Inside Parris Island: What It Takes to Survive Marine Corps Boot Camp in 2025

Part 1

The bus doors hissed open, and the night air hit me. It wasn’t air. It was a physical wall of sound.

“GET OFF. GET OFF. GET OFF. GET OFF.”

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t an instruction. It was a roar. A sound that ripped through the 3 AM stillness of the South Carolina low country. It was the sound of a god, or a demon, and it was coming from a man in a hat that looked like a park ranger’s.

“YOU ARE NOW ABOARD THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS RECRUIT DEPOT, PARRIS ISLAND!”

I didn’t walk. I fell. I stumbled out of the bus, my civilian shoes feeling stupid and heavy, and my eyes tried to make sense of the chaos. There was no chaos.

There was only a terrifying, shrieking, perfectly ordered system of which I was not a part. Until my feet hit the paint.

The Yellow Footprints.

They don’t look like much. Just two splotches of yellow paint on the pavement. But they are a portal. The second my sneakers touched them, a man was in my face. His eyes were invisible under the shadow of his hat, but I could feel them. They were burning holes in my skull.

“YOU ARE ON MY FOOTPRINTS! YOU WILL STAND AT THE POSITION OF ATTENTION! YOUR HEAD AND EYES ARE TO THE FRONT! YOUR MOUTH IS SHUT! SHUT! SHUT!”

I slammed my mouth shut. I stared forward. My world shrank to the back of the recruit’s head in front of me. This was it. The “receiving phase.” I had read about it. I had watched videos.

I was not prepared.

We were swarmed. They were everywhere. Male Drill Instructors, female Drill Instructors. It didn’t matter. They were not people. They were forces of nature, all screaming, all demanding, all enforcing a standard I couldn’t even comprehend.

“GET INSIDE! FASTER! YOU ARE TOO SLOW!”

We ran. We ran everywhere. We ran to get in line. We ran to stand still.

Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. Time had already ceased to mean anything. In this blur, they herded us into a room with a bank of phones.

“YOU GET ONE. PHONE. CALL. YOU WILL READ THIS SCRIPT. YOU WILL NOT CHAT. YOU WILL NOT SAY ‘I LOVE YOU.’ YOU WILL READ THE SCRIPT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

A collective, terrified.

“YES, SIR!”

I dialed my mom’s number. My hands were shaking so bad I hit the wrong digit twice. The DI watched me. His eyes, just inches from mine.

She picked up, her voice thick with sleep.

“Hello?”

I took a breath. “Sir, this is Recruit [My Name]. This recruit has arrived safely at Parris Island.” I had to read it. I couldn’t mess it up.

“This recruit will contact you in 79 days with a new address.”

I hung up. Before she could even say “What?” I hung up. The last link to my old life was severed.

The next 24 hours were a systematic erasure of me.

First, the barber.

“Sit down.” A buzzing sound. I looked down, and the hair I had spent 18 years styling—my hair—was piling up on the floor. It was gone. All of us. We all looked the same. We were bald. We were sheep.

“Me or my will no longer be part of your vocabulary.” A DI screamed this as we were ordered to put our civilian lives into a cardboard box. My clothes. My phone. My wallet. My individuality. It was taped up and shipped out.

We were issued our new clothes. Green. All of it. The same shirt, the same pants, the same boots. It wasn’t a uniform. Not yet. It was a costume of equality.

And then, the “training” began.

They don’t call it punishment. They call it “Incentive Training.” IT.

I did something wrong. I don’t even remember what. Maybe I looked at a DI. Maybe I didn’t say “Sir” fast enough.

“YOU! GET DOWN!”

I was on the floor.

“PUSH-UPS! BEGIN!”

I pushed.

“MOUNTAIN CLIMBERS! GO!”

My legs pumped.

“BURPEES! UNTIL I GET TIRED!”

He never got tired. My muscles were on fire. Sweat was pouring into my eyes, but I couldn’t wipe it. That would be a “move.” That would be more IT.

The thought, the one the DIs count on, was right there. It was so loud it was screaming: Why am I here? And how do I get out of here?

I knew the answer. I had to be here. And the only way out was through.

But I’d just learned a lesson. I had violated an order. And I knew, with a burning certainty in my chest and my arms and my legs, I would never do that again. That’s how they build discipline. From the ground up. From the pain up.

The first gate was the Initial StrengthTest. The IST.

“If you cannot pass this,” a DI announced, his voice almost calm, which was even more terrifying, “you will be reassigned. You will not train. You will go to the ‘Physical Conditioning Platoon.’ You will be a ‘Pork Chop.’ You will be broken.”

I’d never been “broken” in my life.

“Ready, begin.”

The pull-up bar. The standard was three. Just three. How hard could that be?

My hands, slick with sweat, gripped the cold metal. I pulled. One. I dropped. I pulled again, my back and shoulders screaming. Two. I dropped. I swung my legs, I grunted, I used every fiber of will I had. Three. I collapsed, my arms shaking.

The plank. One minute and three seconds. My core felt like it was being ripped in half by a chain-saw.

“ONE MINUTE!” The DI’s boot was an inch from my head. I didn’t move.

The run. A mile and a half. In 13 minutes and 30 seconds. This wasn’t a jog. This was a panicked sprint. My lungs felt like they were full of wet cement.

“LET’S GO! LET’S GO!”

I passed. I crossed the line. I didn’t celebrate. I just bent over and tried not to puke.

The weak had been culled. For now.

Receiving was over. The real training was about to begin. We had cleared the first test, but we hadn’t even met them yet.

We hadn’t met our Drill Instructors.

Part 2

The “Meeting” was not a meeting. It was a controlled detonation.

We were marched into our new home—the squad bay—and stood at attention. And then they entered. Three of them. They didn’t walk. They glided. Like sharks. They were the gods of this new, green world, and we were the unholy, civilian trash that had just defiled their floors.

For the next hour, they just screamed. They introduced themselves, they explained the rules, and they found every single flaw in every single one of us. My button was undone. My shoelace was frayed. My face was wrong.

This was our new family. And for the next 12 weeks, their only mission was to kill the person I was and build a Marine in his place.

The IST was a joke. The real test, the one that measured if you could fight, was the Combat Fitness Test. The CFT.

“THIS IS NOT A GAME!” a DI roared as we lined up on a 300-yard course.

“THIS IS THE BATTLEFIELD!”

The “Maneuver Under Fire” began. It was a 300-yard sprint, but it was a sprint through hell.

“ZIG-ZAG! OUTSIDE THE CONE! OUTSIDE THE CONE!”

We weren’t just running. We were mimicking advancing under enemy fire.

“HIGH CRAWL! GO!” I was on my stomach, gravel and dirt grinding into my elbows and knees, my rifle in my hands.

“STAY LOW! THEY ARE SHOOTING AT YOU!”

“LOW CRAWL!” Now I was flat, pushing my rifle, pulling my body, my face in the mud.

“AMMO CAN CARRIES!” I grabbed two 30-pound ammo cans. My grip, which I thought was strong, evaporated in 30 seconds. My forearms were locked in an agonizing cramp. I couldn’t drop them. Dropping them meant failure. It meant the team “died.” I ran, my fingers on fire, for 75 yards.

But the worst part… the worst part was the “Fireman’s Carry.”

“PICK HIM UP!” A recruit—a 190-pound bag of meat and gear—was “wounded.” I had to get him on my shoulders. I’d never felt weight like that. I stumbled, my legs like jelly. “HE’S DYING! YOU ARE LETTING HIM DIE! FASTER! FASTER!”

I ran. I don’t know how. I ran 75 meters with a man on my back, my lungs collapsing. I dropped him at the line. We had “survived.” I had a new understanding of “strength.”

It wasn’t just physical. It was mental.

They taught us to fight. The Marine Corps Martial Arts Program. MCMAP. This wasn’t a karate class at the mall. This was about being a weapon. We had to earn the Tan Belt.

We learned strikes, punches, and kicks. We learned joint manipulations and chokeholds. We learned how to counter a chokehold, to fight the panic, to find the weakness, and to end the threat.

The sparring was chaos.

“SUSTAINMENT TRAINING!” It was just… fighting. You’re exhausted, you’re wearing gear, and someone is trying to take your head off. You learn to react. You learn to be aggressive. You learn that the will to fight is more important than the skill.

And then, they tried to drown us.

“WELCOME TO THE POOL!” a DI screamed, his voice echoing off the tiled walls.

“SOME OF YOU ARE AFRAID OF WATER. GOOD. YOU SHOULD BE.”

I saw recruits shaking. Guys who had grown up in the desert, who had never seen an ocean.

“Swim qualification is not optional.”

We weren’t swimming in trunks. We were in our full utility uniform. And boots.

The second I hit the water, I felt it. The drag. My boots felt like cinder blocks. My uniform was a parachute, pulling me down. This wasn’t swimming. This was surviving.

“TREAD WATER! FOUR MINUTES!”

Four minutes is an eternity when you are fighting to stay alive.

“GEAR DROP!”

We had to simulate being in a sinking ship. We’d jump in, sink to the bottom, and while holding our breath, calmly shed our heavy gear and rifle, and swim to the surface. The first time, I felt the panic. My lungs were on fire. I can’t! But I did. I had to.

“BUDDY RESCUE!”

Now you had to swim, in uniform, while towing a 200-pound “wounded” comrade who was also in uniform. You had to save him without letting him drown you both.

I passed. I was a “WS Basic.” I could survive in the water.

I had faced my weakness. I had faced the water. I had faced the fight.

Now, I had to face the gas.

The Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear Defense training. The Gas Chamber.

It’s the most feared day of boot camp. We were taught how to use the M50 gas mask. How to seal it. How to clear it.

“TRUST YOUR GEAR,” the instructors yelled.

“IT WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE.”

We lined up outside a small, sealed concrete building. We put our masks on. We checked our seals. We went inside.

The air was thick with a yellow fog. It was CS gas. Tear gas.

“JUMPING JACKS! BEGIN!”

We were moving, breathing, simulating stress. I trusted my gear. I could breathe. It tasted like plastic, but it was air.

And then, the DI gave the order I had been dreading.

“IN THE FINAL STEP, YOU WILL REMOVE YOUR MASKS. YOU WILL STATE YOUR NAME, RANK, AND PLATOON. AND YOU WILL EXIT.”

My blood ran cold.

“MASKS! OFF! OFF! OFF!”

I ripped the M50 from my face.

It wasn’t air. It was fire.

It was a billion microscopic, white-hot needles stabbing my eyes, my nose, my throat, my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. My entire body rejected the atmosphere. It was pure, unadulterated, chemical panic.

My eyes slammed shut, streaming tears. Snot and drool poured from my face. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think.

“STATE YOUR NAME, RECRUIT!” a voice roared from the fire.

I tried to speak.

“SIR!” I gasped.

“RECRUIT… [MY NAME]… PLATOON…” I choked.

I was coughing up my own lungs.

“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

I stumbled, blind, towards the door, pushing past other bodies. I fell out onto the grass, coughing, gagging, a total, wretched mess. But as I walked around, flapping my arms, the fresh air—which itself felt like sandpaper—began to work.

I had survived. I had trusted my gear. And I had learned, in the most painful way possible, that I could follow instructions even in a high-stress, agonizing situation. It was another brick in the wall.

After the pain, came the discipline. The Range.

Marksmanship, Table One. This was where we learned to be lethal. This was where we met our rifle, not as a prop, but as a tool.

“THIS IS YOUR RIFLE,” the instructor said, his voice a calm, steady presence.

“IT IS YOUR BEST FRIEND. YOU WILL BE A MASTER OF IT.”

We learned the fundamentals. Sight alignment. Breath control. Smooth trigger pull.

We shot from 200 yards. 300 yards. 500 yards.

Five hundred yards. That’s five football fields. The target was a speck. But I breathed. I controlled my heart. I squeezed. Pop. I hit.

I qualified.

But Table One was just the beginning. Table Two was combat.

“THIS IS NOT THE RANGE!” a DI screamed.

“THIS IS A FIREFIGHT!”

The targets were at 25 yards. They were moving. They were popping up.

“AT THE CONDITION! MAGAZINE WITH FIVE ROUNDS! GO!”

We ran. We dropped.

“TARGETS! 25 YARDS! KNEELING!”

I dropped to one knee. Double-tap.

“TARGETS! MOVING! STANDING!”

I engaged.

“RELOAD! RELOAD!”

My hands, which used to fumble, were a blur. I dropped the empty magazine. I slammed in a new one. I was back in the fight.

The muscle memory was there. I wasn’t thinking anymore. I was reacting.

We had learned to run. We had learned to fight. We had learned to survive. We had learned to shoot.

We had learned all the pieces.

Now, we had to put them all together.

Now, we had to face The Crucible.

The culminating test. The 54-hour continuous ordeal. The final test.

“YOU WILL BE GIVEN THREE MREs. YOU WILL BE ALLOWED FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP. YOU WILL MARCH 45 MILES. YOU WILL BE TESTED. YOU WILL BE BROKEN. OR YOU WILL BECOME A MARINE.”

We moved out under the cover of darkness. The Crucible had begun.

The next 54 hours were a blur of exhaustion, hunger, and pain. We rotated between more than 30 stations. We breached enemy defenses. We conducted assaults. We navigated through the swamps and dense woods of Pagefield.

We were tired. We were hungry. We were mentally drained.

At one point, my fire team had to solve a problem. A simulated casualty. A wall. We were too tired. We were arguing. We were failing.

“YOU ARE FAILING!” the DI screamed.

“YOU ARE LETTING YOUR TEAM DIE!”

Something snapped.

“I’ve got him!” I yelled. I grabbed the “casualty.” Another recruit boosted me. We worked together. We stopped being four individuals. We became one.

We completed the mission.

We kept moving. We were cold. It was raining. We didn’t stop.

We stopped at a “Warrior Station.” We were exhausted, huddled in the mud, and the DI told us a story. A story about Sergeant John Basilone, who fought at Guadalcanal. A story about Lieutenant General “Chesty” Puller. Men who had faced real combat. Men who had really suffered.

Suddenly, my hunger, my exhaustion… it felt small. It felt… disrespectful to complain. I wasn’t just fighting for me. I was fighting to be part of that. Their legacy.

We were sparring again. MCMAP. But this time, I was so tired I could barely stand. But I fought. We all fought. We had to.

The last night was sleepless. We were moving. Always moving.

And then, the sun began to rise on the final day. And we began the final test.

“The Reaper.”

A 9-mile hike. With our full combat gear. Our rifles. Our packs.

It’s named “The Reaper” for a reason. It’s designed to kill what’s left of the civilian in you.

My shoulders were on fire. My feet were just two big blisters. Every step was agony.

“ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER. LET’S GO.”

I looked at the recruit next to me. He was crying. He was done.

“Get up,” I said. I grabbed his pack.

“We’re not leaving you.”

He grabbed my rifle.

We moved. Together.

The sun was high. We were delirious. And then, I saw it. At the top of the final hill.

The Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. The symbol of the Corps.

We marched. We didn’t run. We marched as a platoon. We made it.

We stood in formation at the parade deck. We were covered in 54 hours of mud, sweat, and grime. We stank. We were broken. But we were here.

And then, he approached. My Drill Instructor. The man who had been my personal demon for 13 weeks. The man I had hated, feared, and respected more than anyone in my life.

His face was different. The rage was gone. His eyes… they were proud.

He didn’t scream. He spoke. His voice was quiet.

“You’ve earned this,” he said.

He pressed something sharp and metal into my hand.

He stepped back, and for the first time, he called me by a new name.

“Congratulations, Marine.”

And he saluted me.

I… we… the entire platoon. We broke. We cried. The war was over. The person who had stepped on those yellow footprints 13 weeks ago was dead. He had died in the Gas Chamber. He had drowned in the pool. He had been buried on The Reaper.

Someone else was standing here.

A few days later, we had our final drill. We marched. We were not a gaggle of terrified kids. We were a machine. Every step synchronized. Every movement precise.

Then came Graduation. I saw my mom in the stands. She was crying.

I was dismissed. I walked over to her. She hugged me.

“I didn’t recognize you,” she whispered.

“You’re… you’re a man.”

I wasn’t. I was something else.

I was a United States Marine.