Eyes Pried Open

by Vincent Sellers

  The ring formed, and I felt fortunate to be the fourth person in the ring. I did not want to go first, because everyone would be most rested and ready to deliver the most powerful blows. In a situation like that, participants tend to look for the silver linings.

  The whistle blew, and the first “bull” began boxing person number one in the ring. There was no strategic dancing around maneuvers allowed by the boxers. Fists were immediately flying, and it looked like a scene from the final moments before the bell rings to end a boxing round. But this was just the beginning. My nerves built as I saw the “bull” make his way every thirty seconds to the next person. A short whistle signaled that it was my turn to start swinging.

  The next thirty seconds were a blur. I fought my instinct to curl up in a defensive position, or better yet, a fetal position. I tried to block and duck, but also found the resolve to connect every blow that I could, with as much power as possible. I found that my opponents went into a mixture of offense and defensive moves, which gave me some hope that I could hold my own. Of course, my opponent had boxed three people immediately before me and was already getting tired, but just the fact that I could offer a few well-aimed punches that required blocking was encouraging.

  Finally the whistle chirped again, and the “bull” went to the next fighter. My first thirty seconds (out of six minutes) was done. I was still standing. My relief reminded me of my motocross racing days when my nerves would be almost unbearable before the starting gate dropped, but after making it to the first corner, my anxiety disappeared and I could enjoy the race. I was able largely to turn off my nerves when boxing, only trying to stay focused.

  My encounters with the next two boxers were uneventful, if one can consider an all-out thirty second brawl with former cops uneventful. Then came the long whistle that ushered me into the center of the ring. For the next three minutes, I would become the “bull.”

  I started strong and did my best. The first thirty seconds were tolerable, just as my previous bouts had been. But when boxing person number two in the ring, I could already feel my arms getting sluggish. My punches connected but were not doing any damage. My defensive reaction times were slowing. A few punches that I could tell were powerful connected full force with my head. I truly felt like a punching bag. There was nothing to do except to keep fighting. As I fought each heavyweight NAT through successive whistle chirps, making my way one by one around the ring, I felt a wave of sickness. My energy level was completely depleted, and I only wanted to try to protect my head. But the DT instructors were screaming to keep punching, and I sure as hell was not going to risk starting over with person one in the ring. I had to keep swinging, and I did. Although I had almost no strength left, going on the attack was the best way to prevent getting continuously pummeled.

  Finally, the long whistle blew, signaling the end of my role as the bull. I had survived an excruciatingly long three minutes and was still standing. I still had two more thirty second bouts with the next “bulls,” but my primary moment of pain was over. I boxed my last opponents and purged my remaining strength and my frustrations. After finishing the final boxer, I was spent in every sense of the word. As I removed my boxing gloves, I thought that if I never put on another pair, I could live the rest of my life a happy man. To this day, not one time have I put on boxing gloves. And I am a supremely happy man.

  Much to the delight of my heavyweight bull-in-the-ring companions, I wound up with one teardrop shaped bruise on the corner of my eye, which was easily fixed with some makeup. I was able to fly out that night for Austin as planned. My wedding and associated photos were perfect. I was not sure if I was happier to be married to the woman I loved or to be done with the bull-in-the-ring experience, but regardless, that was one of the happiest weekends of my life.

  CHAPTER 10

  Pepper Spray

  The physical challenges presented at the FBI Academy were memorable. Time spent in the classroom was greater than time spent in Defensive Tactics, but the painful memories of DT are the ones that have stuck with me. Aside from bull-in-the-ring, there are other DT milestones that must be passed to graduate from the FBI Academy. One of those, the “pepper spray day,” is one of the worst experiences at the Academy.

  Why does the FBI subject agents to pepper spray? Because there is always a chance that an agent could be sprayed while on the job. A criminal could easily be armed with pepper spray, and our training was designed to provide direct experience in that arena, which could eventually mean the difference between life and death in a worst-case scenario. But I also can imagine that part of the reason is so that a few sadistic FBI instructors can enjoy watching the students, whom they appear to despise, experience additional physical misery in addition to the usual days of bloody knuckle torture.

  I was fortunate to be at the FBI Academy during winter months, which naturally brought cold weather. For enduring pepper spray, colder is better. My class was sprayed near the end of our term in late March 2005. The day was cool and crisp, and for once I felt that the conditions were ideal (unlike conditions for the firearms or knuckle pushups that I had done in the snow).

  Our class donned our workout clothes, and with some joking around, trudged outside to begin our afternoon of blinding pepper spray fun. Our DT instructor was present and was assisted by the other DT instructors. In addition, a small group of faculty members (FBI agents) were present to watch the activities. Much like the bull-in-the-ring experience, FBI agents are not immune from the car-wreck syndrome; they absolutely must turn their heads to sneak a peek at the carnage. My classmates and I were less than thrilled to be playing the role of the carnage.

  The class split into pairs, with one agent being sprayed in the face with pepper spray, and the other agent acting as a subject (or “bad guy”), who would be apprehended by the agent who had just been sprayed. After the instructor was satisfied that the drill had gone correctly, the okay would be given and the agent who had been sprayed would be led away to a water hose to rinse pepper spray residue from his or her eyes. My roommate and I paired up and took a position midway through the line that awaited the blast to the eyes law-enforcement grade pepper spray. We began to watch the misery of our fellow agents unfold.

  The first candidate was sprayed in his eyes and a reddish-orange circle appeared on his face where the spray was applied. I could tell that there was a slight sense of enjoyment from the defensive tactics instructor as he had a slight grin while doing his job of inflicting pain on the agents. The first sacrificial lamb clearly was in pain. Using his fingers, he forcibly pried opened one of his eyes and a completely red and watery eyeball was revealed. As instructed, the agent pulled out his plastic blue-handled gun, located his partner (playing the role of a subject to be arrested), and issued the commands: “Get down on your knees,” and “Don't move!” The instructor was satisfied with his performance. He was then mercifully led away by his partner to the watering hoses, shuffling along, obviously experiencing intense physical pain to his face and eyes.

  The cycle continued as each person endured the horror of a direct application of pepper spray for approximately two minutes per cycle. With each person getting closer I realized that I had underestimated the power of pepper spray. There is a reason that law enforcement, including the FBI, utilizes such a powerful chemical weapon. Although pepper spray is just an organic product made of ground peppers, the pain inflicted by the spray feels like the worst concoction that a mad scientist could create in a laboratory. Pepper spray is simply designed to incapacitate the intended recipient in a non-lethal manner.

  After I watched a number of other agents go through what was obviously a horrific experience, it was finally my turn to stand in front of my classmates and instructors and receive a healthy application of pepper spray directly to my eyes. I heard the hissing sound from the canister and next experienced a tingling s
ensation on my face. For about two seconds I thought that the pain might be tolerable. But within three seconds I felt like I had planted my face in a fire-ant mound. The burning sensation was indescribable; I had never felt such intense pain on my face and eyes. My instinct was urgent and powerful: make it go away. I wanted to head straight for the water hoses. But if I wanted to graduate from the Academy and become an agent, I had no choice but to continue the task at hand.

  After the initial blast of spray, the instructor forced me to wait about ten seconds before arresting my subject. Ten seconds turned into ten years. I was finally allowed to try to locate the subject and begin apprehending him. I was able to force my eyes, which resembled tiny cat-like slits, open, and located the position of the subject. I tried my best to issue verbal arrest commands to this person. The sounds that came from my mouth sounded garbled and were difficult to understand. But I pressed on, held my ground, and tried my best to firmly command the subject. Finally the instructor gave the verbal acknowledgement that I had successfully completed my portion of the pepper spray exercise. My roommate quickly ushered me away to the awaiting watering hoses, where I desperately sought relief.

  I flushed my eyes for several minutes, but like a clogged toilet, just flushing with more water could not wash away the problem. At least the water was cold and soothing, and provided temporary relief. However, there were only five watering hoses for our class of thirty individuals. As the final NATs received their application of pepper spray, everyone crowded around the water hoses. After cycling back through the line several times to have access to water, my eyes began to feel slightly better, and I was able to leave them open for a few seconds at a time.

  But despite my level of misery, I was one of the fortunate ones. Some other NATs clearly reacted worse to the pepper spray than I did. One NAT was still experiencing eye pain several days after the event. The misery that FBI agents voluntarily endure is evidence of the dedication and sacrifice they make for the sake of our country. The pain is far beyond the comprehension of most people. I considered myself to be able to handle pain stoically. I almost liked the pain associated with running a marathon, or holding my breath under water (which I could do for more than three minutes). But the intense pain that goes with feeling like a flame has been applied to your eyeball, or the pain associated with knuckle bones grinding through the skin for hours at a time, is not something that most people can imagine without experiencing.

  I would have loved to sprint back into the FBI gym’s locker room and stand under the cold water of the expansive shower facilities. Unfortunately, the FBI Academy had just issued a warning that the lockers in the gym had been contaminated with PCBs (Polychlorinated Biphenyls, a harmful chemical substance linked to a variety of health issues). The problem was so severe that the lockers were chained off, and all possessions in the lockers were lost (including watches, clothing, and shoes). The showers in the locker area were also closed, which meant that showers to wash off the pepper spray had to be taken back in the dorm rooms. With only one shower per four students, the demand for cold water was high after the pepper spray event. I impatiently awaited my turn to get in the shower to wash away the remaining pepper spray residue, and finally was given my turn for full-body relief.

  I thought that I would be back to normal after washing with soap in the shower. However, despite my best efforts, there still remained traces of pepper spray on my clothing and in other areas that made the following few days extremely uncomfortable. I soon discovered that other areas of my body, aside from my face, were even more sensitive than my eyes to the effects of pepper spray.

  At least the event was over, and I knew that much like the other events agents had to endure, the entire FBI Academy experience would soon be ancient history. Only three weeks separated me from freedom, and much like a prisoner, I was thankful that my time was almost fully served. While I had entertained a daily fantasy of just walking out of the FBI Academy for good, my serious contemplations of escape began to fade. I knew that there were only a few more remaining hurdles to freedom, including academic tests, the firearms test, and team building event (hosted by the defensive tactics instructors). As I found to be a consistent pattern with the FBI in general, not knowing what was in store for each day was a blessing.

  CHAPTER 11

  Team Building, FBI Style

  While the FBI is composed of an elite group of individuals, ultimately it is teamwork that accomplishes the mission of the FBI. Throughout my training, the concept of teamwork was heavily emphasized. One of the most enjoyable team building activities that I encountered was early on during my time at the FBI Academy. We spent a Saturday going to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC.

  This museum offered a moving experience unlike anything else that I have ever seen. One of the worst chapters in human history is well-documented, with atrocities highlighted in ways that are disturbing, yet respectful to the millions of victims. I was already well versed on World War II history, but the museum unveiled a new realism and perspective for me that I will never forget.

  All FBI classes had an opportunity to visit the museum as part of the curriculum at the FBI Academy. Despite all of the critical information we learned about criminal law, firearms, and defensive tactics, I feel that this day spent at the Holocaust Museum was the most valuable day of learning for future FBI agents. We learned about government-sponsored murder. We learned about what can happen when human rights are violated. We learned the dangers of the abuse of power of government. We learned about the horrors of massively scaled policing that were directed by a madman. We learned what happens when the people do not stand up to fight tyranny. We learned the important lessons that the FBI must always be careful always to pay attention to so that similar atrocious acts will not ever occur in the United States. The reinforcement of the dangers of too much power for the government only strengthened my belief that the FBI, while not perfect, is making the right efforts to ensure that future FBI agents approach their job, which entails a significant degree of power and trust, with responsibility, care, and hindsight gained from the awareness of the brutalities committed in the past.

  I experienced an unexpected, unique form of a team building activity as part of my defensive tactics class. The event took place at the Marine base in Quantico, complete with a real military obstacle course used by the US Marines. Prior to the event, I knew that this class exercise would entail plenty of running. Running is my forte; I did not dread that part. But I knew that the event was organized by the defensive tactics instructors, which set off the alarm bells in my mind. In my corporate life, team building meant that employees would take the afternoon off for food, drinks, and an activity like bowling or laser-tag. I knew that this would not be the case for an FBI DT team-building event. Other NATs who had been in classes before mine were mysteriously tight-lipped about the event, which I knew spelled trouble.

  Each NAT was issued a military-style helmet, and we boarded a bus that transported us to the site of our teambuilding exercise. As the class drove to the other side of the Marine Corps base, I heard bits of positive conversation and laughter, and I felt a general sense of enthusiasm. After all, this was one of the last major hurdles before our graduation, and the weather was a nice sunny, clear, warm, spring day in Virginia. The months of cold and snow and ice-freezing temperatures had disappeared, along with our remaining time at the Academy, and this was reflected in our high spirits.

  After riding for about twenty minutes, I peered out of the bus windows and got my first glance at what the afternoon would hold in store. There was a fenced-in area with obstacles that were essentially giant puzzles. The obstacle consisted of different stations, each with a variety of wooden planks, massive pools of water, barrels, and other items. I anxiously awaited these challenges because I knew they would involve problem solving ability and teamwork to achieve. T
his seemed to be as close to an American gladiator type reality show as I would ever find. I thought for a few moments that the day might turn out to be as enjoyable as my corporate team building events.

  The class exited the bus and awaited further instructions. The other DT instructors, along with our instructor, quickly began barking orders, telling us to hurry up, setting the tone for the day. I felt that this was largely for show and that an afternoon of running and doing obstacles and teambuilding exercises could still prove to be enjoyable, at least to some degree.

  We were instructed to do a run for about forty-five minutes and then return to the team-building puzzles. After working on the puzzles for fifteen minutes, we would run for another forty-five minutes, and then work on yet another puzzle. The cycle would be repeated throughout the remainder of the day. Our instructor lined us up and then led us away on a run. I tried to soak in the warm fresh air and enjoy the moment. We ran for about a mile, and the instructor suddenly stopped us and started yelling for us to get down on our knuckles. Yes, this meant knuckle push-ups. My knuckles still had open wounds from the repeated knuckle push-up abuse in the gymnasium. My heart sank as I realize that the afternoon held more than just running and puzzle solving. The other instructors, who also ran with the group, assumed their usual roles of yelling and screaming and threatening, “If you don't do those push-ups correctly, the rest of the class will suffer while you watch.” And as I had seen many times before, they meant it. The FBI’s unwritten pro-hazing policy was in full force for the day.

  After the pushups, the class continued to run for a few minutes, and then suddenly we were halted again. The instructor told us to get on our backs and began leading us through a series of leg-lifts. This exercise looked easy, like something practiced in an aerobics class. The participants simply lie on their backs, and move each leg up and down rapidly, without either leg touching the ground. But after hundreds cycles of up-and-down leg movement, it becomes extremely difficult. It was still very early in the afternoon, and I knew that my body was in for some serious torture before sundown.