VMFP-3 80s Flashback

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Transportation Of The 1980s
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
MCAS El Toro in 1980 looked like Mad Max’s used car lot, busted motorcycles, trucks that should’ve been put out to pasture, and enough junkers to make a scrapyard jealous. I showed up flat broke, 3,000 miles from home, and for the first time since Nixon was in office, I was hoofing it everywhere. Of course, P-3 squadron’s hangar was parked at the far end of the base, just to keep things interesting. I must’ve logged enough miles on foot to qualify for a Purple Heart in Blister Warfare, but back then, I didn’t even notice. Fast forward to our first overseas deployment, and I finally scraped together enough cash to buy what I thought was a hot little sports car, a Triumph TR-7. Turns out, it was less ‘sports car’ and more ‘British money pit with wheels.’ Every part cost more than fueling a C-130, and the electrical system was about as reliable as a Private with a map. I swapped out the alternator, but only found out much later that the new one was just as dead as the old one. That car was the only lemon I ever owned in half a century of driving, and I couldn’t ditch it fast enough.

1980, fresh boots on the ground, and what do I spot lurking behind the P-3 hangar? Not a top-secret recce bird, but a VW bug, camouflaged in RF-4B green and sporting a gold fox like it was ready to sortie. The thing had more squadron markings than half our jets. Now, I might be foggy on the details; memory’s a casualty of decades on this time machine we are on, but rumor had it the metal shop boys commandeered the officer’s ride and gave it the full Zap RF! treatment while he was off playing Top Gun. He didn’t notice until he tried to climb in and probably wondered if he’d parked on the wrong base. Classic mischief, straight from the Rat Pack playbook. If anyone’s got photographic evidence, cough it up; blackmail material is always welcome.

Strap in, because flying commercial in the 80s was a whole different circus, especially for a small-town boot like me whose only previous flight experience was jumping off the balcony pretending I was superman. My maiden voyage? Getting shipped off to boot camp. The recruiter tossed me onto a four-seat prop plane that looked like it was held together with chewing gum and hope, just to get me to Philly. From there, I graduated to a real jetliner, which felt like moving from a tricycle to a Harley. The real adventure was the cross-country haul to LAX, 3,000 miles of airborne mystery meat and questionable coffee. Back then, airports were basically open house: your whole family could march right up to the gate, and nobody blinked. You could snag a window seat without bribing anyone, the planes were half-empty, and they served you a hot meal with actual metal utensils, no plastic sporks in sight. We had to pit stop in Pittsburgh, but even with the layover and the usual airline shuffle, you could make it to LA in seven hours flat. Nowadays, it takes longer because airlines are more worried about saving fuel than getting you there before your enlistment expires.

Pitfalls? Oh, just the usual: fiery death in a twisted aluminum tube. There I was, inbound to LAX at 35,000 feet, when one of the engines decided it was time for an unscheduled union break. Suddenly, we dropped faster than a boot in a swim qual. The Captain gets on the horn and says, "We have a problem with one of our engines." I thought to myself, no shit, Sherlock!. I’m gripping the armrest like it’s my last ration card, picturing myself as the lead story on the evening news: "Marine found in smoking crater, still clutching his spit shins." We limped into Chicago for a new bird, and I had to slap myself back to reality just to keep moving. As if that wasn’t enough, the airborne missionaries started making the rounds, shaking the hat like it was Sunday at the chapel, straight out of the movie Airplane. And no, you can’t call me Shirley. On another trip to LAX, I brought a buddy along for his maiden voyage. I’d already been toughened up by the holy rollers, so I warned him: keep your wallet holstered. I hit the head, come back, and there he is, getting hustled by a pretty girl and handing over his lunch money. What else can I say but, SUCKER!.

Transportation Of The 1980s
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
Here’s photographic evidence from 1980, courtesy of my trusty 110 pocket camera, the same one that probably survived more liberty ports than I did. We were skimming the Pacific, pretending to be Top Gun extras, before swinging back toward LA and taxiing to the LAX off-ramp like we owned the place.
Semper blurry, but at least I didn’t drop the camera out the window.

FlashBack 1981
By Marc E.Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
Delorean DMC-1,The DeLorean Motor Company: founded by John DeLorean in 1975, fueled by equal parts stainless steel and questionable decision-making. Their claim to fame? The DMC-1, a gull-winged spaceship disguised as a sports car, was built for about five minutes in 1981 before the company went belly-up faster than a boot camp recruit on mess duty. Only about 9,000 of these time-traveling doorstops ever rolled off the line, but thanks to Back to the Future, the DeLorean is still more famous than most generals. These days, some Texas outfit keeps the name alive, probably just to sell T-shirts and nostalgia.

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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