Fishing- an Aviator’s Story
The rain was pouring and there was a big puddle in front of the pub just outside the MCAS field.
A grizzled old retired USAF fighter pilot wearing a faded baseball cap emblazoned with a 555th squadron patch, his tatty leather flight jacket with many more squadron and aircraft carrier patches was standing near the edge with a fishing rod, his line in the puddle.
A curious young Marine Corps fighter pilot came over to him and asked what he was doing.
"Fishing," the old Air Force pilot simply said.
'Poor old fool, another dumb Air Force fighter pilot' the Marine pilot thought, and so he invited the ragged old timer into the pub for a drink.
Sipping his Chardonnay semi-sweet white wine and watching the old Air Force pilot drinking a Johnny Walker Black Label scotch whiskey, he felt he should start some conversation. "So", asked the haughty Marine Corps pilot, "And how many have you caught?"
"You're the eighth," the old Air Force fighter pilot answered.
The rain was pouring and there was a big puddle in front of the pub just outside the MCAS field.
A grizzled old retired USAF fighter pilot wearing a faded baseball cap emblazoned with a 555th squadron patch, his tatty leather flight jacket with many more squadron and aircraft carrier patches was standing near the edge with a fishing rod, his line in the puddle.
A curious young Marine Corps fighter pilot came over to him and asked what he was doing.
"Fishing," the old Air Force pilot simply said.
'Poor old fool, another dumb Air Force fighter pilot' the Marine pilot thought, and so he invited the ragged old timer into the pub for a drink.
Sipping his Chardonnay semi-sweet white wine and watching the old Air Force pilot drinking a Johnny Walker Black Label scotch whiskey, he felt he should start some conversation. "So", asked the haughty Marine Corps pilot, "And how many have you caught?"
"You're the eighth," the old Air Force fighter pilot answered.