The Commando Support Group
My Friend Signed Me Up for SEAL Training (Without Asking)
Part 1: The Commando Support Group
I was enjoying a quiet morning after actually getting decent sleep for once. Turns out if you stop playing video games at night and do boring things instead—things that don’t blast your retinas with blue light death rays—you get tired fast. Revolutionary, I know.
I’d switched from my gaming rig to my MacBook, which has a built-in blue light filter. My glasses filter another 20% or so. Hardly noticeable. Not like those amber vision glasses from the ‘80s—remember those? TV ads showed people staring directly into the sun like it wouldn’t scar their retinas, claiming everything looked “so much clearer.” They supposedly helped you see better while driving at night, though my dad disputed this after replacing several mailboxes in our neighborhood that were plowed over by amber-vision night drivers.
Or maybe it was the vodka parties down the street. Hard to tell. But my dad swore it was the glasses, and you can’t argue with a man who believes our currency system is still being manipulated by ancient alien astronauts.
Anyway, I was halfway through my first cup of coffee at 6:07 a.m. when my phone started buzzing, followed immediately by aggressive pounding at my apartment door.
I jumped out of my seat and slammed my knee into the side of my desk.
“What the hell—”
I looked at my phone. Text from Manny: “Incoming. Sent a friend to help get you ready to run your new business. You can thank me later.”
More pounding. Louder this time.
“Great,” I muttered. “What did Manny do this time?”
Yesterday, Manny had tricked me into buying his book—a thinly veiled “how to run a drug cartel” manual disguised as business advice. Now this.
The pounding grew louder. I realized it wasn’t going away until I dealt with it—like an alarm clock you keep hitting snooze on. You know the science: hitting snooze just makes you more tired when you finally get up. I’m not explaining that to you. I’m a philosophy writer, not a sleep physician. Google it yourself.
I yanked the door open like a Category 5 hurricane flipping a tin shed.
“What do you—”
“WHAT I WANT,” a voice barked, “is for you to drop and give me twenty for making me wait at this door and greeting me so rudely!”
Standing in my doorway was a mountain of a man in tactical pants and a shirt that looked vacuum-sealed to his muscles.
“But this is not basic training,” he continued, slightly softer. “Manny paid me to put you through SEAL training. Platinum package. He must really like you—that’s my most expensive product. Still, I don’t appreciate the rudeness.”
“You were pounding on my door at 6 a.m., waking up my neighbors,” I said.
“Oh. Sorry about that.” He shifted his weight. “I’m a retired SEAL, but I work full-time as a cop these days. Pounding on doors is kind of my thing—gets the bad guys’ attention. Name’s Claude Moreau. Just call me Blitz.”
He extended a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. I shook it, suddenly feeling guilty.
“Sorry for being rude.”
“Ahh, don’t worry about it. Manny did tell you I was coming, right?”
“He sent me a text the exact moment you knocked. To be honest, I didn’t sign up for any training program.”
Blitz sighed. “That’s Manny for you. Man doesn’t know what’s going on or what he’s doing half the time. I’m surprised someone like that can function, much less have the money he does.” He paused. “Sorry if this is all a surprise. He told me you’d agreed to this. Said you wanted it.”
“Sorry to waste your time,” I said. “But I’m curious—what exactly do you do? Want some coffee before you go?”
We sat down at my kitchen table.
Blitz explained the program: He’d wake me up every morning at 4 a.m. and drag me to the gym before I started my day. He always makes the first day “easy” by starting clients at 6 a.m.—what he calls “sleeping in.”
The gym is open 24 hours and has a cold plunge kept at 48 degrees Fahrenheit. After an “insane workout,” I’d be expected to sit in ice water for two minutes. The whole ordeal—workout, cold plunge, existential questioning—would take 70 minutes. Then I’d start my “actual day” at 5:30 a.m.
He’d show up again at 6 p.m. for an evening routine: more cardio, more suffering.
I’d heard this before. The productivity hack. Get up before the sun. Do the hardest thing first. Optimize. Dominate. Win.
For some people, this works. Not for me.
I do like getting up early—usually before 6 a.m., no alarm needed. But 4 a.m.? That’s excessive. If it works for you, great. But the rest of us mortals don’t function that way. It’s against our nature.
Everybody’s different. We all have different sleep requirements, and those requirements shouldn’t be ignored. Seven to eight hours is the standard. Less than that? See somebody. Less than six? Definitely see a doctor.
Blitz seemed to soften when he realized I wasn’t a willing participant in his torture program.
“Let me ask you something,” I said. “If I had agreed to this, how would you treat me? And why would it be different?”
He leaned back. “Well, I can tell you’re not buying the balls-to-the-wall philosophy. You gave me that impression the second you opened the door. But most clients love the drill sergeant routine. Getting yelled at motivates them, somehow.”
“Even in the SEALs,” he continued, “with a few exceptions like Basic and Hell Week, you were simply told to do something. If you didn’t, you were out. Plain and simple. They encouraged you to quit in the beginning. They only wanted people who were hard and committed.”
“The training I provide is different. If my clients quit or fail, I don’t get paid. So I have to constantly adjust. Every client’s different.”
He paused, smiled a little.
“I even had a guy once who could barely walk. Overweight. Health conditions two miles long. But you know what? He was committed. Thought he’d quit on day two, but this man wanted to live. He saw my training as the only way he’d escape death.”
“I couldn’t train him like most healthy adults, but when I ended a session, he always asked for more. In the end, the guy lost 150 pounds and ran a 10K like he’d always wanted. After my program, he gained some of that weight back, but he kept most of it off. Now he wakes up every day at 4:30 a.m. and hits the gym before he does anything else.”
I thanked Blitz for his time and told him I’d have a discussion with Manny about talking to me before committing people to routines and programs.
“Not a problem at all,” Blitz said. “Manny already paid me in full.”
Part 2: The Lesson
After Blitz left, I sat there thinking about the insane routines some people have—waking up at 4 a.m., cold plunges, suffering as a lifestyle.
Does getting up at 4 a.m. really make that much of a difference? Or is it just trying too hard?
Here’s what I’ve learned:
The time you spend matters more than what time you wake up.
Quality of sleep is more important than waking up early. Quantity of sleep? Also more important. Staying sane and not following some insane commando routine? You guessed it—more important.
If getting up earlier than everybody else means you can actually do something you enjoy—something that feeds your soul—then do it. That’s the secret sauce. Not the 4 a.m. wake-up. Not the cold plunge. Not the punishment.
It’s doing something that actually means something to you.
But here’s the thing: Make sure you’re getting enough sleep first.
Google “sleep hygiene.” Google “how much sleep should I be getting.” If you’re still having trouble, see a doctor. See a sleep specialist.
Sleep affects everything—your health, your well-being, your ability to function.
And here’s the kicker:
Good, long sleep every night is the most spectacular productivity hack of all time.
There. That’s my genius advice of the day.
My notebook’s still on the floor, but at least I’m sleeping better.