Iwas slouched over a stack of pancakes in the BUD/S chow hall, quietly experiencing the thousands of microabrasions that come with 48 hours of being wet and sandy. It was Tuesday night of Hell Week, and it was the first time the pain of it all had really settled in. It was the burning that was getting to me, as if the tiny nerve endings in my skin had started an orchestra to which my internal organs had decided to join. Advertisement

“Hey, what are you doing?” asked another student, whom I can only remember as a dream-like figure.

“Oh, I was just thinking about wearing my T-shirt this weekend when I’m with my kids. I think I’m going to get a tank top.”

“Nice. Well, you’d better stand up before you drown in your plate,” the shadowy student said as I came back to, jumped up, headed out t

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