I’ve got my toes in the water, OCPS in the sand
This past weekend, I returned to my National Guard unit, prepared for the usual: early mornings, heavy lifting, and perhaps a small existential crisis in the motor pool. But instead, the Army decided to have a little identity crisis of its own and made us… pretend to be Navy.
Yes, you read that right. They threw a bunch of Army National Guard soldiers—arguably the most “cats hate water” branch—straight into the Lewiston River for water combat survival training. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to see 30-something soldiers standing on a public beach, in full uniform, patches removed, bare toes out, looking like confused ducks at a summer camp field trip—let me paint that picture for you: it was glorious.
We looked like off-brand Baywatch extras. Just imagine a swarm of soldiers, running into the river like Pamela Anderson in slow motion… but with camouflage pants instead of swimsuits. And yes, we took our pants off in the water, don’t worry, we wore shorts underneath. Because, science. Or survival. One of the two.
Apparently, you can turn your trousers into flotation devices. I’ve done this many times before. It’s one of those training exercises where you’re supposed to gracefully not panic while pretending your pants are a pool toy. And being a former swim team kid with a dad who swore I had gills (I believed him), I was feeling ready.
Except I wasn’t ready for the sun or the sand.
The moment my feet hit the sand, I felt pain no human should feel. The sand was scorching. I sprinted like I was dodging an ambush, then promptly slipped on river rocks and latched onto my battle buddy. He caught me. I survived. He laughed at me. Typical enlisted behavior.
We flopped, floated, flailed and eventually made it out. Just in time for me to accidentally wade past my 1st Lieutenant and notice the river suddenly felt… a little too warm. I won’t name names, but if he's reading this — sir, I know what you did.
After that, we dried off, drove back to the armory, and I bee-lined it into a shower to rinse off the Lewiston River funk.
The next day, I picked up my loyal sidekick Winnie (a very long and judgmental wiener dog), and headed home. But as I pulled into the driveway, there it was — gleaming in the sun like freedom on four wheels: a 1971 classic red Mustang convertible. And I, still in uniform, got to drive it. Hopefully this earns me some bonus points with my friends in the Road Knights Car Club.
With the windows down, the top off, and what felt like a flag waving in the distance (even if just in my imagination), it was easily the most American thing I’ve ever done. I’ve had grenade launchers, big trucks — and now, a classic muscle car.
The weekend was chaotic, painful, weirdly aquatic, and capped off in full glory. And you know what? That’s National Guard life for you.
Toes out. Trousers off. Mustang on.
God Bless America.