Minemen, Mayhem, and a Viking‑style ditch burial

From Then to Now: The Journey Starts Here

It still blows my mind when I look at that side‑by‑side photo—wide‑eyed, brand‑new Sailor on the left, and the older, saltier version of me on the right. Nearly 26 years separate those two faces. Even crazier? The place where my Navy career began—Sicily, Italy—would also be the place where it ended.

But this chapter isn’t about the finish line.

This is about the starting gun.

The moment everything kicked off.

The beginning of a journey I never could’ve predicted.

🌊 The Journey Begins

After graduating from the Mine Warfare Training Center in Ingleside, Texas, I set out on my first real journey in the Navy. Back then, communication wasn’t anything like it is today. We take instant connectivity for granted now, but at the time, snail mail was still relied upon heavily. Payphones and calling cards were about the best you could hope for. Even that felt modern compared to what my uncle Bill and Lee Ray had during the Vietnam War, and certainly better than what my grandfathers endured in World War II. My grandmother used to tell me how she would go months without hearing a single word from Uncle Bill. When I think about what those generations dealt with, it’s hard to understand how anyone today can complain.

Back to my adventure. My journey began with a series of commercial flights from El Paso, Texas, to Norfolk, Virginia, where I was supposed to catch a chartered military flight to Europe. If you’re not familiar with those flights—and you’ve never had the misfortune of boarding one—consider yourself lucky. Forty hours trapped in what can only be described as a torture tube with wings, all for a trip that should take sixteen. It was my first authentic taste of how “efficient” the military can be.

Funny enough, when I arrived in Sicily in 2023, I’m pretty sure I flew on the same plane from Norfolk. Same bulkheads falling apart, same seats clearly designed for 10‑year‑olds or very flexible adults, and the same musky aroma of too many trips and not enough Febreze. At this point, I’m convinced that aircraft has more sea time than half the fleet.

But fate had other plans. My flight was canceled during a layover in Houston, and I missed my connection to Norfolk. That meant I also missed reporting to the military terminal and, ultimately, missed the infamous 40‑hour flight. In my 19‑year‑old, wet‑behind‑the‑ears Seaman Recruit mind, the result was clear: I was now UA—Unauthorized Absence—before even starting my first tour. Panic hit every fiber of my being.

That’s when a Chief Petty Officer spotted me pulling my green sea bag off the luggage carousel in the Houston terminal. What he did next would forever shape my understanding of what a Chief truly is. His kindness, calmness, and guidance in that moment set the standard I would carry throughout my entire career.

He helped me secure an overnight stay in Houston and guided me through catching the next day’s flight to Norfolk. Once there, he made sure I had lodging and walked me through a visit to SATO—the military’s travel agency—to get everything squared away. He even contacted my command to let them know I wasn’t running toward the Mexican border and that my flight had been canceled for legitimate reasons.

The part that bothers me today is that I can’t remember his name. All I remember is that he was a Boatswain’s Mate. But his impact stayed with me for decades.

✈️ Arrival in Italy

Instead of flying in the torture chamber, I took a commercial route: Norfolk to New York, then to Rome, and finally to Catania. My first impression of Italy came the moment I stepped into the Rome airport, where people were smoking openly in the terminals—directly under no‑smoking signs. That image stuck with me. It was like Italy’s way of saying, Welcome, we do things differently here.

When I landed in Catania, Chief TJ Kaizer picked me up. His first words were, “How drunk did you get to miss your flight?” My immediate thought was, Well, shit… word hadn’t made it to my new command. For a split second, I was ready to explain my whole life story, complete with flight cancellations and emotional damage. Luckily, he was giving me a hard time—Chiefs can smell fear, and I was practically marinating in it.

He drove me to the base, where I reunited with my buddy Nathan Krueger, who, of course, had no issues arriving on time like a responsible adult. We shared a barracks room and celebrated our first legal beer at the base club, where the drinking age was 18. Nothing bonds two young Sailors quite like jet lag, questionable decisions, and a cold beer you’re finally allowed to drink.

🍻 Welcome to MOMAU‑5

My official welcome came the next day at a base festival. Naval Air Station Sigonella was once infamous for these events—every command, department, or random group with access to a folding table would sponsor a booth. Some served their own food of choice; others ran games straight out of a county fair; and the USO always had live music or some entertainment blasting in the background. It was loud, chaotic, and absolutely perfect.

Our unit, Mobile Mine Assembly Unit Five (MOMAU‑5), had a booth selling beer and Frito pies. That’s where I first experienced the camaraderie of the Mineman community. If you weren’t part of the Mine Force in the late ’90s or early 2000s, you wouldn’t understand. This was a tribe with its own language. Phrases like “Are you a real Mineman?” or “Anytime, any place—Mineman plant ’em deeper!” were thrown around like greetings. Rowdy doesn’t even begin to describe a community that proudly claims the first underwater mine was built from a beer keg. Thank you, David E. Bushnell—you’d fit right in.

Nate and I helped out here and there, but mostly we just hung around, beer in hand, getting to know everyone. That’s when my soon‑to‑be Leading Petty Officer, Plazola—Plaz for short—introduced me to my Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Gary Martin.

Well… I didn’t hear the “Lieutenant” part. I just heard “Martin,” so I turned, lifted my beer, and said, “What’s up, Martin? Want a beer?”

You could’ve heard a pin drop. Everyone stared at me as I’d just kicked a puppy in front of the Pope. Then, right on cue, Chief TJ slapped me on the back of the head and said, “That’s your CO, dummy.”

I was mortified. The stuttering, foot‑in‑mouth panic that followed was legendary. Thankfully, LT Martin had a sense of humor and played along, which only encouraged everyone else to start the teasing barrage. Welcome to the family, kid.

To give you an idea of the Mineman reputation, fast‑forward a few weeks to base indoctrination—a mandatory two‑week course. The first week covered base familiarization, policies, rules, and all available services. The second week focused on cultural awareness, including a field trip to explore Sicily and its history.

On day one, the instructor gave the entire class of maybe thirty newly reported service members and their families a dire warning:

Z

“There are two commands you’re highly encouraged to steer clear of while on liberty: the Minemen and the Seabees.”

Apparently, MOMAU‑5 had a reputation!

🪖 Work Hard, Play Harder

That reputation became crystal clear a few months later when a group of us got into a full‑blown bar brawl across from NAS 1. To set the scene: back then, the base population was more than double what it is today. The barracks were packed with young Sailors, and—like every military base ever—restaurants and bars lined the street outside the gate, ready to collect our entire paycheck the moment liberty call hit.

On this particular night, I walked out of the bathroom and straight into chaos. Chairs were flying, people were getting shoved into the pool, fists were everywhere, and the Minemen were right in the middle of it. Naturally, I dove in headfirst, because my presence was clearly essential to the situation. After several broken tables, a few black eyes, some bloody lips, and a shattered window, Base Security finally broke it up. They ended up detaining about eight Minemen and an equal number of Seabees.

As a young patrolman escorted us through the gate, he muttered, “I guess we should take these guys all out back.”

Nate—never one to miss a comedic opportunity—shot back, “Out back? You got a woodshed back there? You gonna whoop us or something?”

Next thing we knew, about twenty of us were sitting behind Security at their picnic tables like we were waiting for recess to start. We sat there for hours, bruised, muddy, and sobering up, waiting for our Chiefs to come collect us like misbehaving middle‑schoolers.

That night also created a new nemesis—or really revived an old one. The Marines had recently arrived in Sigonella, and for the first time in history, both Seabees and Minemen were on the same side. We became almost inseparable, united by a common goal: terrorize every grunt in Sigonella. Just like siblings, we could beat the hell out of each other, but if anyone else tried? Suddenly, we were best friends. And yes, there were a few times when Sailors and Marines ended up on the same side of an “altercation.”

A few hours later, our Command Master Chief Mark Zinnel and a very pissed‑off Chief TJ Kaizer showed up and took custody of us. I remember them saying, “Looks like you’re all okay—and a lot more sober than I expected. Guess you idiots work hard and play even harder.”

As they dropped us off at the barracks early that Sunday morning, Chief added, “Sounds like you all have way too much time on your hands. Don’t worry—I’ve got some ideas to keep you busy.” He was laughing now, no longer angry, which somehow made it worse.

We “volunteered” every weekend for a month to clean up bird droppings across the entire command, or for some other creative tasks the Chiefs would devise. That rhythm—work hard, earn our weekends, repeat—defined my tour in Sicily.

🏖️ Life Outside the Uniform

Our command had about 50 Sailors, and roughly 80% of them were under 22 and below the rank of E‑4. Looking back now, I genuinely feel for our First Classes, Chiefs, CO, and XO. Thankfully, our CO was a Limited Duty Officer, and our XO was a Chief Warrant Officer—two men who were lenient when it mattered and brutally creative when it came to steering our behavior back on course.

Despite our reputation, most of our time wasn’t spent fighting or causing trouble. Evenings, weekends, and days off were filled with flag football, softball, basketball, darts, pool, music at the base club, hiking adventures, and whatever random trips the base managed to sponsor. We squeezed every drop out of the few single‑sailor programs available—programs that, compared to today’s Navy, were practically nonexistent.

Summers meant beach escapes to Fontane Bianche near Syracuse or one of the many lidos along coastal Catania. This was Nate’s and my first real exposure to different cultures, and topless sunbathing was… let’s say, a surprise. I still remember Nate’s reaction the first time he saw a topless Sicilian woman:

“Holy shit, boobs! Look, everyone—she’s just walking around showing her boobs to everyone! Holy crap, there’s another one!”

The summer was our highlight—not because of the topless women (though they were indeed memorable)—but because the days were long, the Mediterranean was warm, and the beaches felt like home. When we weren’t at the beach, we spent weekends camping all over the island.

The mission was always the same: What can we do for free or as close to free as possible? Most of us were making less than five hundred dollars every two weeks, so creativity was a survival skill.

Trips into downtown Catania along Via Etna were common, though we relied on whoever had a car—or at least something resembling one. Eventually, Nate and I bought a Renault 9 held together by duct tape, plastic, and blind optimism. It wasn’t roadworthy by any legal definition, but it got us around. When it rained, driving felt like skating on butter because I’m pretty sure we were rolling around on bald tires.

Its final act, just before we transferred? A dramatic engine blowout. Nate honored it with a Viking‑style ditch burial, which felt appropriate for a car that had survived far longer than physics should have allowed.

✈️ Spain, Snowstorms, and Shenanigans

Sicily was also where I met my lifelong friend Scott Freshour—my brother from another mother. Scott, Nate, and I decided to travel to Málaga, Spain, where two of my high school friends, Eve and Julie Mercer, were studying abroad. As usual, we were on a tight budget, so when Eve and Julie insisted we crash at their two‑bedroom apartment, we jumped at the offer.

What we didn’t know until we arrived was that there weren’t just two women living there—there were four—all exchange students. One from Milan, one from Holland, and to this day, I couldn’t tell you their names if my life depended on it. For the next ten days, we slept on blow‑up mattresses and a couch that had definitely seen better decades.

Málaga itself was a dream. Warm nights, palm‑lined streets, and a historic center that felt like a maze explicitly built to get young Americans lost. We lived the college life we never had—nightclubs pulsing until sunrise, bars tucked into alleyways, house parties filled with people from every corner of the world, and tapas that made us question why we ever ate chow hall food. We wandered the waterfront, explored the Alcazaba, and pretended we were cultured every time we passed a museum we absolutely did not go into.

Then there was the rental car situation. I’m convinced we were part of a conspiracy targeting tourists because our car got towed three times. Apparently, parking “like everyone else” does not mean you won’t get towed. It became a morning ritual: wake up, stretch, look around, and ask, “So… where’s the car today?” Then we’d navigate to whatever impound lot had claimed it, pay a fine, and drive off like nothing happened. By tow number three, even the impound clerk recognized us.

Despite the chaos, Málaga gave us some of the best memories of our early Navy years—narrow cobblestone streets, late‑night laughter, and friendships that felt bigger than the trip itself.

Returning to Sicily, however, was a whole different adventure. A massive snowstorm slammed Italy, and we got stuck in Genoa, then Naples, before finally renting a car. What should have been a six‑hour drive turned into a 16‑hour marathon through closed mountain roads, white‑knuckle switchbacks, and visibility so bad we were basically driving by faith alone. We fueled ourselves with Red Bull and 5‑Hour Energy shots, driving fast and taking chances as only young Sailors with questionable judgment can.

Somehow, we made it back just in time—exhausted, wired, and with another story we’d be telling for decades.

Coming soon: From diaper disasters to Thanksgiving tailgates: A dad’s journey and The Forklift, the Ladyboy, and the call that stopped everything.