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Separations / Homeward Bound
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
The day finally arrived for me to get the boot from the Corps, and let me tell you, it was like getting liberty after a week of mess duty, sweet, but you know you’re about to step into something. Four years of living the dream (or nightmare, depending on the day), and now I was staring down the barrel of civilian life. I flew my best buddy out from Pennsylvania, mostly to show him that California wasn’t just a rumor and to help me haul my sorry self back home 3,000 miles. Naturally, I managed to pull a couple of classic twenty-something stunts that nearly torpedoed my separation papers.

First bonehead move: my buddy shows up late, can’t find a place to crash, so I do what any responsible Marine would do: I smuggle him onto base and let him sack out in my room. All my roommates were out terrorizing the local population, so it seemed safe. The next morning, I tell him to keep a low profile. His version of 'low profile' is to sprawl out in the courtyard, sunbathing like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. The guy had hair longer than most of the girls in Oceanside, which stuck out among the high-and-tights like a sore thumb. By the time I get back, he’s back in the room, blissfully unaware he’s just set off the barracks gossip network. I hustle him off base and into a motel, but it's too late; the Sergeant Major wants a word. Someone ratted me out, but in classic Rat Pack style, I lied through my teeth and skated free on this one.

My trusty TR-7 was about as reliable as a recruit boot with a map, so I learned Uncle Sam would foot the bill for a U-Haul if you hit the magic weight. I figured my junk would tip the scales, but nope, I came up light. Solution? Saddleback Mountain, a few boulders, and some creative packing. Suddenly, I’m hauling enough rocks to start my own landscaping business. Needed to tow the car, so I rented a front-wheel dolly out of pocket and put the shifter in neutral. Separation papers in hand, May 28th, 1983, we pointed the nose down I-5 and started the great California exodus.

Rolling out of California, we spot a sea of humanity off to the right, turns out it’s the US Festival. I snap a photo, thinking nothing of it, and only decades later do I realize one of my favorite bands, Triumph, was melting faces on stage right then.“Fight the Good Fight” indeed. We made our escape from the Golden State and rumbled across the Hoover Dam. Next stop: Las Vegas, where we blew some cash on the slots, and I learned the hard way that snapping photos in a casino gets you the stink-eye from security and a one-way ticket out the front door. The next morning, we hit the road again, launching into a cross-country marathon that would make a Greyhound driver cry.

Here’s another entry in the Encyclopedia of Bad Ideas: we took turns driving while the other genius crawled into the back of the box truck, locked in like a POW with a death wish. If you were lucky, you’d get to enjoy the backseat rollercoaster while your buddy up front played chicken with sleep deprivation. But that wasn’t even the highlight reel. One time, I’m behind the wheel, and the truck starts pulling like it’s trying to break free from gravity. I’m thinking the transmission’s about to punch out and leave us stranded in the middle of nowhere. We limp into a gas station in a town so backwoods it made Deliverance look like a Sandals resort. The local comes out, eyeballs the car we’re towing, and asks if we’d been driving it. I’m bracing for a banjo duel, but then I spot steam pouring out of the engine. Turns out, our five-speed overdrive beauty decided to drop into first gear at 75 knots, and every gear inside melted like a popsicle on the tarmac.

Eventually, I limped home, kissed the ground like a homesick grunt, and swore I’d never look back, at least not until three decades later, when I’m loitering by the magazine rack and spot an Air Combat cover with the old RF-4B front and center. Turns out, the squadron finally got the axe. Suddenly, it’s like someone hit the afterburners on my memory banks, and I’m back with the Rat Pack, everyone still young, dumb, and full of questionable decisions. The base, the birds, the Brothers, they’re all frozen in time, at least in my head. That’s when the lightbulb flickered: maybe it’s time to slap together a website and immortalize the squadron’s greatest hits (and near-misses). That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
Semper Gumby.

Life After The Suck
My final sortie after discharge.

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

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