CHAPTER TWO

You Can’t Go It Alone

If you want to change the world…

find someone to help you paddle.

I learned early on in SEAL training the value of teamwork, the need to rely on someone else to help you through the difficult tasks. For those of us who were “tadpoles” hoping to become Navy frogmen, a ten-foot rubber raft was used to teach us this vital lesson.

Everywhere we went during the first phase of SEAL training we were required to carry the raft. We placed it on our heads as we ran from the barracks, across the highway, to the chow hall. We carried it in a low-slung position as we ran up and down the Coronado sand dunes. We paddled the boat endlessly from north to south along the coastline and through the pounding surf, seven men, all working together to get the rubber boat to its final destination.

But we learned something else on our journey with the raft. Occasionally, one of the boat crew members was sick or injured, unable to give it 100 percent. I often found myself exhausted from the training day, or down with a cold or the flu. On those days, the other members picked up the slack. They paddled harder. They dug deeper. They gave me their rations for extra strength. And when the time came, later in training, I returned the favor. The small rubber boat made us realize that no man could make it through training alone. No SEAL could make it through combat alone and by extension you needed people in your life to help you through the difficult times.

Never was the need for help more apparent to me than twenty-five years later when I commanded all the SEALs on the West Coast.

I was the commodore of Naval Special Warfare Group ONE in Coronado. A Navy captain, I had by now spent the past several decades leading SEALs around the world. I was out for a routine parachute jump when things went terribly wrong.

We were in a C-130 Hercules aircraft climbing to twelve thousand feet preparing for the jump. Looking out the back of the aircraft, we could see a beautiful California day. Not a cloud in the sky. The Pacific Ocean was calm, and from this altitude you could see the border of Mexico just a few miles away.

The jumpmaster yelled to “stand by. ” Now on the edge of the ramp, I could see straight down to the ground. The jumpmaster looked me in the eye, smiled, and shouted, “Go, go, go! ” I dove out of the aircraft, arms fully extended and legs tucked slightly behind my back. The prop blast from the aircraft sent me tilting forward until my arms caught air and I leveled out.

I quickly checked my altimeter, made sure I wasn’t spinning, and then looked around me to ensure no jumper was too close to me. Twenty seconds later I had fallen to the pull altitude of 5, 500 feet.

Suddenly, I looked below me and another jumper had slid beneath me, intersecting my path to the ground. He pulled his rip cord, and I could see the pilot chute deploying the main parachute from his backpack. Immediately, I thrust my arms to my side, forcing my head to the ground in an attempt to get away from the blossoming chute. It was too late.

The jumper’s chute popped open in front of me like an air bag, hitting me at 120 miles an hour. I bounced off the main canopy and spun out of control, barely conscious from the impact. For seconds I spun head over heels, trying to get stable again. I couldn’t see my altimeter and was unaware of how far I had fallen.

Instinctively, I reached for my rip cord and pulled. The pilot chute jettisoned from its small pouch in the back of the parachute but wrapped around my leg as I continued to tumble toward the ground. As I struggled to untangle myself the situation got worse. The main parachute partially deployed but in doing so twirled around my other leg.

Craning my neck toward the sky, I could see my legs were bound by two sets of risers, the long nylon straps that connect the main parachute to the harness on my back. One riser had wrapped around one leg, the other riser around the other leg. The main parachute was fully out of the backpack but hung up somewhere on my body.

As I struggled to break free of the entanglement, suddenly I felt the canopy lift off my body and begin to open. Looking toward my legs, I knew what was coming next.

Within seconds, the canopy caught air. The two risers, one wrapped around each leg, suddenly and violently pulled apart, taking my legs with them. My pelvis separated instantly as the force of the opening ripped my lower torso. The thousand small muscles that connect the pelvis to the body were torn from their hinges.

My mouth dropped open and I let out a scream that could be heard in Mexico. Searing pain arched through my body, sending waves pulsating downward to my pelvis and upward to my head. Violent, muscular convulsions racked my upper torso, shooting more pain through my arms and legs. Now, like having an out-of-body experience, I became aware of my screaming and tried to control it, but the pain was too intense.

Still head down and falling too fast, I turned myself upright in the harness, relieving some of the pressure on my pelvis and back.

Fifteen hundred feet.

I had fallen over four thousand feet before the parachute deployed. The good news: I had a full canopy over my head. The bad news: I was broken apart by the impact of the opening.

I landed over two miles from the drop zone. Within a few minutes the drop zone crew and an ambulance arrived. I was taken to the trauma hospital in downtown San Diego. By the next day I was out of surgery. The accident had ripped my pelvis apart by almost five inches. The muscles in my stomach had become detached from the pelvic bone and the muscles in my back and legs were severely damaged from the opening shock. I had a large titanium plate screwed into my pelvis and a long scapular screw drilled into my backside for stability.

This seemed like the end of my career. To be an effective SEAL you had to be physically fit. My rehabilitation was going to take months, maybe years, and the Navy was required to conduct a medical evaluation to determine if I was fit for duty. I left the hospital seven days later but remained bedridden at my home for the next two months.

All my life I had the feeling I was invincible. I believed that my innate athletic abilities could get me out of most perilous situations. And, up to this point, I had been right. Many times during my career I had encountered life-threatening incidents: midair collisions in another parachute; uncontrolled descent in a minisub; nearly falling hundreds of feet off an oil rig; getting trapped beneath a sinking boat; demolition that exploded prematurely; and countless more—incidents where a split second decided the fate between living and dying. Each time I had somehow managed to make the right decision, and each time I was physically fit enough to overcome the challenge before me. Not this time.

Now, lying in bed, all I felt was self-pity. But that would not last for long. My wife, Georgeann, had been given nursing duties. She cleaned my wounds, gave me the required daily shots, and changed my bedpan. But most importantly, she reminded me of who I was. I had never given up on anything in my life and she assured me that I was not going to start now. She refused to let me feel sorry for myself. It was the kind of tough love that I needed, and as the days went by, I got better.

My friends came by the house, called constantly, and helped with whatever they could. My boss, Admiral Eric Olson, somehow found a way around the policy that required the Navy to conduct a medical evaluation of my ability to continue to serve as a SEAL. His support for me likely saved my career.

During my time in the SEAL Teams I had numerous setbacks, and in each case, someone came forward to help me: someone who had faith in my abilities; someone who saw potential in me where others might not; someone who risked their own reputation to advance my career. I have never forgotten those people and I know that anything I achieved in my life was a result of others who have helped me along the way.

None of us are immune from life’s tragic moments. Like the small rubber boat we had in basic SEAL training, it takes a team of good people to get you to your destination in life. You cannot paddle the boat alone. Find someone to share your life with. Make as many friends as possible, and never forget that your success depends on others.

⇐ Предыдущая 1 2 3 456 7 8 9 10 Следующая ⇒