Inside SEAL Team Six(75)

In the fall of ’91, I was training with four guys from SBU-26 for the Run Across the Isthmus—a fifty-two-mile run across Panama, starting at the Atlantic coast and following jungle paths and railroad beds to the Pacific Ocean. The first man who won it, in 1940, was a future World War II hero named Fay Steele.

The guys at SBU-26 weren’t as committed to training as I thought they could be. Having some idea of the toll that fifty-two miles through the heat and humidity was going to take, I invited them over to my place and warned them by saying, “This is going to be the most miserable day of your life.”

As I was talking, I felt a series of sharp pains on the right side of my abdomen that caused me to double over.

One of the SBU-26 guys asked, “Don, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “I think I just have a slight case of food poisoning.”

A few minutes later I started feeling nauseous, and I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

Shannon said, “Don, you better not do this stupid race. You’re sick and need to see a doctor.”

I said, “I’ll be fine.”

The guys I was planning on running with that night had never run an ultramarathon. So I explained to them the importance of hydration and electrolyte replacement, bringing extra shoes, and considering race tactics.

After they left my house, Shannon saw me lying on the sofa in pain, holding my side, and she said, “I can’t believe you’re doing this!”

Not about to let a little discomfort stop me, I answered, “I’m running the race.”

She said, “If you do, I’m out of here.” Then she picked up our baby daughter, took my stepdaughter, Chonie, by the hand, and left the house. (She was gone for two days.)

We were living in Navy housing at Fort Amador, which faced the canal, with SEAL neighbors on both sides.

Now I was alone, dry-heaving green bile, and feeling like someone had thrust a rusty sword in my side. The pain was so bad that when I tried calling the hospital, my eyes couldn’t focus enough to read the numbers.

When I stumbled out of the house, a neighbor’s wife saw me and screamed, “Don, what’s the matter with you? Oh my God!”

I asked weakly, “Can you take me to the hospital?”

She and her husband helped me into the backseat of their Volkswagen Bug and sped to the nearest hospital. I was in so much pain that I fell to the floor of the car and curled up in the fetal position.

The moment the emergency room orderly opened the door, I hurled all over his shoes. Turned out that I was in the process of passing kidney stones and had to spend the night. Regretfully, I never got to run the race.



During my three years in Panama, I had a full plate of responsibilities. When I wasn’t on missions, I directed the three-week Naval Special Warfare jungle-survival course in Panama, which was held in jungles filled with crocodiles and poisonous snakes. We taught members of the Naval Special Warfare community advanced-weapons tactics; small-unit-patrol techniques; how to plan and conduct small-unit missions; how to recon an area; how to tactically cross rivers; how to make improvised tools, set traps, and fish; food and water procurement and preparation; and jungle navigation.

The course culminated in a four-day SERE exercise designed to test each student’s ability to survive alone or in small groups while in hostile territory.

The crocodiles and snakes weren’t a joke. After I left, an Army soldier who was attending the course disappeared. It’s presumed that he was eaten alive by a crocodile.

Once, when I was leading a group of trainees on a run down a jungle road, I looked back to see how they were doing and saw a strange, whirling haze. While trying to figure out what it was, I was surrounded by a swarm of killer bees that started stinging me without mercy.

Soon all of us were jumping and screaming, looking like we were doing some kind of crazed Pygmy dance. The only way we could get away from the bees was to run a quarter of a mile and jump in the ocean. By that time, we were all covered with welts.

Another time, when I was driving down that same road, I saw an Army platoon sitting in a group. Two soldiers were huffing and puffing, and the face of one had turned white.

I stopped the jeep I was driving and asked, “Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

I pointed to the one guy who looked liked he was having a particularly hard time and said, “He doesn’t look okay to me.”

One of the soldiers said, “He was stung by some killer bees and is allergic to bees.”

“Well, you are not fine. Where’s your medic?” I asked.

“He’s lost.”

“Then where’s your sergeant?”

“He’s with the medic.”