Lone Survivor_ The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10 ( PDFDrive )

The final part of Indoc involved boats — the fabled IBS (inflatable boat,
small) or, colloquially, itty-bitty ship. These boats are thirteen feet long and
weigh a little under 180 pounds. They are unwieldy and cumbersome, and for
generations the craft has been used to teach BUD/S students to pull a paddle as a
tight-knit crew, blast their way through the incoming surf, rig properly, and drag
the thing into place in a regimented line for inspection on the sandy beach about
every seven minutes. At least that’s how it seemed to us.
At that point we lined up in full life jackets right next to our boats. Inside the
boat, the paddles were stowed with geometric precision, bow and stern lines
coiled carefully on the rubber floor. Inch perfect.
We started with a series of races. But before that, each of our teams had a
crew leader, selected from the most experienced navy personnel among us. And
they lined up with their paddles at the military slope-arms position, the paddles
resting on their shoulders. Then they saluted the instructors and announced their
boat was correctly rigged and the crew was ready for the sea.
Meanwhile, other instructors were checking each boat. If a paddle was
incorrectly stowed, an instructor seized it and hurled it down the beach. That
happened on my first day, and one of the guys standing very near to me raced off
after it, anxious to retrieve it and make amends. Unhappily, his swim buddy
forgot to go with him, and the instructor was furious.
“Drop!” he yelled. And every one of us hit the sand and began to execute
the worst kind of push-up, our feet up on the rubber gunwales of the boats,
pushing ’em out in our life jackets. The distant words of Reno sung in my ears:
“Someone screws it up, the consequences affect everyone.”
We raced each other in the boats out beyond the surf. We raced until our
arms felt as if they might fall off. We pulled, each crew against the rest, hauling
our grotesquely unstreamlined little boats along. And this was not Yale versus
Harvard on the Thames River in Connecticut, all pulling together. This was the
closest thing to a floating nuthouse you’ve ever seen. But it was my kind of stuff.
Boat drill is a game for big, strong guys who can pull. Pull like hell. It’s also
a game for heavy lifters who can haul that boat up and run with their team.
Let me take you through one of these races. First, we got the boat balanced
in the shallows and watched the surf roll in toward us. The crew leader had
issued a one-minute briefing, and we all watched the pattern of those five-to sixfoot
breakers. This part is called surf passage, and on the command, we were
watching for our chance. Plainly, we didn’t want to charge into the biggest
incoming wave, but we didn’t have much time.