) Weapons Training Instruction, Yuma, AZ.By Marc E.Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025 March 9, 1982: Uncle Sam decided I needed a vacation in scenic Yuma, Arizona, for Weapons Training. Cpl. Kelly Sharen, Tim Arntz, and Sgt Bob Karidis got roped in too, so I figured I'd make a grand entrance in my freshly acquired Triumph TR7. Once I escaped California, it was just me, open sunroof, and enough desert to make you question your life choices. I floored it, saw nothing but mirages and tumbleweeds for an hour, then, out of nowhere, a state trooper materialized like a mirage with a badge. Turns out Arizona uses airplanes to hunt down speed demons. Got myself a ticket for endangering the local lizard population. Apparently, 90 mph in the middle of nowhere is a crime against reptiles. Rolled into MCAS Yuma, which looked like someone dropped a few Quonset huts in the middle of a lunar wasteland and called it a base. Checked into the barracks, think Motel 6, but with more sand in your sheets, then shuffled to the flight line for the usual dog-and-pony show. The top kick announced that all plane captains, no matter what patch you wore, were now babysitting every F-4 and RF-4 on the ramp. Naturally, I drew a night crew with a Sgt from a rival squadron. I was supposed to pin on Sergeant before this circus, but the paperwork must've gotten lost in the desert wind. One night, my fearless night crew Sgt decided I should ride brakes on our RF while he played tugboat. Next thing you know, he drags the jet off the tarmac and buries the landing gear up to its knees in Yuma quicksand. The whole airfield shuts down while they call in a crane big enough to lift King Kong. Cue the blood tests and the Spanish Inquisition; turns out I was clean, but back at El Toro, Gunny Furr was ready to chew my head off for letting another set of grubby mitts near our bird. I was just following orders, but apparently, that only counts when things don’t go sideways. Found out a year later that if I’d tackled my Sgt like a linebacker, I could’ve stopped the whole mess. Lesson learned: in the Corps, you’re always wrong. Other highlights from Yuma: wrangled a baseball game with the P3 crowd, tried not to embarrass myself. Got my boxing fix watching Larry Holmes beat the gaffe it off out of some poor Texan named Tex Cob on TV, brutal doesn’t begin to cover it. Hit the town to see An Officer and a Gentleman because, hey, military movie, right? Turns out it was more of a love story than a war story, but I survived. And just to make sure Yuma haunted me forever, Toto’s 'Africa' dropped and has been stuck on repeat in my brain ever since. Every time I hear that song, I can still taste the desert dust. End of TAD at WTI Yuma, Arizona: the sun’s clocking out, the flight line’s finally quiet, and there I am perched on the wing of RF06 151981 pictured on the left, pretending to be deep in thought but mostly just trying not to fall off. The sky’s doing its best impression of a jarhead’s high-and-tight, blazing orange, sharp edges, no nonsense. I’m thinking about punching out of the Corps soon, clueless that this very recce pig would also get the boot and end up as a lawn ornament at El Toro, before getting dragged to Miramar for another round of retirement. Not a bad way to remember my last days, me and the jet, both headed for the boneyard, but at least we looked good in the sunset. But before I could get too sentimental, it was back to El Toro, where, despite all the griping, I somehow scored a Meritorious Mast and a shiny certificate for surviving the Yuma FUBAR.
Just stumbled across this old photo on the right, RF06 151981, looking all dolled up at the March Field Air Show in 2015, rocking a fresh coat of paint and the spook on the tail like it’s ready for inspection. Anyone got the scoop on how this bird ended up there, or what kind of trouble it’s getting into these days? Use the email me below  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  |
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