My First Trip to Puerto Rico: David and I shot AR-15s for the Nebraska National Guard Marksmanship Team.
Nebraska Shooters posing with their hardware.
My brother David and I were as pumped as could be. We had only been in the Nebraska Air National Guard for about a month when we joined the marksmanship team in September of 1998. After just two successful matches, and six months in the Air Guard, we were invited to Puerto Rico to shoot a National Match. Honestly, we didn't care if we finished in last place. We were going to Puerto Ricof We'd never been there before, and we both had exotic fantasies about what awaited us. We didn't even bitch about the six-hour plane ride on canvas troop seats.
I don't have to tell you that Puerto Rico is a beautiful place to visit. You can tell that from the pictures. If you couldn't guess, it's also a magnificent place to party. During the first night there, Derek Whisenhunt went with my brother and I to find a place to eat, drink, and be scary. Derek Whisenhunt is one of the funniest individuals I've ever met in my life, but the funniest part of meeting him is the story I told him about having met him already.
Derek 'DeCaprio' Whisenhunt
That's not from Yogi Berra either, and it doesn't make any sense, so I'll give you the background.
Brother David and I were in a bar in Lincoln, NE after a guard drill (Does that sound familiar?). We just started visiting with this girl when she started talking about her husband, a National Guardsman. We were both in the Guards at the time, so we asked for a name to see if we knew the lucky bastard. When she said, "Derek Whisenhunt", I had never heard of the guy in my life, but I was in that state of mind where my wheels where always turning. I said, "Whizf", signifying that I did in fact know her husband, cause Whiz' would have to be the guy's nickname if there's a God in this world. I was right on the money, and she began informing me why he couldn't come out this evening as if I'd known Derek for years and was his old buddy. After a few short minutes, I told her to say, "Hi", to Whiz for me (without leaving my name of course). Shortly after I related this story to Derek over a Pina Colada and some chicken-on-a-stick, he laughed and broke into his often-repeated version of an old Rupert Holmes tune. "If you like Penus A Lotta". Rupert Holmes has never sounded the same since. I can't even eat chicken without hearing it in my head.
We were extremely fortunate that during our stay, the islanders were celebrating the San Juan Festival. It occurs the weekend before the United States celebrates Martin Luther King Jr. Day. David and I went to Old San Juan with a vanload of folks that included Derek Whisenhunt, Billy Rowell, and Jim Koelzer. The Festival was like Fat Tuesday at Mardi Gras, only more wholesome.
Billy Rowell is a wonderful human being, regardless of what my brother thinks, but he's one of those unfortunate fellows who looks like a hairy little troll. And damn if I didn't hook this guy up with my sister as well. She almost married this one after dating him for a year. It all started shortly after we left Puerto Rico. I had been talking to Billy about his multiple failed relationships, and I have always talked to my sister about the same thing, so I just put two and two together. I was almost a perfect Cupid, but turned out to be a perfect stupid. I think he broke her heart.
Jim Koelzer is a salty shooter who ought to be a distinguished pistol and rifle shooter by now. He's one hell of an instructor too, always sharing what he's learned, but the best thing about Jim is his understanding and generosity. I'll never forget him because of what he did for me during a shoot we had a few years after the first trip. Jim understood that my wife wanted justification for me to attend these trips, and that the justification normally came in the form of winning some hardware to prove that I was good enough to go. It's not that hard to believe that I'd have an off day, but it happened. As soon as Jim realized that I might not have a thing to hang from my neck, he gave me one of his medals. It turned out that the team I shot for earned a medal in the end, so I returned Jim's.
He would have always had my respect, but I'll never forget him because of that one gesture.
Jim Koelzer taking a break from working the pits.
When the four of us arrived downtown, I was wearing these rubber sandals that were tearing the ass out of my feet. Just about the time my feet were rubbed raw, and I couldn't drink enough 'pain killer' fast enough, Billy spilled about a liter of ice cold Pina Colada right on both of my feet. My first reaction was oh crap, nice move, troll', but the relief that my feet felt was extremely welcome. It wasn't two minutes after that when Koelzer accidentally dumped most of his on my feet as well. These drinks were just too good to spill on purpose, so believe me when I say they didn't do it out of the kindness of their hearts. Billy was so hammered, that by the end of the night, he'd spilled two more on me. Unfortunately, they weren't as well 'aimed' as the first two.
The whole gang did their share of drinking, but David and I over did it on the night before the last day of competition. I was so messed up on Pina Coladas that I was heaving my guts out on the grass just outside the barracks. David and some of the other shooters were encouraging me to see how far I could dispense the projectile vomit. I should have died.
The next morning I laid down in the prone position to shoot from 600 yards. I felt so bad, I didn't even want to shoot, I just wanted to go back to bed and sleep for about six more hours. I even contemplated snoozing right there. I sighted in and pulled the trigger. The scorer sent me back an 'X'. It was pure ass luck I thought, until I did it a couple more times. I decided to start taking this round serious and damned if I didn't shoot my best score ever. I wound up winning the damn match. David got lucky as well, and wound up winning the 300-yard rapid-fire match. No heartbeat or pulse to throw off the shots I guess.
A photo of a shot without a heartbeat.
The last night on the island, we entertained ourselves by tossing Dave Seyvold's boonies hat in the ceiling fan. Major Dave Seyvold is 'Super Dave' in my book. I've known him since he was a Captain, which isn't very long, but in that entire time, he's been a fantastic role model for young officers. He is responsible when he's supposed to be, and very capable, but when it's time to party, the rank comes off, and you'd never tell the difference between him and the enlisted guys.
The group of us stayed in the barracks that night to consume the alcohol leftovers because we couldn't take open bottles on the plane. We created a drinking game, because we had a lot of open bottles. Lemon Rum, Orange Rum, Banana Rum, and of course Coconut Rum. It turned out to be a very subjective game in the beginning. Random points were assigned to your 'toss'. Once we fine-tuned the rules, If you could throw the hat through the fan without hitting the moving blades, you were a master, and could choose who drank. If the blades caught it and gave it a real good spin before letting go, you were pretty good as well, but the point was to get the whirligig to throw it directly at someone. The receiver was 'allowed' to consume from a bottle of their choosing. You were penalized if your toss became 'crotched' in the rafters, or was thrown to a location where someone had to get up to fetch it.
'Super Dave' and 'Bishop Stan' in the arms room.
Late in the game, after a few tossers passed out, we got to the topic of terminology for masturbation. This is a fairly common activity for drunken men, so don't be too taken aback. Of course we had to break out the terms everybody had heard first, so we just started 'tossing' them out. Beat the meat, Jack-off, Wax the Carrot, Spank the Monkey, Whack the Weasel, Punch the Clown, Toss off a batch of orphans, and so forth. The one I mentioned next, from my perspective was as old as the hills themselves. When I said, "Polish the Bishop", Steve Stanislav broke into laughter so robust that he fell on the floor.
Steve Stanislav after shooting his course of fire.
Steve is an old marathoner, and has been around the Army Guard a long time. I would have bet that he'd heard it before, but that obviously wasn't the