⚓ Anchors Away! ⚓ Let the Journey Begin.

🌵 From Dust to Underwater Mines: How Las Cruces Pushed Me Into the Navy

It was my senior year of high school in Las Cruces, New Mexico—The City of Crosses... and Crossed Signals, where even tumbleweeds get bored. My future looked about as bright as the sun during a thunderstorm. Let’s be real: I wasn’t, nor am I today, what you’d call a scholar. I lacked discipline, direction, and any real motivation beyond socializing with my friends and simply getting through the daily grind of high school.

Social life in Las Cruces? Repetitive. Predictable. Like Groundhog Day but with more dust and mischief. The years 1998 and 1999 weren’t exactly booming with excitement either. Sure, the Mexican food was solid—enchiladas red or green if you're feeling fancy, then Christmas, Chile rellenos, and sopapillas that could make you weep with joy. But after living in San Diego, I’ve got to say: Baja-style tacos and burritos are not an inadequate substitute when your favorite food is Mexican.

🤷‍♂️ No Plan, No Problem?

My mindset back then? I didn’t know where I was going, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to be late. I took the ACTs and bombed them spectacularly. Was it a lack of studying? Poor preparation? Or maybe the fact that I hadn’t taken the right classes and was still wrestling with dyslexia? Probably all of the above.

I remember sitting down with a guidance counselor who, in the most polite way possible, told me: “College is not your thing, Travis.” She rattled off a list of local job options—restaurant work, construction, farming, maybe sanitation. Basically, the Las Cruces starter pack for someone trying to figure it out.

💡 The Spark: A Friend in Uniform

Beyond my family’s long-standing tradition of service, there were plenty of influences—countless conversations with my Dad, Mom, Lee, my uncles, and both grandfathers helped shape the idea. But the spark? That came from one of my closest friends at the time, Glover Gossett, who had joined the Marine Corps the year before. During his brief visits back to Las Cruces, he planted a seed in my mind that quietly began to grow.

I was raised in an Army household, with Fort Bliss and White Sands Missile Range practically in my backyard. The Air Force had a solid presence too. But the thought of joining one of those branches and staying close to home? That never appealed to me. I wanted something different—something that pulled me beyond the familiar horizon.

So I walked straight into the Navy recruiting office off El Paseo Drive. Bold move? Maybe. Desperate? Definitely.

🧨 Sold on Mines and Mayhem

Military recruiters are like used car salesmen with medals. And I was the perfect customer—18 years old, full of misplaced confidence, and ready to escape the Land of Entrapment. At MEPS in El Paso, a placement specialist sold me on the Mineman job as if it were a golden ticket.

“Minemen are rare,” he said. “They build and disarm underwater mines. They’re weapons experts. Explosive handlers. Basically, Navy ninjas.”

I was sold. If this guy had been selling cars, I’d have driven off in a lemon with no engine and a smile on my face.

🚢 Leaving the Nest

Grandpa Bill Beach (1) in photo

I shipped off to basic training on August 4, 1999. My entire family came to see me off, as if I were heading to storm the beaches of Normandy. My grandpa—a WWII vet who flew on B-17s—pulled me aside and said, “Make us proud. Don’t quit.” He said more, but that’s between him and me.

Mom cried like I was going to Vietnam. I had to remind her: “Mom, this is Great

Lakes, Illinois. Not the Mekong Delta.” My uncle Bill got his thrills in helicopters in Vietnam as a medic. That man saw real combat. Me? I was headed to boot camp with a duffel bag and a dream.

🧼 Welcome to Boot Camp

First lesson: Basic training is not summer camp, obviously. You land in Chicago, wait for hours at the airport USO, and then someone barks, “Grab your shit and follow me.” Miss the bus? Jail time. Welcome to the Navy.

We stripped down, got issued our K-Mart special Navy sweats, and began the sacred ritual of “hurry up and wait.” My division—402—was a dumpster fire. If there were an award for worst division, we’d have won it in a landslide. I found my calling among idiots. My strategy? Don’t be the biggest idiot in the group—that alone guarantees success.

I kept my head down, made my rack, folded my clothes, and followed orders until my mouth got me in trouble.

🗣️ The Marching Question & Laser Tag Warfare

One day, I asked the question everyone was silently screaming inside:

“Why do we march miles every day when ships aren’t miles long?”

Logical, right? Apparently not. That innocent question was treated like I’d just insulted the Chief of Naval Operations’ mother. The RDCs (Recruit Division Commanders) looked at me like I’d committed treason. That day, I was the division’s least favorite shipmate—just for daring to question the sacred art of marching in circles.

But hey, I survived. And I learned something valuable: in boot camp, success isn’t about being the smartest or the strongest. It’s about blending in, keeping your mouth shut, ears open, and never being the most obvious person in the room. Average is the goal. Invisible is ideal.

Then came our first trip to the rifle and pistol range. Finally, after a week of learning everything about the M16 rifle and the M9 Beretta pistol—how to hold it, clean it, breathe while firing—I was ready to go weapons hot. I was pumped. This was the moment I’d been waiting for.

And then they handed me... a laser gun.

A freaking laser gun.

I stared at it like someone had just handed me a Nerf blaster and told me to storm the Eagles Nest. Welcome to the Navy’s Handgun Qualification Course—where you don’t actually fire a single live round. It was my first real awakening to the lies of my fearless recruiter. The same guy who made it sound like I’d be defusing bombs and storming beaches by week two.

Then the Small Arms Instructor dropped a line I still quote to this day:

“Don’t blame me. Blame your recruiter.”

That was the moment I realized we weren’t training for war—we were training for laser tag—experts in waiting, armed with battery-powered pew-pews.

But in hindsight, those were just wave tops. And let’s be honest—I’ve had one too many port visits and made enough questionable choices to fog up the memory banks. Still, the real lesson came later: no matter how hard something seems in the moment, once you’re through it, you realize it wasn’t that bad. Boot camp? Honestly, probably the easiest thing I’ve done in the Navy.

The real challenge wasn’t push-ups or marching—it was learning to work with people from wildly different backgrounds, forming a cohesive team, and absorbing the Navy’s culture and core values. The hard stuff came later. But this blog series isn’t really about the Navy—it’s about the relationships—the good ones, the bad ones, and the ones that shaped me.

Because after 26 years of service, what matters most isn’t what I did or didn’t do—it’s the bonds I formed. That’s why I’m writing this. To remember, to reflect, and to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

😂 Boot Camp Quirks That Still Haunt Me

Here are a few comical experiences that stuck with me since day one:

• I hate the feeling of needing to pee. Boot camp trained me for the future in the Navy of having to hold my bladder like a camel on a water strike. Now? I’ve got the bladder of a toddler and the PTSD of a man who’s been denied bathroom breaks one too many times.

• Liquid body soap > bar soap. Apparently, bar soap leaves too much scum on the walls. We were forced to use liquid soap or shampoo to make cleaning showers easier. I still use it today—boot camp logic never dies.

• Eat like it’s your last meal. You’ve got two minutes to eat. Chew fast, swallow faster, and pray you don’t choke. I still eat like someone’s about to take my plate away.

• I hate walking the long way around. Ask my wife—my queen of scenic strolls and detours that double as cardio. I’m all about efficiency. If there’s a shortcut, I’m taking it—even if it means hopping a fence or cutting through a questionable alley. The real comedy kicks in when my internal compass (which I swear is military-grade) insists we go one way… and her actual sense of direction proves me wrong. We end up taking the long way, not because it’s scenic, but because I’m convinced I’m part bloodhound. Spoiler: I’m not. I’ve got the confidence of a GPS and the accuracy of a Magic 8 Ball.

• Shaving up instead of down. Boot camp taught us to shave against the grain. Razor bumps, burns, and blood—thanks for that, Navy. I still wince at the memory.

  
  

💣 Mine Warfare School: Welcome to Ingleside, Texas (Population: Questionable)

If arriving at Navy boot camp was a culture shock, then reporting to Mine Warfare Training Center in Ingleside, Texas was a full-blown slap in the face—with a flip-flop, by someone named Bubba.

Ingleside was about 40 minutes outside Corpus Christi, tucked away in a backwater town that, according to local legend, the great state of Texas begged the Navy to open in the 1980s to help prevent inbreeding. Now, I’m not saying that’s true... but I’m also not saying it’s false. Spend a few weeks there and you’ll either understand how that rumor started—or start believing it yourself.

Gone were the days of marching everywhere like boot camp drones. Now, we were on a 0700 to 1800 schedule, learning the ins and outs of Mine Warfare. That meant building underwater mines, handling ordnance, learning shipboard SONAR operations, minesweeping, and the art of identifying and neutralizing underwater mines. We also got a crash course in navigation and seamanship—because apparently, blowing things up underwater requires knowing where you are and how not to sink.

For a guy who swore off school, this was a rude awakening. The Navy had other plans. At the ripe age of 19, I learned a lesson that still sticks with me today:

Education never ends if you want to succeed.

Whether it’s a 44-year-old taking an online creative writing course or a 19-year-old learning sound propagation for SONAR, learning is a constant process. And sometimes painful.

🍕 Brotherhood, Pregnant Striper, and Honky Tonks

Ingleside was where I met one of my lifelong brothers—Nathan “Big Nate” Krueger from Wisconsin. A die-hard Packers fan and one of the rare souls who could make cafeteria pizza taste gourmet just by showing up. We bonded over cheap cigarettes on the smoke deck, pepperoni slices, and the kind of institutional food that ran on a strict seven-day cycle. If you’ve ever stared down the same mystery meat three Mondays in a row, then yeah—you know the grind.

Liberty days were our escape. Ingleside wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis—more like four restaurants and a gas station that doubled as a hangout spot. Not old enough to drink? No problem. Thanks to Texas law, Honky Tonks welcomed us minors with a magical “M” stamped on our hands. “M” stood for “Minor,” but it may as well have meant “Mostly here for the music and awkward dancing.”

One night, a few of the older guys in our class had wheels and heard about a strip club just past the outskirts of town. Nate and I tagged along—both of us rookies when it came to that kind of scene. We pulled into a dusty parking lot flanked by cow pastures and open fields. There, dead center, sat a double-wide white trailer that looked like it had survived a couple of hurricanes—and barely.

We walked in, side-eying each other like, “Is this even a real strip club?” The first dancer on stage was pregnant and a local from Ingleside. How do I know that? She was married to a sailor stationed at Naval Station Ingleside. Welcome to small-town nightlife.

Honestly, the only upside was they didn’t care about our age—we drank cheap beer all night, shot pool on a lopsided table, and tried not to fall through floorboards marked with traffic cones.

Most of our weekends were spent on movies, fishing (or faking it), video games, and philosophical rabbit holes that only two 19-year-olds earning $780 a month could delve into. Sure, food and lodging were covered, but after three square cafeteria meals a day for weeks on end, Taco Bell started sounding like a five-star experience.

Getting off base meant shelling out $80 to $120 for a round-trip taxi, so we didn’t venture far often. But when we did, we made it count—even if half our paycheck vanished chasing real food and fleeting freedom.

🌍 Graduation and the Big Leap

When graduation finally rolled around, we hit the jackpot: Nate and I were both selected for the same command—Mobile Mine Assembly Unit Five in Sicily, Italy.

Finally! Hello, world. Here comes Travis Dale Ramsey.

From the dusty streets of Las Cruces to the questionable establishments of Ingleside, I was about to trade cafeteria meatloaf for Italian espresso and Mediterranean sunsets. The Navy was no longer just a means of escape—it was a passport to the world.

⚓ Final Thoughts

Las Cruces gave me roots—but the Navy gave me wings.

I owe a lot to that dusty little town: the grit, the grounding, the early lessons in loyalty and survival. But I’m glad I left. Because joining the Navy wasn’t just an escape—it was a launchpad. A way forward into something bigger than myself.

I may not have been an academic, but I found something far more valuable: purpose, pride, and a brotherhood forged in smoke decks, sleepless nights, and shared slices of pepperoni pizza. I found stories—real ones. The kind you don’t read in textbooks, but live through sweat, laughter, and the occasional chaos.

Leaving Las Cruces didn’t mean forgetting where I came from. It meant finally discovering where I was meant to go