SEAL Training 2: Inspected, Injected and Selected

In order to be accepted to SEAL training, I had to take my dental, medical, and psychological exam at the Naval Medical Center in Long Beach. The dentist poked around in my mouth, took x-rays, and even cleaned my teeth—not even a cavity.

The medical exam wasn’t so different from civilian medical exams I’d taken: weight, height, blood, urine, eyes, ears, heart and chest. “Turn your head and cough.” The medical staff made sure my immunizations were up-to-date: Typhoid, Tetanus, Yellow Fever, Hepatitis A, Flu, and PPD.

My vision checked out better than 20/40 in one eye and 20/70 in the other. They tested my color vision with the FALANT (Farnsworth Lantern) Test, a test using colored lights. I failed. Fortunately, there was a mix-up with the paperwork and I got a pass mark. (Although I couldn’t pass the FALANT, I’ve never had a problem properly identifying colored lights, flares, tracer rounds, etc. Also, I’m more sensitive to shapes than colors, so sometimes I can more easily spot camouflaged personnel and objects.)

I had been inspected, injected, and selected. A doctor looked over my paperwork and gave me his stamp of approval. About seven other guys weren’t as fortunate as me.

Later, I took the psychology questionnaire. It asked the same questions over and over. I wasn’t sure if they were checking the reliability of the test or my patience to answer the same questions over and over. One question asked, “Do you want to be a fashion designer?” I didn’t know if fashion designers are crazy or if I was crazy for not wanting to be one. It also asked, “Do you have thoughts about suicide?” I didn’t have thoughts about it before the test, but after answering so many questions about suicide, I started to consider killing myself. “Do you like Alice and Wonderland?” How should I know; I never read it? The prophet Moses would have failed the test questions: “Have you had visions?” “Do you have special abilities?” After the paper test, I met with the psychiatrist and told her what she wanted to hear. I passed.

Next, I went in for my hypobaric pressure testing. The chamber was a large torpedo looking thing. I was fortunate to see the candidate before me, so I knew what to expect. While I was filling out my paperwork, a candidate stepped into the hyperbaric chamber and sat down. He started sweating before the pressure dropped. Inside the chamber, the pressure went down, simulating ten feet underwater. The candidate’s face turned red.

At twenty feet, the dive officer asked the candidate via telecom, “Everything OK?”

“Of course, it’s not OK, let me out!”

I don’t know if it was the claustrophobia, the air pressure, or both, but the candidate didn’t stick around—fail.

Then it was my turn. I stepped inside, sat down, and relaxed. I’d practiced meditation before, so I slowed my breathing and heartbeat to calm myself. The dive officer sealed my door shut. I went down ten feet, twenty feet. I could feel the air pressure increasing. At thirty feet, I was already yawning and swallowing in order to relieve some of the pressure on my ears. The pressure inside the chamber simulated going down sixty feet underwater and stayed there. No problem.

After ten minutes at sixty feet, the dive officer slowly relieved the pressure inside my chamber until the pressure was gone.

“Good job,” he said.

I was told that usually only one out of about a hundred guys reach the stage I was at (they fail the physical screen test, medical, etc.). It felt good to make it this far. But I really didn’t know what was around the corner for me at BUD/S training. Ignorance was happiness, and I was ecstatic!