Log PT: How I learned To Vet My Team

Blake Low gasps for air during BUD/S Log PT.

Late fall on the beaches of Coronado feels colder than people expect. The wind comes in off the Pacific and cuts straight through you. The sand is icy. The ocean looks like steel. It was one of those mornings. A gray sky, cold wind, and the kind of quiet that makes your stomach twist because you know suffering is coming.

We were already sore from the day before. Legs heavy from miles of running. Shoulders hammered from countless push-ups, dips, and pull-ups. Hands pruned from surf torture sessions. My body felt used up before we even began, but that's how BUD/S is. You never start an evolution fresh. You start it depleted and then try not to go too far downhill from there.

Even before the instructors arrived, the anxiety was thick. We had carried our logs out to the obstacle course well before sunrise so that no one could accuse us of being slow or sloppy. Everyone stood rigid at attention in their boat crews, five or six men per log, organized by height like a military totem pole. We all stared ahead, breathing slow, trying not to show nerves. I already knew how heavy that log felt from pre-training. I knew exactly how it crushed your shoulders and ripped your skin open. I knew the way it stole your breath. The memory alone tightened my chest.

Then our call out guy yelled, "STAND BY!" His voice cut through the wind like a blade. Every man snapped to attention instantly. Feet together. Hands plastered to our sides. Eyes locked forward. No one dared let their gaze drift.

A moment later we heard the engine noise. Instructor trucks barreling across the soft sand toward us. One by one they rolled in, heavy tires chewing the beach, blue and gold instructor shirts visible through the windows. We called out each instructor as they hopped out, just as protocol required.

Then the last truck came in. The one with the hitch-mounted bell attached to the bumper. The bell that would end your suffering if you rang it three times. The only escape from BUD/S. But also the end of your dream of becoming a SEAL. Everyone stared at it whether they wanted to or not. It watched us like a silent judge.

The lead instructor stepped out with the bullhorn mic pressed to his lips. His face was unreadable. He looked like he had already decided most of us did not belong there.

In a calm tone that felt completely disconnected from the misery he was about to inflict, he said, "Chest carry. Get there."

No thunder. No lecture. Just a simple command.

We dropped down, gripped the cold wood, heaved the log up to our shoulders in unison, and then brought it down into a chest carry. It slammed into my sternum like a battering ram. I felt the shock all the way up the back of my head.

Then the lunges began.

Blake Low struggles with his BUD/S class mates during countless log lunges.

At first we moved in sync, legs dipping into the sand, log pressed against our chest, each step sinking deeper than the last. But the instructors kept us going. And going. And going. It felt endless. My quads burned. My lungs buckled. The sand pulled at my boots as if it wanted to suck me up under it forever.

Anyone who faltered got singled out immediately. They were given one chance to get back on the log. One. If they missed it, they were sent on a painful pilgrimage up and over the giant sand berm, down into the freezing surf, instructed to roll until every inch of their body was covered in cold, clinging sand. Then they had to sprint back, dripping wet, which only made the sand grind deeper into their skin. Their absence made the log heavier for the rest of the team, but we were not allowed to slow down. A missing man meant more pain for everyone else.

Then we went to extended arm carry.

We pressed the log overhead, arms locked out, wrists trembling, shoulders burning like someone had lit a fire under my skin. I felt the weight crashing down into my bones. Every second stretched like a wire about to snap. I wanted to drop my arms so badly that it scared me. The only thing that kept them up was the thought of letting my boat crew down.

Finally, after an eternity, the instructor said, as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather, "Chest carry."

The relief we felt was almost embarrassing, given how much pain chest carry still caused. But when your choices are agony or slightly different agony, you take the latter and say thank you. We shifted the log down and went straight back to lunges. My knees howled. My ankles felt cracked. My biceps throbbed. Every inch of skin that was wet rubbed raw against my damp jungle camouflage uniform. My armpits and groin felt like they were being ground down with sandpaper. Waterlogged skin peeled off my palms in crater-shaped chunks. I didn't know then that some of those scars would stay with me for life.

After what felt like hours, the instructor paused us just long enough to ask, "Do you want to do a different workout?"

We screamed, "HOOYAH!" because that is what you are supposed to do. You say yes to whatever they offer because the alternative is usually worse.

He smiled faintly, almost kindly, and said, "I bet you do. Lunges. Get there."

Not long after, one of the men on my log stepped out. He had nothing left. His legs shook violently. His breath came in small stabs. He stepped out, and the log immediately felt twice as heavy. Then I heard it. Three faint rings from the bell. He was done. Another dream gone.

We faltered trying to adjust to the missing man. An instructor appeared in front of us, screaming to stay with the count, spit flying, sand whipping around him. Then suddenly he stopped yelling and smiled a slow, sinister smile.

"Oh, I get it," he said. "This log is not heavy enough for you boys. Is it?"

We all froze.

"Down your log and follow me."

We didn't speak. We didn't breathe. We just obeyed. He led us behind the trucks.

That's when we saw it.

Old Misery. Ol Mis'. Otherwise known, ironically, as Mini-Me because a previous class had hidden or burned the original Old Misery and the instructors had replaced it with a much larger version.

A BUD/S student struggles to keep Old Misery on his shoulder.

The log every student prays they'll never touch. Twice the size of the others. Ten times the pain. A legend of suffering. A rite of passage no one wants.

The entire crew went pale.

We somehow got it up and onto our shoulders. It did not feel like lifting. It felt like being crushed. The instructor immediately put us at extended arms overhead. My joints screamed like they were tearing apart. My teeth clenched so hard I thought they would crack. I forced the words out anyway.

"Come on guys, we got this."

The instructor walked over slowly. Close enough that I could smell the tobacco dip in his lip.

He yelled in my face, "No. You do not got this."

Then, like a predator catching movement, his gaze snapped to someone behind me.

"There is your problem. This guy doesn't want to do his part."

He unleashed hell on him. The poor guy wilted. The log sank. And then I heard it again.

Three rings.

Another man gone.

Old Misery nearly crushed us without him.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the lead instructor called out, "Down your logs."

The second the log hit the sand we all staggered back into position.

"Hit the surf."

My boots felt like they were filled with concrete. I dragged myself up the berm, then sprinted into the breaking waves. The cold shocked me awake. Then we sprinted back. The last five had to bear crawl. It pays to be a winner. Then we returned to our logs and the real misery began. Chest carry. Running pace. Staying within ten feet of the log in front of us or risking another date with Old Misery.

We ran up and over the sand berm, down the beach, around the obstacle course, back up the berm, again and again. My lungs burned. My legs felt like they were snapping with each stride. I thought about my girlfriend in her warm apartment. Tea in hand. Feet up. A world away. Then I remembered why I was here. People like her get to live in peace because someone like me chooses to suffer.

Blake Low runs down the sand berm with his boat crew during BUD/S Log PT.

I pushed harder. I yelled at my teammates to stay tight. We clawed closer to the log in front of us but we couldn't overtake them.

After countless laps an instructor singled out the winning crew and sent them off to eat breakfast. The rest of us lined up at the waterline for berm sprints. The winners would join the others. Losers would keep hurting.

The bullhorn crackled.

"Bust Em!"

We took off. Sand flying. Legs screaming. Hearts pounding. We lost. The Giants, the tallest boat crew, won and were sprinting off the beach in victory. The instructor walked over to us, smirking.

"Looks like you really put everything into that last race. Shame you didn't win. Got anything left?"

We didn't. We were empty. We lost three more races in a row.

But then our boat crew officer spoke, his voice steady.

"One more, boys. One hard sprint and we get off this beach. Let's go."

We filled our lungs with cold ocean air and when the instructor called it out, we exploded forward. We ran like our lives depended on it. We crossed the finish line only a few feet ahead.

The lead instructor stared at us for a long moment. The whole crew went silent. If he denied us, we weren't winning another race. We had no gas left.

Then he growled, "Get the hell off my beach."

We screamed "HOOYAH!" and ran like we had been set free from prison.

That first Log PT did more than tear my muscles apart. It exposed the truth about people. About myself. About what happens when pressure strips away comfort and ego.

You find out who steps up. You find out who folds. You find out who pushes through pain for the team. You find out who makes excuses.

Log PT is not just suffering. It's a vetting process. Not everyone belongs next to you when the world gets hard. Every profession has its gateway. Every relationship has its standard. Every team has its log.

The question is simple:

When your log shows up, who do you want beside you?

Choose carefully. The weight always reveals the truth.