He’d taken a taxi from the base to a garage he rented, picked up his motorcycle, and ridden it down to Fiddler’s Cove. He’d flown back from a training deployment in Thailand earlier in the week. He always wanted that when he wore women’s clothing. Help wishing he were more petite, more womanly.
Chris himself was on the smaller side, more like an undersized walk-on linebacker who lacked the size and pedigree of some of his more highly recruited peers but played with an intensity and pain tolerance that endeared him to coaches and TV commentators.Īnd yet, as he slipped on a pair of panty hose in his sailboat on this night in 1996, Chris couldn’t Your smaller fellows, your stringy fellows, the guy with almost literally zero percent body fat who had to eat two Papa John’s pizzas every day through SEAL training just so he wouldn’t die of hypothermia in the water. But you’d be surprised at the body types you find in the SEAL teams. There are those types, of course, men chiseled from granite at 120 percent human scale, men who seem to drain several drams of testosterone from everyone else when they walk into a room. Chris Beck was never one of your gargantuan-type Navy SEALs.
