There’s a story that drifts through the tide, whispered between the diesel coughs of a RHIB engine and the foam hiss of a midnight swell. It starts the way all true things do—half in the realm of man, half in the realm of myth. They say that long before there were Special Warfare Combatant Crewmen, there were tide-riders — men who could hear the ocean breathe - who spoke to it in the language of throttle and wake.

The sea was their battlefield, their home, and their enemy. Every wave was a test, every crest a threat, and every mission a conversation with Poseidon himself. The uninitiated think “get on top of it” is just a phrase — a call to ride the swell before it rolls you. But to a SWCC, it’s gospel. It means mastering chaos before it swallows you whole. It means seeing a thirty-foot blackwater wall racing toward you and refusing to blink. It’s a mindset carved from salt, sweat, and 50-cal recoil.

Legend has it, there was once a crew who pushed too far into a storm the gods themselves turned away from. No moon. No horizon. Just the deafening dark and the endless pulse of water trying to end them. The coxswain — eyes like coral and hands like rusted iron — didn’t flinch. “Get on top of it,” he said, as the boat rose toward a mountain of liquid fury. And they did.

They rode that beast like it was alive - like it was trying to shake them from the world. When it broke, the storm shattered and the sea bent its knee. And since that night, every SWCC knows: when the chaos rises, you don’t dive from it, you don’t hide beneath it — you get on top of it.

Because that’s where legends live — above the break, where men meet gods.

Shout out to our brother, Charlie and all the homies out in SoCal. 

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