29
How Many Marines Does it Take to Torque a Bolt?
1
Can't sleep. I wake up after a few hours and close my eyes, hoping this time will be different. I reset my apps, then hide all my home pages and add some widgets. Simplicity. I don't want to look at or swipe through pages and pages of crap I don't ever use. The search function is great, but I don't want to use that, either. I'm down to just the widget pages and the App Library, nothing to block my view of Peppy the Cat.
I'll be up in a couple of hours to make the short drive from Best Western to Miramar MCAS, where I'll be shooting the BOSS Lift for ESGR. ESGR, in case you were wondering, is Employer Support of Guard and Reserve. We’ll be assisting the local Marines with their family day, with Harold and Reggie on booth duty, and me on camera, at large.
When Valerie the hotel clerk sees me walk back in with the monster Nikon, she asks if I'll take her picture. She vamps for the camera, next month’s Vogue. Shift is almost over, peace and quiet at home without the three grandkids who are always all over her. “I'm gonna have a glass of wine, watch a movie. And popcorn!” Yeah, popcorn.
There's a refrigerator case in the lobby, with bottles of water and sodas. Next to it is a freezer with little cups of Haagen Dazs vanilla. I can eat six of those, but I don't. I don't ever stray from my diet, though I eat a lot of fruit every day. Different kind of sugar. I should feel like a million bucks. Instead, I feel like I'm going to burst most of the time. Been that way for nearly forty years. “Never gotten used to it, I just learned to turn it off.” Could happen, I suppose, but so far it hasn't. “Most things I worry about never happen anyway.”
The next morning, I run into Reggie at the Best Western breakfast. I tell him whoever he’s waiting for is not likely to show up, and I sit down to enjoy my sausage and eggs. Reggie’s day job is working with at risk youth in Watts. He says he’s never had a bad day the entire time he’s worked there. Over two and a half years. I remind him it’s not that long, and things can change. “I’m an optimist until proven otherwise,” I let him know. “Unfortunately, I’m often proven otherwise.” But damn, Reggie has that wonderful, sunny disposition, and when we get to hang out (which, sadly, is not nearly often enough), we laugh and laugh and laugh. He walks with a stick, and I don’t know why. I’ll ask him one of these times, if we’re not in the middle of some other lively topic. Reggie busts up when I ask the morning clerk if he can break my hundred. “Tip for the maid?” Reggie asks. “Yes.” He hands me a five, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I want to leave a ten. Later, I break out that same hundred to try and buy McDonalds coffee for Harold and Reggie, but nobody expects they’ll be able to make change this early in the morning.
“I don’t want to be indebted to you, Reggie!”
“Why? You think I’m with the mob? Or…the Black Panthers?”
“Reggie, that’s before my time.”
An Osprey contains miles and miles of wires and bolts. Each bolt has to be set to a specific torque. Guys whose MOS (don't ask, nobody knows) is in the flightline, avionics, and airframes shops are responsible for torquing those bolts as needed. One works the wrench, another confirms it was done right. Some of the bolts are huge. Those require wrenches bigger than a man, and a larger contingent of Marines. Ospreys in the hangar, Osprey’s on the flight line. Welcome to VMM 764, the Moonlighters.
I ask some of the newer recruits if they receive any special treatment from the ones who've been around longer. They're not sure what I mean at first, so I clarify a bit, and they smile. All in good fun, glad when the special treatment phase will be over. “Why’d you join the Marines?” I ask. Runnels wanted to get out of Bloomberg, population 400. Another wants to be a mechanic. One joined the Navy and couldn’t get into his preferred MOS. They wanted him in submarines, he wanted to fly.
There's a guy named Justice working one of the Osprey tours. Tall guy, has to lean in order to fit. He was once stationed with another Marine, Liberty. When Liberty got out of line, Justice took the lumps along with him. Whatever happened to Liberty? Justice shrugs.
Every fifteen minutes, a tram leaves with a group of guests headed to the Osprey simulators. No photos allowed. In the pod housing one of the simulators, all the cables are neatly dressed except for one Ethernet thrown over the top. I ask Guilfoy, “is that just temporary?”
“Probably not,” he laughs. “Most likely, an outside contractor did all the good looking stuff.”
Finally inside the simulator, one of Guilfoy’s sons wants to know, “can we crash it?”
“You can, but probably not a good idea.”
They tell me these simulators are very much like the real thing. Here I am, flying around downtown San Diego and the bay. The graphics are impressive, and even if you try, you still can’t convince yourself you’re on the ground. Somehow, I don’t wind up air sick, in spite of my rudimentary flying skills. Too much left, too much right, too much up and down. Nobody dies, and my co-pilot resets the machine for the next guest. Meanwhile, Reggie calls to let me know I need to get back and eat, and that our presentation is happening at any minute.
Costco pizza and awards, then some final group shots with Colonel and the Osprey. This is not one of those parties where guests linger over long goodbyes. Announcement is made, and it’s a wrap. Off we go to retrieve cars and head on down the road.
2
Metal dragons and other wild creatures rise like fire from the desert floor. They beckon me and the monster Nikon. Borrego Springs is an hour and a half to the northeast. It’s the off season, with temps well over 100 when I arrive just before 4pm. Even the primitive campground restrooms are closed for the summer. I’m still on my first battery and photo card. The map, not drawn to scale, shows where the wild things are. Horses, cats, mammoths, boars, just off the road or down a sandy path that’s doable in the AWD Volvo. Magnificent cumulus above. Stop and shoot, drive some more, shoot some more. There’s a front wheel drive Bimmer up to its wheel wells in sand. Tow truck on the way. I ask the driver if he’s all right. “Tow truck on the way.” Onward. Destination: dragon. A sign says “no motorized vehicles beyond this point.” Mine aren’t the first tire tracks beyond this point. I park and get some shots, then I’m on my way again.
The quickest way home is back to the 15. Instead, I make for the Salton Sea, where dreams go to die. I find a spot we’ve been to before, only now the road is blocked with big yellow CATs. Dust removal in progress. The road used to end right here, but now it looks like they’re extending it down to the water’s edge. I’m in the part of town known as “Riviera,” according to the cinder block wall at its entrance. There’s a bottle garden across the street, but it’s set back far enough to where I don’t want to intrude. Besides, I already got that boat in the dirt. And I’ve been driving for hours on a bad night’s sleep. Thinking about food.
Runnels thinks he’ll one day retire in Bloomberg. His dad drives a truck, and his mom teaches pre-school in one of the neighboring towns. I ask him about barbecue in Bloomberg. Of course they barbecue in Bloomberg. It’s Texas! What kind of wood? Depends on what you’re cooking. Mesquite. I don’t remember the others. Apple and cherry, I suppose. Pecan.
More than the usual amount of wolves at the door. They pace impatiently as we go about our lives. Still, we’ve got Marines. And dragons in the desert. Lots of cause for optimism. Prove me otherwise.
Long Live the King
Victor Treviño Jr. is a world renowned Elvis Tribute Artist. Last night, he performed at Golden West College to a sold out crowd of lifelong Elvis fans. Mindi Miller was there. She was Elvis’s girlfriend during the 70s, and she shared stories of the King’s generosity of spirit. He gave her a car, and he gave her jewels, but the gift she treasures most are the spiritual books she’ll never sell, not even for a million bucks. Victor put on an incredible show. Early in the first set, he split his head open with a too big guitar. Despite the pain, and with blood, bandages and towels throughout the rest of the show, he played on, even staying afterwards for the meet and greet. Long live the King.