Editor's Note: This first person article is a Memorial Day tribute to Special Warfare Operator 1st Class (SEAL) Charles Keating IV, who was killed in action in Northern Iraq on May 3, 2016. He was posthumously awarded the Navy Cross in 2017 for his extraordinary heroism.
It is the fall of 2004, and I am standing in Gladstein Fieldhouse at Indiana University with the Hoosier cross country team. I am one of eight freshmen on the team; another is a young man from Arizona named Charles Keating. We call him “Charlie” for short.
Our coach, Robert Chapman, brings us together and reads an obituary of a Hoosier alumnus who had recently died. His time at Indiana is noted in the opening lines.
The running we are doing here, Chapman explains, will become part of our life’s story, which we will share with others on this team. We should take a moment, he says, to appreciate the opportunity to be part of an athletic tradition that builds bonds for life.
With that, we are out the door on a run through Bloomington, building the bonds we heard described, but do not yet understand.
It is almost 12 years later, on May 3, 2016, and I am in Coronado reading Keating’s obituary. After leaving college, he became a Navy SEAL, and deployed in support of Operation Inherent Resolve. He was killed in action in Iraq as part of a quick reaction force, supporting local fighters battling the Islamic State.
In the obituary, Charlie’s time at Indiana is featured prominently, and I think back to coach Chapman’s words in Gladstein. I take another moment to appreciate the friendships I created at Indiana (IU), most notably with Keating. Keating and I were close even in college partly because we shared a connection to the West Coast. Despite both choosing IU for our college athletics careers, I was from San Diego. Charlie was from Arizona, but would spend summers in Coronado with his family, and was later stationed there during his SEAL career. When I enlisted in the Navy and was subsequently assigned to a command aboard Naval Base Coronado, Charlie and I would see each other frequently, sharing life updates and swapping college stories.
In the tragedy of Charlie’s loss, I finally understand the significance of the bond we formed.
I question if I did enough to honor that relationship. I wonder if I always will.
Another 10 years pass and it is 2026. I am standing at Rosecrans National Cemetery, kneeling at Charlie’s grave, which I have never been able to bring myself to visit until now.
When Charlie was killed, I was still on active duty in the Navy, working as a mass communication specialist, a rate I chose based on the degree in journalism I received while at Indiana. I worked as the Navy photographer for Charlie’s memorial, as well as the events surrounding it, until the burial itself at Rosecrans, at which point I stayed back in deference to the Keating family’s privacy.
The emotions and weight of Charlie’s life and death were so enormous that I remained reverent toward his tombstone for the next decade. I am braver this year, because I am accompanied at Rosecrans now by a different version of Charlie’s family: his IU teammates. Five of us from the cross country team, as well as his best friend from his freshman year dorm, have come back for the 10th anniversary of Charlie’s passing. All six of us stand now at Charlie’s tombstone.
Though it is not yet 10 a.m., we each crack a Budweiser – Charlie’s favorite beer, which we call “Bud Heavy” to distinguish it from “Bud Light” – as homage to Charlie’s aversion to half-measures in life. We re-live college memories. Some stories evoke tears. Most prompt laughter.
By all accounts, Charlie loved being a SEAL, and died as he lived, leading teammates he loved. But we knew him as a jovial running partner and loyal friend, with endless energy, forever focused on being present with family and friends.
One story in particular stands out. When I completed my initial Navy training and was stationed in Coronado, Charlie was one of the first people I contacted. I had just met my soon-to-be wife, Sam, and took her to meet Charlie in Mission Beach for a surf session. On our drive over, Sam asked me how we would find Charlie if he was wearing a wetsuit and didn’t have his phone. As soon as she asked, a figure appeared in the distance, surfboard in hand, barefoot and bare-chested, running between cars down the center of rush-hour on Mission Boulevard. It was Charlie, no longer a gangly distance runner, now a combat-proven Navy SEAL, as gregarious and carefree as ever, excited simply by the prospect of seeing an old college buddy and his new fiance.
For Sam, it was a perfect introduction to Charlie, and it is also the way I will always remember him. Charlie was resolutely authentic, oriented toward his friends and family, and those character traits, I believe, are why so many people from so many parts of his life were able to form such strong connections with him. It is why his legacy remains powerful even now.
On the eve of the 10th anniversary of Charlie’s death, several of our IU teammates flew into San Diego early and met me at San Diego High School, where I now work as an athletic director and teacher. Most days, it feels far removed from my days as an athlete or sailor — the times I felt closest to Charlie. But on this day it brought me closer to Charlie than anything else ever had.
I am now coaching a small group of athletes who work hard enough, and are aspirational enough, to form friendships with each other similar to the ones we had been fortunate enough to build at Indiana. The blend of generations – former athletes past our primes, meeting young athletes not yet into theirs – brought me back to that moment in Gladstein Fieldhouse.
I was able to share the experiences of one cross country team, and the relationships we created, with two of my current athletes, and in so doing, bring that story to what felt like its full conclusion.
We should take a moment, I told my athletes, to appreciate the opportunity to be part of a tradition that builds bonds for life. I knew for sure that it was true.
I finally felt as though I was doing my part to honor Charlie’s life.
I told my students about Charlie, and I tried not to cry, and I knew that in the ways that matter, he will live forever.
