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It was our final inspection before graduating from a three wee indoctrination course in U.S. Marine Corps history and traditions. A major was completing the review and was giving me the once over.

Having found no outward flaws with my uniform, he grabbed me my web belt, practically jerking me off my feet. He turned it inside out at the buckle.
There he found two dark fingerprints imbedded in the plating. It was the result of accidently and sloppily touching the back of the brass buckle with Brasso still on my finger tips.

He looked me square in the eyes and said, “It’s a good thing you fired expert with that rifle.”

Fortunately, I had used the head before falling out for inspection.

Northern Nevada was in the midst of one of the worst droughts in years at the time. And several beavers were starting to dam-up the cause-ways on NAS Fallon. The U.S. Navy decided to kill the animals because the trap and release system they had been using failed.

At the time I was on the air at KBUL and I mentioned the beavers damming up the Navy station by saying: “Maybe the Navy needs to pay attention to the beavers, because it’s obvious they’re trying to tell us something. However, on the other hand, the Marine Corps does need the fresh meat.”

It was meant to be funny. However a couple of days later I was instructed by the stations general manager to write a letter of apology to the base commander for my comment.

Happily I didn’t make an off-color comment involving sailors and the beavers.

My brother-in-law and I had jus’ finished making a run to the dump when he pointed out a grove of avocado trees. I lamented that a bunch of the green fruits would be perfect for the evening upcoming meal.

As quick as a flash, he made a u-turn and parked the truck along the side of the road. We were about level with the top of several trees and in order to get to them, we dropped an extension ladder into the branches.

Being the smaller, and thus the lighter of the two, I crawled out on the ladder and started plucking avocados from the tree. As I pulled one, I’d toss it to my brother-in-law who them deposited the fruit into the bed of the truck.

We were about three-minutes into our crime when a San Diego County Sheriff Deputy came driving around the corner towards us. He and I locked eyes as he zipped past us.

Seconds later, we both heard squealing tires as he did his best to make a u-turn in a narrower section of the road. By this time, we had the ladder back in the truck and were leaving behind a trail of dust as we sped away.

My brother-in-law made two left turns off the road and then a right and stopped behind an old trailer. We sat there and watched as the deputy zoomed by and out of sight.

A group of four or five children, none older than eight or nine years old, watched as we took our ill-gotten gain and put it in a burlap bag. Then my brother-in-law took all the back roads he knew in order to get us home without be caught.

It wasn’t until we got home that we discovered our bag of avocados missing. The kids stole them without our realizing it.

It was late summer when my wife’s Uncle Lenny Bell and his wife Ardiss stopped by to visit. They were on their way home to San Diego after visiting their daughter in Yuba City.

Uncle Lenny was retired ship-pilot, who had worked moving ships from lock-to-lock in the Panama Canal. However he kept his license up by piloting ships into the harbor at San Diego from time-to-time.

In March, the Exxon Valdez ran aground in Alaska’s Prince William Sound, spilling crude into the water, damaging the coastline and killing wildlife. The crippled vessel arrived outside the port of San Diego in mid-July.

Officials including the Coast Guard were afraid the tanker was on the verge of sinking and refused to allow it into the harbor. It was Uncle Lenny who got the call from the Port Authority to fly out to the ship via helicopter and assess the situation.

After a few hours Uncle Lenny radioed the craft was under his command and he was bringing it in. Where other pilots and ship captains’ said it couldn’t be done safely, Uncle Lenny not only did it safely he also made the inbound trip in record time.

It gave Uncle Lenny great joy to say he was the last Captain of the Exxon Valdez.

Kyle and I took a weekend trip in 2005 to the north coast of California. I wanted to show him some of my favorite places from my old hometown.

One of those places is Margaret Keating Grade School, which is named after my sister Deirdre’s God-mother.

There we found that two full-scale Yurok buildings had been built-in the field across from the school and still on school grounds. One is a traditional sweat lodge, the other a multi-family home.

As a kid, Sandy Sanderson used to take me up the hill to the old sweat lodge somewhere below the Requa Air Force Station. There, he’d let me participate in the ceremonial practice of sweating, then heading to the Klamath River in order to cool off.

As Kyle and I explored the two structures, it made me wish they had been there back when I was kid going to school.

1997

Sam bet Corky he couldn’t wrestle a big ol’bear
Then make love to a woman with long, black hair.
Well, Corky couldn’t let the other buckaroos down,
So he left the bar after having’ another round.

A couple of hours later at the same local bar,
Corky came in lookin’ really quite bizarre.
His chaps were tore up and covered with mud
And every pore of his body was oozin’ of blood.

He looked squarely at Sam and said with a smile,
“I jus’ spent a couple of hours in the wooded wild,
So bring on that woman with the long, black hair
Cause I’ve already done loved up to a big ol bear!”

My landlord knocked on my door to tell me I had a telephone call. I gave his number out since I couldn’t afford a phone of my own.

It was my commanding officer from Centerville. He told me there was truck from the station on its way to pick me up and we were to report to Kingsley in Klamath Falls, Oregon.

As I hung up the phone, I knew I was in a bad situation. Whatever I was being sent to Kingsley for was going to severely screw up the plans I had for that evening — and they were pretty important. I was supposed to take Linda McFadden to her Senior Prom.

As quickly as I could I grabbed my sea-bag, which was already packed as I was instructed to remain on standby at all times. I then returned to my landlord’s home and called the McFadden residence.

Without giving much of an explanation I told Linda that I couldn’t take her to the prom as I was heading up to Klamath Falls in a few minutes.  I don’t recall what she said in response, but I know I was sick to my stomach when I hung up the telephone.

Linda never spoke to me again and I can’t say as I blame her.

In fact about three years later I saw her on the campus of Humboldt State University in Arcata where she ignored me when I said hello to her. It’s always torn me in two: screwing up Linda’s Senior Prom night, a big event any young woman’s life or responding to the call to duty for my country.

Some choices are really no choice at all. I am very truly sorry for mistreating her like I did.

I took my son Kyle on a trip in 2005. We visited several states including Oklahoma, and while stopped for an ice cream at Braum’s on North 32nd Street in Muskogee, I turned and was hit with a case of de’ja vu.  

I had been in the area before but couldn’t figure out when or why.

As I sat in the ice cream shop, looking out the window, it dawned on me: the Western Motel, jus’ a few the yards up the street, is Grandpa’s old motor-inn. It was all I could do to keep from busting a seam to tell someone.

Lucky for me, Kyle is both a polite and patient listener.

The ward was squared away and I was sitting around bored, waiting for something—anything really—to happen. My boredom gave way to a tiny, but quick movement in the corner of the tent.

As I focused on the area of movement, I realized I was looking a small field mouse. I grabbed my empty coffee cup and dashed over to catch the little rodent.

To my surprise, the mouse didn’t run away. Instead it moved towards me, its little nose twitching in interest. I put my hand down and it climbed on to it without fear.

That’s when I was struck by a great idea.

The next day, during my spare time, I started training my new pet, which I named, “Mighty.” The training didn’t take long as I had only one singular trick in mind.

By the second day I was certain Mighty was good to go. So taking the long strand of wire with the mouse attached at the end, I took Mighty for a walk around the fire-base.

Mighty was an immediate hit with the other Marines. They thought I was the smartest SOB in country because I was able teach a mouse to walk on a leash.

Within a few minutes I was being begged to let this Gyrene or that Jarhead walk Mighty. Being the ever-enterprising corpsmen, I told those who asked, it would cost them five-bucks for the pleasure.

By the end of the day I had a couple hundred dollars in my pocket. The cash would go a long way when supplies ran low or were slow in coming. I also noticed over the week that sick-call numbers dropped by three or four men a day.

It was funny to watch those big, ol’ tough, burley manly-men taking turns walking that itsy-bitsy mouse around the fire-base. Some of the men actually argued with one another to see who’d get the next turn.

It was day six since I had discovered the mouse, when the base was hit by mortar and small-arms fire. Somewhere in the ensuing melee, Mighty disappeared never to be seen again.

Needless to say the boy’s were disheartened by the loss of Mighty the Mouse. I jus’ wish I’d more time. I think I could have house broke him.

When I arrived at boot camp, I was five foot-seven and about 160 pounds. The majority of others were a good four to six inches taller, 20 to 30 pound heavier and younger.

Needless to say I felt intimidated.

And while I only had to complete an indoctrination course, my biggest fear was failing and not receiving my EGA pin. I was also worried that I’d run into some so much stronger than me, that I’d be humiliated in some way

One early afternoon, the DI’s ran us out and into the “sandpit,” and handed us pugilist sticks. A stick as it is called is about three-and-a half-feet long with heavily padded ends. They weighed about 10 pounds, but by the time I finished, they would feel more like 100 pound.

We were outfitted in an old football helmet to protect our brains, or what little we had and a set of football-style shoulder pads. I was so small they could not be tightened up properly, while the others guys had to have their pads loosened a bit.

The exercise as it is known was to be man-to-man and hard charging. The outcome was decided by the “best of three” rounds. I knew I was in trouble when the guy I was facing off against was well over six-feet tall and out weighed me by at least 40 pounds.

His biceps were bigger than my head was round. Unfortunately, these massive arms were all I could focus on at first.

At the first whistle, I hardly saw what happened to me. All I know I felt like a rag-doll on a string. This came from repeated blows to chin, then top of head, right side of the head chin, top of head, left side of the head, until I hit the deck.

As quickly as I found myself lying in the sand, I scrambled to my feet. I could hear the DI’s screaming at me to “kill” as I waited for the next whistle.

When it sounded, I charged my opponent, only to find myself in the same situation. I was being beaten without mercy. What seemed worse, was I couldn’t defend myself, from his blows which rained down on me rapidly.

Once again, I found myself in the sand, this time face down. Only it was more difficult to get to my feet as fast as I had the first time.

My head was swimming and I was out of breath. But slowly, I did manage to get to my feet. This was time I used to access my situation.

It didn’t look good. This the exact situation I had been afraid of from day one.

When the whistle blew for the third time, I charged out. Instead of facing my opponent head on, I threw my stick at him like a spear. My opponent ducked to his right and I grabbed his stick with both hands.

True to human nature he pushed me backwards. I purposely flopped on my back. I placed a boot into his gut and flipped him over my head. He landed hard into the sandpit.

His momentum, as well as mine, carried me up and overtop of him. I had his stick in my hands and was in the process of using one end of it as a club.

The whistle must have blown and I didn’t hear it. I was still slamming the padded end of the stick into his helmet when a couple of DI’s bodily lifted me off my opponent.

In short order I had three or maybe four DI’s, surrounding me, screaming for not following instruction. They wanted to know, “What do you think you were doing?”

Amid the confusion I heard myself say, “I wasn’t thinking, I was adapting and overcoming, Sergeant!”

Suddenly it grew quiet and I figured I was in for the worst of it. Instead, I was told to fall in formation. There was no further mention of the incident by the DI’s.

And while I would never win a “best of three” stick-match, that day I learned fear is good, but it shouldn’t rule one’s attitude.