The Foxtrot Turkey Trot

(from Thanksgiving 2019)

It was a dark and stormy night.

A chance encounter helped turn our two years in Guam into a fantastic adventure.  It also led to a big Thanksgiving Day event for me, the Foxtrot Turkey Trot, a long run-swim-run with the Foxtrot platoon of SEAL Team One, a privilege, a defining moment 25 years ago this week.  

Jeff’s Pirates Cove is away from the rest of the action in Guam.  It’s down to the southeast from the Navy base, which sits on the island’s western side.  25 years ago, a narrow road across the island wound through mountains, jungle, and tall grasses, past countless hidden caves and valleys - where Yokoi, the Japanese soldier, was found 27 years after the war ended.  Jeff’s, on the shore in Talofofo, wasn’t much at the time, a one-story roadside, beachside bar where the restaurant out back consisted of picnic tables on a cement floor, beneath a corrugated metal roof.  

You had to be careful at night at Jeff’s, as crabs would wander onto the porch from their holes in the grassy flat near the sand.  If you hold the heels of your hands together and wiggle your fingers, that was the size of the land crabs that would scuttle along beneath the tables looking for fallen morsels.   Folks propped their feet on the opposite benches as they sat, or if they had short legs, like my wife, sat Indian style.  Still, every so often people would lean away and glance under the table to make sure there were no surprise visitors - and you definitely didn’t want to have a coconut crab crawl over your bare foot and flip-flop, since they’re tarantula-shaped monsters that can spread out as wide as a manhole cover.  

The Toohey’s Draught and the seafood were always worth the trip, so my wife and I rolled out on a rainy, lousy Saturday night.  Jeff’s was pretty dead; from what we could tell, only one person was running the place, a woman who left the bar to take our order and then headed into the kitchen to do the cooking.  The lights weren’t even on in the front lobby.  My wife and I were the only ones in the darkened dining area, aside of a crab here or there, but at the bar, forearms firmly planted and with bottles and glasses steadily piling up, three SEAL’s were hunkered over, hard at work getting hammered.  

We had to pass by them on the way out, which was when they slid off their barstools and stood in our way.  The leader was an inch or two shorter than me, but he bowed up chest to chest, with his eyes barely open.  ‘I bet you’re getting laid tonight,’ he ventured.  

Not showing any reaction is the whole ballgame.  I agreed, ‘It’s looking pretty good.’  

One of the other guys let it be known that they had just started a six month forward deployment.  They would not be capping off a Saturday night with their wives for a long time.

The guy in front tried another tack.  ‘You look like a college boy.’

‘Yeah, I’m a college boy.’  

‘What college?’

‘[Trump University.]’

His eyes popped open while his brows dropped.  ‘Did you know [Billy Morgan]?’

‘I did radio shows with Billy Morgan.’

‘I played baseball with Billy Morgan.’

Soon, we were all bellied up to the bar like old friends.  This was my introduction to [Sluggo, or The Slug] legendary wild man, de facto social affairs chair for the organization.  I had been to Billy Morgan’s house in their hometown of Annandale, Virginia, I told the Slug.  This was before a trip to some fancy club in Georgetown.  (Billy Morgan was handsome to the point of being pretty, like the singer George Michael.  He was at once massively tuned into pop culture and a gifted impressionist who could sing like Bono from U2 or nail just about any other 80’s celebrity, singing or speaking.  We took big advantage of this, clowning around on a weekly comedy show on the campus radio station.  To this day, Billy has no idea he saved my bacon in a bar on the other side of the world.)

I also told the guys that if they were new to the island, they should check out our Masters’ swim team on base, where a couple of Frogs trained on the side, along with EOD guys and various other doctors, lawyers, and so on.  

In the following weeks, we saw Sluggo at the pool quite a bit, or on some early mornings, while running out to the end of Orote Peninsula on base, I’d see much of the SEAL command headed out to do the same.  This was when they were around.  Every so often they’d head off to Thailand (‘to stock up on some Mekhong,’ the Slug would always say) or the Philippines or Brunei, presumably for training exercises, if not the arts and entertainment.  

As Thanksgiving approached, Sluggo asked one day whether I’d be interested in joining his platoon ‘on a nice little evolution,’ a big run-swim-run after which the command was letting everyone have the weekend off.  This was quite the honor, to be invited to a legitimate training event.  None of the EOD guys or anyone else was part of this, so I had to keep it on the down-low, and play things as cool as possible once again.  

We gathered in the parking lot just outside the Frogs’ barracks, which was where we’d start, but first we piled into a white Navy school bus to stage our equipment.  The Slug had left a message on my answering machine the night before about what to bring: two sets of running shoes, as well as fins, mask and snorkel - if you want - but otherwise, goggles.  ‘Hydrate, brother,’ he advised, (which was pronounced HAH-drate) and then, for emphasis, he added, ‘HAH-drate, HAH-drate, HAH-drate.’  

My wife and I still say this to one another when a big event approaches: ‘HAH-drate, broth-uh, HAH-drate.’

In the bus, we headed to Gab Gab Beach, where on the deck of the big pool that opens into Apra Harbor, we dropped our fins and goggles into little piles all in a row.  From there, we headed to the end of Sumay Cove, where we stashed our packs, with the second set of shoes and any water we had, at the stone wall at the very end of the channel.  

Guys started waking up during the bus ride.  ‘Hey, Slug,’ they’d call.  ‘Did you invite the Men in Gray Suits?’

‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact,’ Slug answered.  ‘They were asking about you.  They were hoping to see you today.’  Guys laughed.

This went back to when Slug skipped a Masters’ workout a few weeks before.  ‘Where were you?’ I asked when I saw him.

‘We had a Boogey Man Swim.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A night swim.  It’s just you out there, with the Boogey Man.  That’s when you start thinking about the Men in Gray Suits, circling below, who’d like to have a word with you.’

In two years of training and triathlon-ing, I never ran into one of the Men in Gray Suits.  Other folks saw hammerheads or grays once in a while.  At night, people said, big tigers came close to the reefs.   Every so often, some poor soul spearfishing with a flashlight would be gobbled up.  On my very last ocean swim in July 1996, as I was coming back in to Gab Gab from one of the mooring buoys, I said to God, ‘Dude, I appreciate your listening to all those frantic prayers way back when, but if you want to let things slide and allow just one shark to cruise by - you know, nothing major - this would be the time.’

This would also justify the tattoo I’d get on my calf muscle, like every other guy on the island.  No man in a gray suit came by, so I never got the tattoo.  

The Special Warfare Unit hosted four deployed platoons at a time, two from Team One and two from Team Five.  The event involved only the Foxtrot platoon from One, though there seemed to be a handful of visiting SDV, Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, guys who came along - so far as I could tell from the introductions on the bus.  There’d be 20 or so of us making the Trot.  

The lieutenant described the course: the run around the base, out to the point and ending at Gab Gab was about five miles.  Hit the water, and swim to the first mooring buoy.

Mooring buoys, about a half mile out in the harbor, were so visiting ships could anchor.  They were massive, white hockey puck shapes, with a giant shackle on top for a ship to attach a line, and a giant chain that led to anchors 150 feet below.  

After the mooring buoy, cut right and head for the Sumay Cove Marina channel.  ‘Now, be careful, ‘ he said.  ‘There are two channels.  Go to the FAR one.  The first one is a dead end.’

That first channel was for the old Pan Am Clipper.  You’ve seen this - in RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, as Indiana Jones travels the world.  The screen would show the enormous Boeing flying boat superimposed over a map depicting the stops along the way.  A trip from from San Francisco to Hong Kong would take six days, with Guam being one of the islands used for an overnight stay.  Between the Clipper and marina channels was the old Sumay Landing, a restaurant straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie, open aired with lazy ceiling fans and bamboo shades and furniture.  

‘You go all the way to the end of the SECOND channel,’ the lieutenant instructed.  At the stone wall, you’d throw on your other set of shoes, stash your fins in your pack, throw it on, and run one last half-mile back to the barracks.  

I can remember squinting through the run.  We all were.  It was about 10 in the morning, and the sun was already bright, but nobody wanted to leave their Oakley’s unprotected with their running shoes.  I was near the front of the pack; doubling back from Orote Point I passed the Slug, who gave me an encouraging, ‘Yeah!’ as he was still headed out.  I got to Gab Gab and pulled off my T-shirt and shoes as the first splashes sounded.  

The Slug had shown me a trick they used for keeping their cool in the water.  The danger is that in the  excitement of a race - or a real life situation - you go out too hard and don’t regulate your breathing.  Soon, you’re sucking air, which can create a sense of panic.  The answer was to sidestroke, not freestyle: glide . . . slack off . . . and be sure you have breath and energy to spare before you pick up the pace.  The sidestroke also lets you slice through waves that would tangle up your arms in a freestyle.  

I went out too hard, and as the sandy bottom of the pool fell away to the reef at 20, then 30 feet, I had to tell myself, Stop.  Roll sideways.  Slow down.  Get your breath back.  

The reef disappears at 40 or 50 feet, and from then on the view is just a deep blue or purple penetrated by shafts of light.  Apra Harbor is 120 or 150 feet deep out in the middle of things, and it is kind of crazy just being a speck out in the open between infinite spaces above and below, but the real safety feature, the secret hiding in plain view, is in the fins we were wearing.  If you ever got in trouble, the trick would be to roll over on your back.  With fins on, you barely have to kick to stay afloat.  You’re not even treading water.  

With fins, you could be either an upper body swimmer or lower, but not both.  I was an upper body freestyler getting a 10 or 20 percent boost in speed from what little I did with my fins.  Some guys could really motor by using their legs primarily, in the sidestroke or combat crawl.  An SDV guy who had sat across the aisle in the school bus passed by, sidestroking, after we had rounded the buoy and headed for the marina.  

Since there were no reference points below us, we had to pop our heads out of the water every eight or ten strokes to make sure we were headed the right way.  Above water, I could see sets of arms stroking and splashing at intervals of 10 or 20 feet apart.  At one point, I caught a glimpse of the lieutenant out in front lifting his head to scan the horizon.  Below the water, only feet away from each of us, were barracuda.  Everyone generally had one gliding alongside, eyeing them.  They were three- or four-foot guided missiles with giant underbites and teeth like long needles, probably attracted by the glints of light from our watches or other bits of metal, but what they really wanted to see was whether any pilotfish would try to hitch a ride.  

The swim, at two or two and a half miles, took more than an hour.  Upon rounding the mooring buoy, there was no way to spot the channels at Sumay, but I did recognize the spit of land between them, so I knew to head for that.  We got to the spit, and I do remember a few moments of guys treading water and calling out, ‘This way?’ and, ‘Yeah, keep going.’

The marina channel was warm, muddy, and shallow.  This made for fast swimming, and I can remember catching glimpses during breaths of about three of us stroking in tandem through the calm water.  We hit the sand and pulled ourselves up on our hands and knees to the water’s edge.  Your balance can be shot after a long swim, and your arms are pretty fried, so you just roll over onto your rear end and pull your fins off.  Here, it was pretty much over.  I was exhilarated - and exhausted - but it felt glorious stuffing my fins in my pack and running that last three or four minutes up the hill.  

The guys were gathering in the shade of a tree outside the barracks.  I had finished in the top third of the pack.  The lieutenant was counting bodies, of course, but the others started cracking jokes as they drained their water bottles and looked down the hill at the guys coming up from Sumay.  One big guy didn’t have a pack.  He labored along with a fin in each hand and his goggles around his neck.

‘Yeah, he’s hung over,’ was the consensus.  

For a while, nobody appeared.  ‘Where the Hell is [so-and-so] - who should be a lot faster,’ someone would ask.  

‘He’s down shaking hands with Davy Jones,’ someone said, to general laughter.  This was another one of their catchphrases.

The SDV guy who had passed me at one point came in.  ‘Swam down the wrong friggin’ canal,’ he gasped.  

‘Who did?’  asked the lieutenant.

’Slug; a couple guys.  Slug lost a fin somewhere - did pretty much the whole thing with one.’

Nobody cared that some guys were slow; they had made it, after all.  The Slug ran in and hadn’t said anything until the lieutenant asked, ‘You lost a fin?’

He nodded as he sucked air and drank water.  

That was significant.  Slug was a freestyle puller, not a lower body guy, but still he had lost a considerable boost to his speed.  That was a long hour and a half in the water.  ‘Nice swim, Sluggo,’ they all acknowledged.  ‘Good job.’

My wife and I hosted Sluggo and another guy for Thanksgiving dinner that night.  Between the Foxtrot Turkey Trot and the beers, all of our eyes were barely open before long.   I realized something that day that these guys might not have thought about: the ocean swims, lifting, rock climbing, martial arts, or diving they do - especially outside of their usual training - went a long way in convincing them they could do anything.  That’s an important mindset in a very dangerous line of work.  

Those were good times.  Thanks, Sluggo; fellas.  It went a long way for my mindset as well.  

Happy Thanksgiving.  Watch out for the Men in Gray Suits.