After the initial thunder of yelling and chaos of that first evening at the Naval Academy, the shock and awe of entering Bancroft Hall and realizing rather quickly that I was yelled at from every corner, one instruction rose above all the others:
“Eyes in the boat.”
Look straight ahead. Do not look left or right. Do not make eye contact. Move.
We were told to rapidly navigate to a company area we had never seen before, find our rooms, all while “chopping” (running double time) down the middle of the hallway and “squaring the corner” (making a sharp 90-degree turn at every intersection). It was choreography by intimidation.
The rules were the same for everyone. But experiencing them as young women, and honestly, for many young men too, it was shocking. It was less about the physicality and more about the sensory overload: the noise, the speed, the demand for instant obedience.
That first night, and many that followed, stripped you down to instinct.
Carrier Landings
One of the more infamous stress-relief activities was called “Carrier Landings.” I found a video recently that shows what it looks like.
In 1977, there were no helmets. The “runway” was a row of old tables. The mattress was often little more than a tired box spring.
You sprinted forward and launched yourself horizontally, arms out, attempting a perfect “carrier landing” onto the mattress.
It was reckless. It was funny. It was bonding.
And, in a strange way, it worked.
In the middle of relentless structure and scrutiny, moments like that allowed the pressure valve to release, just a bit. You laughed hard because you had to. Because the alternative was to crack.
Calling Home
Early in the first week of Plebe Summer, during evening training, I was asked whether I had called home recently.
In 1977, calling home meant lining up at a wall of pay phones and waiting your turn for a strict five-minute limit. So I innocently believed this was an invitation to make an extra call.
There was, however, a hint of suspicion.
That suspicion was confirmed when our entire squad gathered around the showers in our room.
Instead of a pay phone, I was placed in the shower and instructed to “dial” using the shower control handle. As I mimed dialing, fully clothed, someone turned on the water.
There I stood, water pouring over me, clothed in my regulation T-shirt and gym shorts, pretending to call home.
Oddly, I don’t remember feeling humiliated as much as resigned. This is the price to pay. This is what endurance looks like. I understood, even then, that part of surviving the summer meant accepting the absurd alongside the hardship.
It was theater. It was indoctrination. It was belonging, of a sort.
The Atomic Situp
This is the story I most regret telling.
Not because it didn’t happen.
But because I was part of it.
During one evening training, the summer staff invited my fellow female classmate to attempt what was called the “Atomic” Situp. She was blindfolded. I was told to hold her feet to the floor. Another plebe classmate applied resistance to her arms.
She trialed the situp once. Twice. The summer staff told her to overcome her resistance. To push harder.
On the third attempt, still blindfolded, another classmate, a salty prior-enlisted male, positioned himself over her face. When the resistance was suddenly removed, she surged upward and collided full force into his naked backside.
I remember the crowd’s laughter.
I also remember the horror and sick feeling in my stomach as I watched this joke play out.
I don’t know how I didn’t anticipate it. I don’t know why I didn’t stop it. I don’t know whether I was so focused on being included, being part of the joke rather than the object of it, that I ignored the line as it blurred beneath my hands, holding my own roommate’s feet down.
That moment has stayed with me far longer than the yelling or the running or the water pouring over my head.
It revealed something disturbing: the deep human desire to belong can override judgment and compassion, especially when you are new. Especially when you are trying to prove you can take it. Especially when you are one of the few women in a place still figuring out the validity of your existence at “their” school.
Plebe Summer was designed to test endurance.
But sometimes the more challenging test is what you do when the pressure shifts from surviving to participating.
And that is the part of the story I carry.
A Note About This Series
This post is part of a year-long series marking the 50th anniversary of women at the United States Naval Academy.