Chapter 248: Chapter 248: The End of Hell Week
On Wednesday night, for the first time, the thought of quitting flashed through Owen's mind.
The instructors had just ordered the trainees to paddle their inflatable boats out to a lighthouse 220 meters away and then return. Then they had to run 800 meters, place their paddles on a truck, form a "human centipede" in the water and hand-paddle another 500 meters. After that came a 660-meter run, retrieve the paddles, reform the centipede in the sea for another 500-meter paddle, then finally recover the boats and paddle back to the lighthouse and return once more.
By the end of it, every single trainee was experiencing second-degree hypothermia—violent shivering, disorientation, and incoherent speech.
Owen thought he was going to die. He had no idea how he kept going or why he didn't give up right then and there.
His symptoms were even worse than the others—he had hit stage-three hypothermia. His body had stopped shivering. He began to babble nonsensically like a lunatic. The next stage would be death.
The instructors were monitoring the air and water temperature carefully to test the limits of cold resistance—while trying to avoid any permanent frostbite or fatal accidents.
Instructor Lamb noticed Owen's condition and handed him a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
"Go ring that bell," he said. "This will all be over."
Owen nearly did.
He looked at the bell, then at the cup of chocolate. It would be so easy to quit. So tempting. But…
He fought to reclaim his drifting consciousness. A full minute passed before he slowly handed the cup back.
"No," he said.
Lamb wasn't surprised. Owen had made his choice. That meant no special treatment—only more pain. Lamb hoped this kid would make it to the end. But one misstep and it could cost him his life.
While Owen stood there, struggling to remain upright, the bell rang again and again behind him. Like the clamor of a fire alarm. One after another, trainees rang out, surrendering. The ambulance sat nearby with its doors open, packed with those who had given up—wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate.
For the others still stuck in the sea, the ambulance was heaven—but it was also hell. Because those inside had given up on their dream of becoming a SEAL.
Owen felt that handing back the cup of hot chocolate was the hardest decision he had ever made in his life. His original group of six had now been whittled down to just him and Mike.
The rest of "Hell Week" had to be survived second by second. Each task had to be broken down into moments, just to keep living.
It felt like he had a clock inside him that only registered the present. There was no future.
High-intensity training, activities far beyond the body's limits, no rest, and not even the comfort of encouragement. His body had long since fallen apart. Only belief kept him going. He believed he could finish. He believed he could survive Hell Week.
Psychologists call this self-hypnosis: even when something seems impossible, belief alone can carry you through.
Throughout Hell Week, the inflatable boat became an extension of their bodies. Wherever they went, it went too—often on their heads. Nearly every run, they had to carry it.
The trainees ran, swam, rowed, climbed over obstacles, waded through mud and surf, and established beachheads. The boats had to be "ready for the ocean at any moment." Any lapse—an untied life jacket strap, an unbuttoned pocket—led to brutal punishment. Drill after drill, no end in sight.
By Wednesday, they had gone three full days without sleep. Every man was on the brink. It was a key reason so many quit. Ring the bell, and you could finally rest—sleep like a baby in the ambulance.
Only movement kept them awake. If someone fell down, chances were they'd be snoring within seconds.
They ate four meals a day—two to three minutes each. No talking, no nodding off. Still, someone always managed to faceplant into their oatmeal from sheer exhaustion. Then: more drills.
They were so tired, they felt like they were dreaming while training—and training while dreaming.
The sadistic instructors exploited this. They'd leave out key parts of an order or pose complicated math problems. The few who answered correctly were rewarded with brief rest. Everyone else stayed in hell.
Trainees continued quitting—more than at any other time. Owen could handle the cold, but the sleep deprivation was pushing him to the edge of madness.
Once the thought of quitting entered your mind, it never left. It haunted you constantly. Owen nearly caved several times. If not for a slap from a teammate at the right moment, he might have rung the bell too.
During Hell Week, they also began water survival drills—training for the next phase. Bound at wrists and ankles, the trainees had to jump into a 2.74-meter-deep pool, float up and down for 5 minutes, drift for another 5, swim 100 meters, do front and back flips, dive to the bottom to retrieve an object with their mouths, and return.
One wrong move and you could drown. The purpose was to develop water confidence—this was the Navy's elite after all, and their aquatic demands were brutal.
Tactical breakouts were just as terrifying. Live M-60 machine gun rounds screamed over their heads. One slip, and you wouldn't just be cut—you'd be dead.
The instructors didn't want anyone to die. But they didn't pull punches. They cursed, they yelled, they warned. A SEAL had to be a weapon, functioning at full capacity under the worst extremes imaginable.
The final stage of Hell Week was "The Grand Tour."
Six to eight men per group had to carry their inflatable boats from the base to a swamp two kilometers away, then paddle through the harbor to a designated spot in Swick Bay. From there, they rode the current toward the San Diego shoreline before hauling the boat back on foot across the beach.
Five kilometers running and 16 nautical miles paddling. The ocean never cooperated.
When the instructors finally announced, "Hell Week is over," the survivors gave themselves tired, triumphant smiles—then collapsed on the sand. No one moved. Not a finger. Too exhausted.
This last filter claimed a few more. The remaining few were finally qualified to become Navy SEALs. One survivor muttered, "Yesterday was the only good day."
In the entire Hell Week, their total sleep time didn't exceed four hours. They ran more than 320 kilometers. They were soaked the entire time. All training took place in water, mud, cold, smoke, and live-fire drills.
Wherever they went, their boat went with them. Just like a student always carried their books.
The final task—a night 30-kilometer kayak race in the Pacific followed by a five-kilometer beach run—was the final breaking point. Those who made it through were among the strongest men on earth.
Owen now believed there was no challenge left that could defeat him. The human body's potential exceeded anything he had ever imagined.
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