VMFP-3 80s Flashback

Home / USS Midway / Back

USS Midway CV-41
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
Ah, the Mud Duck. Where the showers were coin-operated torture devices that left you with a rash and a healthy respect for mildew, just in time to sweat it out in a berthing hotter than Satan’s sauna. The daisy milk? Never saw a fridge, never needed one, probably because it was 90% preservatives and 10% regret. The water fountains tasted like they were piped straight from the JP-5 tanks, with a hint of rust for flavor. Finding the gym was a scavenger hunt through 20 hatchways and enough ladders to qualify for a circus act, only to discover a broom closet with a cable machine and a single dumbbell that looked like it’d been used as a doorstop since Korea. And nothing says fine dining like eating your mystery meat while five-pound bombs roll past your table, just to keep you on your toes.

Once upon a time, I had the bright idea to sign up for the ship’s boxing smoker on the fantail, because nothing says good decision like bare-knuckle brawling on a moving target. Fate intervened in the form of a mushroom omelet that tried to kill me, so I got a scenic helicopter ride off the ship instead of a trip to the dentist courtesy of some boiler room gorilla with no neck. Silver linings. Then there was the time our bird blew a nose tire during launch, and Cpl Hurtle and I went full pit crew, swapping it out faster than you could say 'aviation mishap.' The brass gave us a meritorious mast, probably because we didn’t set anything on fire. Every so often, the higher-ups would toss us a bone and let the underlinks have a beer, which was always a sign we were about to get worked harder than a boot at PI’s sand pits.

Remember the good old days when deep-sixing garbage off the port quarter was just another Tuesday? If it wasn’t nailed down, it went overboard, plastic bags, busted chairs, probably a few unlucky mop buckets. Then the tree-huggers caught wind, and suddenly it was all 'save the whales' and 'don’t poison the ocean.' The Navy tried to play the 'we’re special' card, but Congress eventually decided we had to stop turning the sea into a floating landfill. Thanks, public outrage.

Being a plane captain, brown shirt mafia, basically meant you were a glorified chain monkey. We didn’t tow or marshal squat; our job was to sling a turn-buckled chain over one shoulder and lock down the bird after the yellow shirts did the real work. The rest of the time, we perfected the fine arts of line shack chess and reading porn magazines that definitely weren’t for the articles. If you were lucky, you’d get to play ship’s photographer, climbing up the tower to snap shots of the bird snagging the wire. Standing a few feet from the cat as the JBS spooled up and the afterburner lit off would rattle your fillings and make you question your life choices.

Visit My Photo Album
Photos of Det-C 1981, on the USS Midway.

Alright, you glorious Rat Phixers and Phlyers, if we ever survived a TAD, a Det, or a BOHICA, who haven't, and you didn’t think I was the biggest gaff off in the squadron. Got a sea story, or some grainy photos your ex didn’t set on fire, and they’re only slightly illegal? Send ‘em by email, snail mail, or safety wire it to a carrier pigeon. I collect ‘em all, just nothing that would incriminate me.
80svmfp3@gmail.com

Return To The Home Page