of the faculty, family and friends and most importantly, the class of 2014. It is indeed

an honor for me to be here tonight. It's been almost 37 years to the day that

I graduated from UT. I remember a lot of things about that day.

I remember I had throbbing headache from a party the night before. I remember I had a

serious girlfriend, whom I later married—that's important to remember, by the way—and I

remember I was getting commissioned in the Navy that day.

But of all the things I remember, I don't have a clue who the commencement speaker was,

and I certainly don't remember anything they said.

So, acknowledging that fact, if I can't make this commencement speech memorable, I will

at least try to make it short. The University's slogan is, "What starts here

changes the world." I've got to admit, I kinda like it. "What

starts here changes the world." Tonight there are almost 8,000 students, there

are more than 8,000 students graduating from UT.

That great paragon of analytical rigor, Ask.Com, says that the average American will meet 10,000

people in their lifetime. 10,000 people. That's a lot of folks.

But if every one of you changed the lives of just 10 people, and each one of those people

changed the lives of another 10 people, and another 10, then in five generations—125

years—the class of 2014 will have changed the lives of 800 million people.

800 million people. Think about it: over twice the population of the United States. Go one

more generation and you can change the entire population of the world: eight billion people.

If you think it's hard to change the lives of 10 people—change their lives forever—you're

wrong. I saw it happen every day in Iraq and Afghanistan.

A young Army officer makes a decision to go left instead of right down a road in Baghdad,

and the 10 soldiers with him are saved from close-in ambush.

In Kandahar province in Afghanistan, a non-commissioned officer from the Female Engagement Team senses

something isn't right and directs the infantry platoon away from a 500-pound IED, saving

the lives of a dozen soldiers. But, if you think about it, not only were

these soldiers saved by the decisions of one person, but their children were saved. And

their children's children. Generations were saved by one decision, by one person.

But changing the world can happen anywhere, and anyone can do it.

So, what starts here can indeed change the world, but the question is: What will the

world look like after you change it? Well, I am confident that it will look much,

much better. But if you will humor this old sailor for just a moment, I have a few suggestions

that may help you on your way to a better a world.

And while these lessons were learned during my time in the military, I can assure you

that it matters not whether you ever served a day in uniform. It matters not your gender,

your ethnic or religious background, your orientation, or your social status.

Our struggles in this world are similar, and the lessons to overcome those struggles and

to move forward—changing ourselves and changing the world around us—will apply equally to

all. I have been a Navy SEAL for 36 years. But

it all began when I left UT for Basic SEAL training in Coronado, California.

Basic SEAL training is six months of long, torturous runs in the soft sand, midnight

swims in the cold water off San Diego, obstacles courses, unending calisthenics, days without

sleep and always being cold, wet and miserable. It is six months of being constantly harassed

by professionally trained warriors who seek to find the weak of mind and body and eliminate

them from ever becoming a Navy SEAL. But the training also seeks to find those

students who can lead in an environment of constant stress, chaos, failure and hardships.

To me, basic SEAL training was a lifetime of challenges crammed into six months.

So, here are the 10 lesson's I learned from basic SEAL training that hopefully will be

of value to you as you move forward in life. Every morning in SEAL training, my instructors,

who at the time were all Viet Nam veterans, would show up in my barracks room, and the

first thing they would inspect was my bed. If you did it right, the corners would be

square, the covers pulled tight, the pillow centered just under the headboard and the

extra blanket folded neatly at the foot of the rack.

It was a simple task, mundane at best. But every morning we were required to make our

bed to perfection. It seemed a little ridiculous at the time, particularly in light of the

fact that were aspiring to be real warriors, tough battle-hardened SEALs. But the wisdom

of this simple act has been proven to me many times over.

If you make your bed every morning you will have accomplished the first task of the day.

It will give you a small sense of pride and it will encourage you to do another task,

and another, and another. And by the end of the day, that one task completed

will have turned into many tasks completed. Making your bed will also reinforce the fact

that the little things in life matter. If you can't do the little things right, you

will never be able to do the big things right. And, if by chance you have a miserable day,

you will come home to a bed that is made—that you made—and a made bed gives you encouragement

that tomorrow will be better. If you want to change the world, start off

by making your bed. During SEAL training the students...during

training the student are broken down into boat crews. Each crew is seven students—three

on each side of a small rubber boat and one coxswain to help guide the dingy.

Every day your boat crew forms up on the beach and is instructed to get through the surf

zone and paddle several miles down the coast. In the winter, the surf off San Diego can

get to be 8 to 10 feet high and it is exceedingly difficult to paddle through the plunging surf

unless everyone digs in. Every paddle must be synchronized to the stroke

count of the coxswain. Everyone must exert equal effort or the boat will turn against

the wave and be unceremoniously dumped back on the beach. For the boat to make it to its

destination, everyone must paddle. You can't change the world alone—you will

need some help. And to truly get from your starting point to your destination takes friends,

colleagues, the good will of strangers and a strong coxswain to guide you.

If you want to change the world, find someone to help you paddle.

Over a few weeks of difficult training my SEAL class, which started with 150 men, was

down to just 42. There were now six boat crews of seven men each.

I was in the boat with the tall guys, but the best boat crew we had was made up of the

little guys—"the munchkin crew," we called them—no one was over five-foot-five.

The munchkin boat crew had one American Indian, one African American, one Polish America,

one Greek American, one Italian American, and two tough kids from the Midwest.

They out-paddled, out-ran and out-swam all the other boat crews.

The big men in the other boat crews would always make good-natured fun of the tiny little

flippers the munchkins put on their tiny little feet prior to every swim.

But somehow these little guys, from every corner of the nation and the world, always

had the last laugh, swimming faster than everyone and reaching the shore long before the rest

of us. SEAL training was a great equalizer. Nothing

mattered but your will to succeed. Not your color, not your ethnic background, not your

education and not your social status. If you want to change the world, measure a

person by the size of their heart, not by the size of their flippers.

Several times a week, the instructors would line up the class and do a uniform inspection.

It was exceptionally thorough. Your hat had to be perfectly starched, your

uniform immaculately pressed and your belt buckle shiny and void of any smudges.

But it seemed that no matter how much effort you put into starching your hat, or pressing

your uniform or polishing your belt buckle, it just wasn't good enough. The instructors

would fine something wrong. For failing the uniform inspection, the student

had to run, fully clothed into the surf zone. Then, wet from head to toe, roll around on

the beach until every part of your body was covered with sand.

The effect was known as "sugar cookie." You stayed in the uniform the rest of the day—cold,

wet and sandy. There were many a student who just couldn't

accept the fact that all their efforts were in vain. That no matter how hard they tried

to get the uniform right, it was unappreciated. Those students didn't make it through training.

Those students didn't understand the purpose of the drill. You were never going to succeed.

You were never going to have a perfect uniform. The instructors weren't going to allow it.

Sometimes no matter how well you prepare or how well you perform you still end up as a

sugar cookie. It's just the way life is sometimes. If you want to change the world, get over

being a sugar cookie and keep moving forward. Every day during training you were challenged

with multiple physical events—long runs, long swims, obstacle courses, hours of calisthenics—something

designed to test your mettle. Every event had standards, times you had to

meet. If you failed to meet those times, those standards, your name was posted on a list

and at the end of the day those on the list were invited to a "circus."

A circus was two hours of additional calisthenics, designed to wear you down, to break your spirit,

to force you to quit. No one wanted a circus. A circus meant that for that day you didn't

measure up. A circus meant more fatigue, and more fatigue meant that the following day

would be more difficult, and more circuses were likely.

But at some time during SEAL training, everyone—everyone—made the circus list.

But an interesting thing happened to those who were constantly on the list. Over time,

those students—who did two hours of extra calisthenics—got stronger and stronger.

The pain of the circuses built inner strength and physical resiliency.

Life is filled with circuses. You will fail. You will likely fail often.

It will be painful. It will be discouraging. At times it will test you to your very core.

But if you want to change the world, don't be afraid of the circuses.

At least twice a week, the trainees were required to run the obstacle course. The obstacle course

contained 25 obstacles, including a 10-foot wall, a 30-foot cargo net and a barbed wire

crawl, to name a few. But the most challenging obstacle was the

slide for life. It had a three-level, 30-foot tower at one end and a one-level tower at

the other. In between was a 200-foot-long rope.

You had to climb the three tiered tower and, once at the top, you grabbed the rope, swung

underneath the rope and pulled yourself, hand over hand, until you got to the other end.

The record for the obstacle course had stood for years when my class began in 1977.

The record seemed unbeatable. Until one day, a student decided to go down the slide for

life head first. Instead of swinging his body underneath the

rope and inching his way down, he bravely mounted the TOP of the rope and thrust himself

forward. It was a dangerous move—seemingly foolish

and fraught with risk. Failure could mean injury and being dropped from the course.

Without hesitation the student slid down the rope perilously fast. Instead of several minutes,

it only took him half that time. And by the end of the course he had broken the record.

If you want to change the world, sometimes you have to slide down the obstacles head

first. During the land warfare phase of training,

the students are flown out to San Clemente Island, which lies off the coast of San Diego.

The waters off San Clemente are a breeding ground for the great white sharks. To pass

SEAL training there are a series of long swims that must be completed. One is the night swim.

Before the swim the instructors joyfully brief the students on all the species of sharks

that inhabit the waters off San Clemente. They assure you, however, that no student

has ever been eaten by a shark—at least not that they can remember.

But, you are also taught that if a shark begins to circle your position, stand your ground.

Do not swim away. Do not act afraid. And if the shark, hungry for a midnight snack,

darts towards you, then summons up all your strength and punch him in the snout, and he

will turn and swim away. There are a lot of sharks in the world. If

you hope to complete the swim you will have to deal with them.

So, if you want to change the world, don't back down from the sharks.

As Navy SEALs one of our jobs is to conduct underwater attacks against enemy shipping.

We practiced this technique extensively during training.

The ship attack mission is where a pair of SEAL divers is dropped off outside an enemy

harbor and then swims well over two miles, under water, using nothing but a depth gauge

and a compass to get to the target. During the entire swim, even well below the

surface, there is some light that comes through. It is comforting to know that there is open

water above you. But as you approach the ship, which is tied

to a pier, the light begins to fade. The steel structure of the ship blocks the moonlight.

It blocks the surrounding street lamps. It blocks all ambient light.

To be successful in your mission, you have to swim under the ship and find the keel:

the centerline and the deepest part of the ship.

This is your objective. But the keel is also the darkest part of the ship—where you cannot

see your hand in front of your face, where the noise from the ship's machinery is deafening

and where it get to be easily disoriented and you can fail.

Every SEAL knows that under the keel, at the darkest moment of the mission, is the time

when you need to be calm, when you must be calm, when you must be composed, when all

your tactical skills, your physical power and all your inner strength must be brought

to bear. If you want to change the world, you must