordered us to ascend the platform and
take our seats. And I’d got a seat in
the back.
The Sgt. was shaking violently at this
point and was so weak he had to use his arms to lift his legs up each
step. But he was a Marine and a tough
one. He never complained. He never bitched. He just sucked it up and forced himself up
the platform.
Sgt. W had just reached the top when a
voice came over the loud speaker. It
said, “Gentlemen, the cables on the dunker are not working properly. We have to shut it down for the day.”
The look of relief on the Sgt.’s face
was visible as he sank to the ground.
The dead men walking had been given a reprieve. And they passed us all without having to
retest.
To this day I believe there was nothing
wrong with the dunker. I think they
liked Sgt. W’s ‘Charlie Mike’ attitude (that’s Continue Mission for you civilians) and
didn’t want to lose a good Marine.
That night, Pat, Jay and I went to the
Enlisted Club on base. Sgt. W was
already there. He was sitting at the bar
and had at least eight shots of whiskey lined up in front of him. We slapped him on the back and he grinned up
at us.
[Pat, Jay and I all enlisted on the same
day, April 1st. Yes April
Fool’s Day. But Pat was from
Boston. Jay was from North Carolina and
none of us knew each other prior to boot camp.
Not only did we enlist on the same day but we’d all signed up for the
exact same training pipeline. Boot camp
in San Diego, Russian Language in Monterey, Crypto in Texas, then on to Aircrew
Training at Pensacola. Not surprisingly,
we were shipmates and pretty tight by the time we got to NAS Pensacola. After Pensacola we went to Survival Evasion
Resistance and Escape, or SERE, training in the mountains outside San
Diego. But that’s another story….]
Post Script:
Today’s dunker; I went looking for a photo of the dunker to include
with this story. I found many but since
I went through they’ve changed it. It’s
now a kinder gentler George Bush style dunker.
It’s now about half the size, the
windows are huge, it has bench seats facing in, and the door is right in the middle. Also the entire back half is open, instead of
closed in, making for easier extracts.
Somebody probably almost drowned in the old beast and forced some changes
for the new guys. ... lucky SOBs!
Saturday, September 28, 2013
OSU, Roommates and Tear Gas;
Where:
The Ohio State University
The Ohio
State University in the early 80’s was still a sprawling metropolis. It’s currently the third largest university
in the U.S. (I believe its main campus may actually be the largest single
campus with an undergrad population of around 50,000).
The Castle - West 10th and
Highland
At the time
of this story I actually lived off campus in an apartment with five other
guys. Don, Fred, Mike, Wags and Mike no
2 (aka The Wheel). We lived in a
sprawling former, turn of the century, boarding house which had been divided
into four apartments. Each apartment had
three upper floors along with a basement.
The corner apartments actually had tower like structures which gave it
its nickname, The Castle.
Don and Fred
were the ring leaders at the Castle. Don
was the brains and Fred was the muscle.
The Wheel
also figures prominently in this story so I’ll give a little background. Wheel had already graduated once from OSU with
a degree in Arabic studies through the Army ROTC program. However, pre-911, finding a job with an
Arabic degree was a wee bit difficult.
So he was back working on an engineering degree while also employed as a
Lieutenant in the Army Reserve. In his
reservist role, he worked as the base supply officer. In that capacity he’d been given permission/designated
to use or dispose of as he saw fit various small items which were expired or no
longer of use. Such as out dated/expired
C-Rations and other perishable things.
Some of this stuff, like the C-rats wound up in our basement. Every now and then, when the Wheel was short
on money, he’d bring up an expired C-rat and have it for dinner. It was kind of like playing Russian roulette
with botchalism but if you were hungry…
If you ever find old C-rats the chicken ala king is pretty good but
steer clear of the pork patty.
A little dorm
history is also appropriate to the story:
Morrill Tower
I started
off in Morril Tower at OSU. Morril Tower
was 23 stories of disaster. When I moved
in my Freshmen year, the 1st floor was maintenance, the 2nd floor was the
dining hall, the third floor was administrative offices and floors 4 through 23
were student living spaces. That’s
right, 19 floors of first quarter freshmen students all stacked on top of each
other. And it gets worse.
Each floor
consisted of four suites. Each suite
held 8 students in four tiny cubicles off of the main (windowless) lounge area. Two students per cubicle. There was a common bathroom for each suite
and each floor had a laundry room. (a little
known fact, Jeffrey Dahmer, the serial killing cannibal, actually resided in
Morrill Tower for a brief time)
And it gets worse.
This meant
there were 32 students per floor in very tight spaces. But to make it even more of a zoo, a large
number of the floors were co-ed. Yah, 16
first quarter freshmen guys jammed in like sardines next to 16 first quarter
freshmen girls. The place was a ZOO. Its nickname was Immoral Tower. I’d have loved to have sat in on the planning
committee meeting where they decided 32 students per floor was a good
idea. (I think Jimmy Page and Keith Richards
were the planning chairmen) There was
also an identical tower next to Morrill called Lincoln. Together the two were usually referred to as
Sodom and Gomorrah. In the 90’s, they
cut back the occupancy to four students per suite reducing the population (and
madness) by half.
On any given
Sunday morning, after a weekend of student partying, you could find smashed
lounge furniture in the elevators and/or fresh blood stains on the elevator
floor. On one occasion, one of my suite
mates opened the elevator to find a student tied to a chair, covered in shaving
cream, with every button on the elevator pushed. On various occasion in Morrill Tower I
witnessed: a guy who would drink his beers by biting the can in half, usually
lacerating his lips; a guy who could put his glasses on the tip of his nose
then push them back into place with his tongue; a suite which decorated one
entire wall from floor to ceiling in beer cans (some of them not quite empty –
which then stunk to high heaven) and various other acts of idiocy.
I
transferred out at my earliest opportunity.
Steeb Hall
I moved from
Morrill Tower to Steeb hall on South Campus.
An older but much roomier, less crowded building. Unfortunately my two roommates were: A kid whose stated goal was to offend
every single person on campus before he graduated, and he gave it the
proverbial college try; and a French exchange student who lived up to the haughty
French stereotype.
I
transferred to off-campus housing at my earliest opportunity.
Before I’d
moved to Steeb, I’d started working at the OSU Faculty Club. A members’ only club/restaurant for Faculty
located on the Oval in the center of campus.
All the waiters, waitresses, busboys and expediters were OSU
students. It was a great place to
work. Like a giant co-ed
fraternity. It was at the faculty club
where I met Don and Fred and they asked me to move in with them at the Castle. I jumped at the opportunity.
The Event:
Which brings
us to our story.
First let me
say that even though I served five years in the Navy’s 7th Fleet and
have spent over 15 years in law enforcement dealing with cops of every variety,
Don and Fred are hands down the craziest, non-committed or incarcerated individuals
I’ve ever come across. Amazingly, both
are highly successful professionals in the business world. But you spend time with them at your own
risk.
The typical
weekend at the Castle consisted of the three ‘B’s, Books, Basketball and
Beer. Not necessarily in that
order. Also, it was tradition that every
weekend we gathered up the gang, frequented establishments along High Street
and attempted to meet co-eds (sadly, our attempts to meet co-eds almost always
ended in failure).
Which gave rise to the relevant scenario.
Mike no-2,
The Wheel, had an engineering exam on Monday morning. He therefore refused to come out with the
gang on Saturday night for the usual escapades.
This was unacceptable, especially for Don and Fred. So they came up with a plan.
One of them
distracted the Wheel while the other took his engineering books. They then knocked a slot sized hole in the
drywall on the first floor, near the ceiling and stuffed his books back behind
the drywall. The Wheel was furious but
couldn’t figure out a way to get his books back which didn’t involve major
destruction of the apartment. He
reluctantly went out with the gang.
Sunday morning
rolled around and as usual we started getting prepared for the school
week. It was a gorgeous day with blue
sky and warm temps. I remember sitting
at my desk with my books (I don’t recall what subject) studying for an exam of
some sort. I was in my room on the second
floor, head in my books when I started to feel not quite right…
My eyes
started itching a little, then my nose started to itch. I began sneezing and thought ‘man, am I
catching a cold?’ But I shook it off and
kept at the books. For about 30 more
seconds.
Because
after 30 more seconds my world fell in.
My eyes went blood shot, teared up, itched like hell and started to
swell shut. At the same time, snot started
streaming out of my nose and face. I
couldn’t breathe either. I collapsed to
the floor convinced I been stricken with plague. Yes, that’s actually the thought that went
through my head.
The exact
thought that went through my head was, “Oh my God, I’ve come down with Black
Plague and I’m going to die”.
I started
crawling on my hands and knees for the hallway.
Willing myself one hand and knee forward at a time towards the phone and
a 9-1-1 call. I was almost to the
doorway when a sound cut through my misery and into my consciousness.
It was a
shout of what sounded like a war cry or yell of triumph. But with a muffled or blurred tone to it. ‘What
the hell?’.... Then I looked up and saw
The Wheel walking up the steps. With
clenched fists raised over his head triumphantly. Screaming “YAH – THAT’S RIGHT – YESSS!!!!”.
Wearing a gas mask.
A wave of
relief washed over me. “Ok, I’m not
dying. Wheel just tear gassed us.”
Along with the
C-rations, Wheel also had a large mason jar filled with tear gas crystals. The base had ordered him to dispose of these
expired crystals and not knowing what to do with them, they wound up in our
basement.
Mike, in a
well planned revenge, donned a military gas mask, opened the jar, and removed
several crystals. He then dropped them
into the vent ducts and turned on the furnace fan. Fumigating the apartment. The bastard!
Victory was his.
Post Script:
- Being
given a jar of tear gas and ordered to dispose of it is not as unusual as it
sounds. As my agency’s Defensive Tactics
Instructor I’m responsible for disposing of our agents’ outdated, military grade,
OC spray canisters. No instructions, no
assistance, just told to get rid of them in a safe effective manner. I had to go online (God bless Al Gore) and
find a solution. The best way to do it
is don elbow length rubber gloves and submerge the canister in a bucket of
water. Then expel the entire contents in
the water. You have to be careful
though. If it’s a windy day a breeze can
catch the bubbles popping up and blow them in your face. You really don’t want that to happen.
- This
wouldn’t be the last time I was tear gassed. I also got gassed at boot camp. They marched us into the gas chamber, had us
remove our masks then recite our general orders. I’ve also received several face fulls of OC
spray at various law enforcement training. … BTW, if anyone ever plays ‘Would
You Rather’ and asks, “Would you rather get a face full of tear gas or a face
full of OC spray?” Go with the tear gas.
It’ll incapacitate you but doesn’t hurt one tenth as bad as the OC. That shit BURNS. And its effects last for hours.
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