Tag Archives: SEAL Training

LancBe Gone! iS El Stupido! aSSHOLE! A Stupid Ass-Hole! Commentary… SEAL Training: Psych Eval–Mitsy–Try To Gain Her

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Fuk Them Navy Psychiatrist Pukes!

 

While stationed at Great Mistakes (Errrr…Great Lakes) Naval Training Command, I did my due diligence and qualified for BUD/s (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training in Coronado, California)

After passing the physical physical and clearing all the other stuff (mostly based upon my ASVAB scores and my ability to swim like a dolphin), A Final Task faced me: I had to pass unblemished through an interview with a psychiatrist. Just a formality, right? (Last hurdle: “Lance, do NOT fuck this up.”)

Sailor

Sailor Lance

“This should be fun,” I recall thinking as I waited for my interview.

I was eventually summoned and sat my ass down in front of a geeky, mouse-eyed shrink. He obviously had ‘issues’ of his own. This I could discern straight-away from his limp-wristed demeanor. And obviously the only SEAL he had ever met was in some vain dream fantasy.

No matter. I was there just to get my ticket punched.

After a dozen or so stupid questions about such things as how did I feel about my mother, have I ever killed anything (Uh, do frogs count?), the price of tea in China, ad nauseam, he came to his pièce de résistance:

“Seaman Marcom,” he broached, “If you were ordered by your SEAL Team Leader to go in and clear a room whilst on a mission, and you burst into this room only to discover an elderly lady in a rocking chair reading a bible, what would you do?”

I waited for my dramatic pause, then said,

“Sir, I would shoot the bible.”*

Smiling, I observed him take his rubber stamp out and stamp “Approved” on my papers.

“California Here I Come!”

California! Here I Come!

Right Back Where I Started From

*Footnote:

In the Nav, we have bombastic bullshit ‘tellings’, euphemistically known as ‘Sea Stories’. These are always introduced with the mandatory preamble:

“Now, this is a no-shitter…”

The above telling (though completely factual) is a wonderful example of same.

It’s Memorial Day Weekend: Go find yourself a Sailor and say, “Hey Sailor, New in Town?” Then hug him/her.

No One Will Read This, But I Laugh at Lance Ever’Time I Re-Visit it. Under-Water Skiing. Just one of my life is ‘fun’ Memories Series I Tend to re-visit Occasionally, Actually, Rarely… But it’s sometimes fun to remember who you once were.

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One of the things (Life’s simple pleasures)–one of the things I derive the most pleasure from–is making people laugh. Usually at me, but my longevity is continued because I never, ever take me, Lance, too seriously.

Hope you will read (or re-read) this one.

It happened just as I described it.

This Bit is somewhat of a ‘Trailer’ for a rather longish post which I will be publishing presently  soon maybe next week.  Gentle Reader, I do hope it piques your interest.

ski2

During my sojourn in Lake Charles, Summer of ’77, Kim’s girlfriend introduced us to her sister’s beau. His name was Tim Castille.  

Tim was a great guy, with a mild and affable demeanor,  and we all used to hang out together, which was surprising since Kim usually didn’t want to hang out (socially anyhow) with any “Non-Brothers,” i.e. not Kappa Alphas—whatever.

Perhaps the reason Kim made an exception in Tim’s case was because Timothy was the owner of a shit-hot high-speed-rocket-on-water of a ski boat.

As you may imagine, Tim was a first-class water skier and he only used one ski—there is a word for that—oh yeah, “slalom.”

Since I was the only schmuck who didn’t know how to water ski, it was decided one day that it was high time for me to learn. Probably was “high-time” because we tacked into this windy epiphany while blowing dope.

Down to the river we went. After being briefly briefed on the basics of water skiing by Tim, I found myself bobbing up and down in the Calcasieu River, two feet locked into a single ski, holding onto the end of a long rope behind about 300 horsepower of snorting, sputtering, idling, chomping-at-the-bit Evinrude outboard motor.

(If you have read my Post, True Grit,

True Grit

you probably have figured out by now that anything I have to do with horses, whether one or two or three-hundred, is a bad idea)

Being fearless (and stoned) I decided this was exactly the right place for me to be and at exactly the right time.

The “crew” of the ski boat called to me asking if I was ready. I waved back with one hand, assuring them, that yes indeed, I was enthusiastically ready.

Tim lit her up and away we went.

Kinda.

 

I did everything as I had been instructed, but there was something not quite right. I could not seem to get up on the damn ski. Being stubborn, I would not let go (even with the crew yelling at me to do just that) and as we motored along I was dragged underwater. Still stubborn (and no longer able to hear the shouts from the boat) I refused to give up.

Deeper and deeper I submerged under the river. Apparently Tim had faith that at some point I would pop up, cork-like, and ski like a pro and I sure as hell was not going to let go and lose face.

I did manage get my head to break the surface periodically, which allowed me enough air to continue in my new found folly. After about five or so minutes of this, Tim gave up, probably because his Evinrude was beginning to overheat from the excessive drag produced by someone being pulled along completely underwater and not gracefully gliding along on the surface as God intended.

Now, one might think I would have given up on my water skiing career that day. Oh no! Not this cowboy. We repeated this charade at least six more times during the course of the summer, all with the same results.

Everyone got such a grand kick out of watching me ski underwater that guests were invited along for the strange spectacle. Apparently the consensus amongst the second and third time witnesses when speaking to the uninitiated was, “Hey! You can’t make this shit up! Ya gotta come see for yourself.”

One time there were no less than four other boats full of spectators, surrounding my watery stage.  It was, I imagined, similar to the whale watching excursions in places like Alaska and Northern California.

“Thar She Blows!” Cameras clicked; beers were quaffed in my honor; people cheered. (I was told—difficult to hear the crowds whilst under water.) I had become somewhat of a local celebrity.

That was my Fifteen Minutes.

I have never put on skis since, but I would, given just-one-more-chance…

–Lance, the world’s first (and best) Underwater Water Skier.

Situational Awareness: Always Be Aware. I Learned That In SEAL Training–The Hardest Way! i.e., always watch yer six sailor.

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Better Watch Out for That Gravity Storm! It Don’t Give No Warnin’ Sigh Or… ‘Be Yet Still My Beating Heart’ And Yes! Yes! I Know! I Need To Seek Council. Bin There–Did That! It Didn’t Take–Smallish *Sigh*

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Lance Ain’t Stupido! SEAL Training: Psycheir Eval Ha Ha And Ha! Fuk Them Eval Pukes! I Failed Their g’D’amn Tests.. Their G’Damn Tests. So I Pass’d. Fuk them!

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Laughing My Ass Off! Loud An’ Way Too Fukkin’ Proud! Out Loud! SEAL Training, ‘Selection Process’: The Psych Eval. This Post…Well, Yu Already Know–Don’t Waste Yer Dime.

 

While stationed at Great Mistakes (Errrr…Great Lakes) Naval Training Command, I did my due diligence and qualified for BUD/s (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training in Coronado, California)

After passing the physical physical and clearing all the other stuff (mostly based upon my ASVAB scores and my ability to swim like a dolphin), A Final Task faced me: I had to pass unblemished through an interview with a psychiatrist. Just a formality, right? (Last hurdle: “Lance, do NOT fuck this up.”)

Sailor

Sailor Lance

“This should be fun,” I recall thinking as I waited for my interview.

I was eventually summoned and sat my ass down in front of a geeky, mouse-eyed shrink. He obviously had ‘issues’ of his own. This I could discern straight-away from his limp-wristed demeanor. And obviously the only SEAL he had ever met was in some vain dream fantasy.

No matter. I was there just to get my ticket punched.

After a dozen or so stupid questions about such things as how did I feel about my mother, have I ever killed anything (Uh, do frogs count?), the price of tea in China, ad nauseam, he came to his pièce de résistance:

“Seaman Marcom,” he broached, “If you were ordered by your SEAL Team Leader to go in and clear a room whilst on a mission, and you burst into this room only to discover an elderly lady in a rocking chair reading a bible, what would you do?”

I waited for my dramatic pause, then said,

“Sir, I would shoot the bible.”*

Smiling, I observed him take his rubber stamp out and stamp “Approved” on my papers.

“California Here I Come!”

 

Right Back Where I Started From

*Footnote:

In the Nav, we have bombastic bullshit ‘tellings’, euphemistically known as ‘Sea Stories’. These are always introduced with the mandatory preamble:

“Now, this is a no-shitter…”

The above telling (though completely factual) is a wonderful example of same.

It’s Memorial Day Weekend: Go find yourself a Sailor and say, “Hey Sailor, New in Town?” Then hug him/her.

Laughing My Ass Off! Loud An’ Way Too Fukkin’ Proud! Out Loud! SEAL Training, ‘Selection Process’: The Psych Eval. This Post…Well, Yu Already Know–Don’t Waste Yer Dime.

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They Had To ‘Evaluate’ Me, You See– Determined-Solve for X; If I Was Crazy Enuff To Volunteer Lose My Sanity!

‘Lose Your Imagination, Lose Yer Mind.’

I Knew very well;

I Lost Mine

Cred: Jackie Venson (Native Texan)…

For NAVY Seal Training. ‘Solve For ‘X’

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Just Yet One More Hurdle Yet To Clear!

Hurdle!

To Clear!!

SEAL/s Instructors

Are All Assholes.

Ever’-Single One Of Them!

 

While stationed at Great Mistakes (Errrr…Great Lakes) Naval Training Command, I did my due diligence and qualified for BUD/s (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training in Coronado, California)

After passing the physical physical and clearing all the other stuff (mostly based upon my ASVAB scores and my ability to swim like a dolphin), A Final Task faced me: I had to pass unblemished through an interview with a psychiatrist. Just a formality, right? (Last hurdle: “Lance, do NOT fuck this up.”)

Sailor

Sailor Lance

“This should be fun,” I recall thinking as I waited for my interview.

I was eventually summoned and sat my ass down in front of a geeky, mouse-eyed shrink. He obviously had ‘issues’ of his own. This I could discern straight-away from his limp-wristed demeanor. And obviously the only SEAL he had ever met was in some vain dream fantasy.

No matter. I was there just to get my ticket punched.

After a dozen or so stupid questions about such things as how did I feel about my mother, have I ever killed anything (Uh, do frogs count?), the price of tea in China, ad nauseam, he came to his pièce de résistance:

“Seaman Marcom,” he broached, “If you were ordered by your SEAL Team Leader to go in and clear a room whilst on a mission, and you burst into this room only to discover an elderly lady in a rocking chair reading a bible, what would you do?”

I waited for my dramatic pause, then said,

“Sir, I would shoot the bible.”*

Smiling, I observed him take his rubber stamp out and stamp “Approved” on my papers.

“California Here I Come!”

 

Right Back Where I Started From

*Footnote:

In the Nav, we have bombastic bullshit ‘tellings’, euphemistically known as ‘Sea Stories’. These are always introduced with the mandatory preamble:

“Now, this is a no-shitter…”

The above telling (though completely factual) is a wonderful example of same.

It’s Memorial Day Weekend: Go find yourself a Sailor and say, “Hey Sailor, New in Town?” Then hug him/her.

Re-Posting This (Expanded) One For 2 Reasons: 1. I Wish Someone To Enjoy The Vids. 2. I Have a ‘Brand New’ SEAL Post Screaming/Clawing to Escape From My Addled Mind And Land-On-My-Blog.

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This Should Git ‘R’ Done For My Motivational

Kick-Start.

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Surf Torture: Great FUN!

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I Miss My Navy SEAL Training Daze!

“Happy Cockeyed Optimist. I’m Stuck Like a Dope With a Thing called ‘Hope’–

C’est Moi!” I am Stupid Naive!

I’ve loved my life!

Cockeyed Optimist

Mitzi Gaynor

Never Worry!

“Worry” is the Most Useless Waste of Human Emotion

A waste of time and energy!

Video Credit: BobbyMcFerrin #DontWorryBeHappy #Vevo

Late entry/addition which no one will see. I drop it anyway. just a fond memory:

When I was in Navy SEAL training, late Eighties, we had, everyday, to run around with IBS on our head (IBS: Inflatable-Boat-Small).

This is part of a song we made up:

“Oh IBS! Stuck To My Head I Guess!”

The Instructors Often Filled Them With Sand.

Just For The Added Fun

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Rock Portage

So Much Fun!

One of My Classmates Managed To Break His Leg While We Were

‘Performing’

This Fun Little ‘Evolution’

NAVY SEAL TRAINING: BUD/S Surf Passage

Keep The ‘FUN’ Comin’ Boys ’til I Can’t Feel Anything

Navy Seal Training

More Surf Passage

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NAVY SEALS TRAINING:

BUD/S FIRST PHASE

Cred for Vid: General Discharge

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I loved My Times Two Navy SEAL

Training Experience (’86 & ’88)

This Guy, Patstone, is Very Representative of Your

Typical BUD/s Instructor

I Think Somewhere In-A-Hidden, Very Top-Secret So Cal Location There is A ‘Clone Lab’ Where The Navy Makes These Guys

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Best of Instructor Patstone: 

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One day, one morning, my class mustered and went to retrieve our assigned IBS’s. Someone in another boat crew was laughing manically.

WTF? I pondered.

I walked over to the boat crew.

“What is so goddamn funny?” I asked.

“Lookit this shit” one said.

I looked at their IBS.

One of the SEAL instructors had spray-painted on all the IBS’s

“Don’t worry; Be Happy.”

I had to laugh.’

I did still manage to maintain my sense of humor, even though I knew I was probably gonna die that day…. Damn! I miss those days. And all the ‘good’ times! Yeah. Believe what you’ve heard/read: SEAL training is BRUTAL. But ya gotta keep a sense of humor about you. Or at least in your pocket.

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I love Barb in Her Sailor Suit!!

(Judy, You know I LOVE You Too!)

“Happy Days Are Here Again!”

Video Credit: George John

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Bonus Round:

“Keep The Drinks Comin’ Girl ‘Til I Can’t Feel Anything”

Cred: Joni

The astute viewer will realize that the ‘soldier’ in the vid is Joni