The Forklift, the Ladyboy, and the Call That Changed Everything

🌍 First Glimpse of the Middle East

In early October 2000, Nate and I traveled to Bahrain. Back then, the base was tiny—basically a glorified parking lot with a fence—and guarded by Marines who looked like they were waiting to charge a hill and for someone to yell “Fix bayonets!” even though the tallest thing in sight was a palm tree. The whole place felt like a forward operating 7-Eleven convenience store: small, efficient, and staffed by people who took their jobs very seriously.

We quickly discovered Shawarma Alley, a magical stretch of street where you could get a full meal for the price of a vending‑machine snack. The smell of roasting meat, spices, and diesel fumes blended into something that somehow tasted better than anything we’d eaten in months. We also found the famous Russian dancers—not a strip club, just a show. Our team leader warned us not to talk to them because they were “probably Russian spies.” Nate and I just looked at each other and said, “What the hell are they going to learn from us? We don’t even know what we’re doing day to day.”

Then came our first encounter with a ladyboy — a Filipino lead singer who performed nightly at our hotel, the Crowne Plaza in the Diplomatic District. And let me tell you, nothing in my small‑town upbringing prepared me for this moment.

Our fearless leader, MN1 John Wolfe, was pushing fifty, had joined the Navy late in life, and looked like he’d stepped straight out of a 1940s recruiting poster: thin, rugged, perpetually grumpy, and somehow still one of the best humans I’ve ever met. He was also our unofficial cultural tour guide, whether we wanted that or not.

So, when Nate and I whispered to each other, “That’s a dude, right? Or… is that a lady?” Wolfe didn’t even blink. He just sipped his beer, leaned in, and said, “Boys… that’s a ladyboy.”

We had never heard the term. Not once. Two small‑town idiots suddenly dropped into the deep end of the international pool.

A few nights later, Wolfe bought the whole band a round, and the singer sat right at our table. She introduced herself, laughed at our confusion, and proudly declared she was the first ladyboy we’d ever met — like she’d just won a prize. Honestly, she kind of had.

Now, let me be clear: nothing wild happened. This was all very PG, with the occasional F‑bomb for seasoning. This had nothing on my trip to Thailand with my good friend Pat Brady (may he rest in peace), where we may or may not have placed bets on two ladyboys fighting in front of a bar in Pattaya. I know. I’m a horrible human being. But look at me now — growth.

Labels aside, that performer could sing. We rocked out most nights to covers of Queen, Duran Duran, Madonna — basically the soundtrack of every ’80s montage ever made. If there had been a training sequence or a freeze‑frame high‑five, it would’ve fit right in.

🛠️ The Forklift Incident

Work was the real reason we were there — prepping exercise and training mines for Fifth Fleet’s mine countermeasure drills. That meant long hours in a warehouse full of gear we absolutely should not have been left alone with. Ever.

Which brings me to the forklift.

At some point, someone in the chain of command decided that two unsupervised Seamen should be trusted with heavy machinery. To this day, I don’t know who approved it, but I’m confident they regretted it before the ink dried.

Nate was driving.

I was spotting.

We were trying to move a pallet of training gear like responsible adults.

Everything was going fine until Nate discovered the forklift had a “turbo” mode — also known as “press the pedal harder and hope for the best.” He hit a bump, the pallet shifted, and the forklift lurched forward like it had just been personally offended.

The next thing we knew, the forks punched straight through a stack of wooden crates like a hot knife through butter. One second: forklift. Next second: forklift wearing a crate like a fashion accessory.

We froze. Completely silent. Just staring at the carnage.

Nate whispered, “Think anyone heard that?”

Right on cue, a crate slid off the top and exploded on the floor like it was trying to answer him.

“Yeah,” I said. “They heard that.”

We somehow extracted the forklift, cleaned up the evidence, and finished the job. To this day, I’m convinced the only reason we didn’t get in trouble is that no one wanted to admit they’d left us unsupervised in the first place. It was easier for everyone to pretend nothing happened — including us.

⚓ A Sudden Shift

Unfortunately, the trip was cut short. On October 12, 2000, the USS Cole was bombed. Everything changed instantly. Less than a year later, the entire world—and especially the way the Navy operated—would be changed forever.

What can you really say about September 11, 2001? For me, it started on my 21st birthday, when a few of us slipped out of work early to celebrate. Turning 21 didn’t have the same mythical pull in Sicily—there was no dramatic “first legal drink” moment. I’d been able to order a beer since the day I stepped off the plane. So instead of a rite of passage, it was simply another excuse to celebrate… and we were doing a fine job of that.

It was late afternoon, and a handful of us were in my barracks room, sipping cold brews and solving exactly zero of the world’s problems, when my landline rang. I figured it was either my mom or my grandmother. My grandmother, bless her heart, never mastered the time difference. Most of her calls came either at midnight or at 0300—peak “grandma energy.”

I answered, and the first thing my mom said—right after wishing me a happy birthday—was enough to sober anyone instantly:

“Turn on the news. We are under attack.”

Nate and I killed the music and flipped on Armed Forces Network. We watched the second plane hit the tower in real time. I told my mom I loved her, thanked her for the birthday wishes, and hung up so I could call my command.

We hadn’t heard a thing. Not a whisper.

Master Chief Zienl answered, and I told him what we were seeing on the news. They had no clue. Remember, this was before information lived in your pocket. Back then, if you didn’t have a TV on, you were basically living in the Stone Age. For all I know, my mother might have been the first person to notify the entire European theater that America was under attack.

From what I understood, Master Chief immediately sent out requests for information and notifications. Within thirty minutes of my mom’s call, everyone was recalled, the base was locked down, and we were pushed into the highest Force Protection condition.

The Comedy Hidden Inside the Chaos

Fast‑forward a bit to the “security measures” we had to fulfill at our compound, which we shared with the Italians. Picture this: a fortified, double‑fenced area with three separate gates, each guarded by armed Italian soldiers who looked like they’d been born holding rifles.

So naturally, what did we do?

We went outside to stand guard with them—unarmed, without radios, without any way to communicate, and with nothing but American pride and the vague hope that terrorists would politely announce themselves before attacking.

We also started patrolling around the compound. Again—no radios, no weapons, no plan. Just a bunch of sailors walking around orchards and farmland like we were auditioning for the world’s least practical neighborhood watch.

Now, I get it. In the moment, nobody really knew what was happening. Leadership was reacting to the unknown. But why on earth were we still doing this months later? With no updated guidance? No logic? No equipment? Not even a “Hey, maybe we should give these guys a walkie‑talkie so they can call for help before they get vaporized”?

At the very least, a radio would’ve let us say something like:

“Hey, looks like someone might be storming the compound. Could someone with an actual weapon come handle that? We’re heading to grab a coffee.”

That was the first time I truly realized how frustrating—and unintentionally hilarious—the Navy could be. Of course, we complained to each other nonstop, but in the end, we did what we were told. We didn’t file grievances with the Inspector General because we didn’t like the plan. We followed orders… and then made fun of leadership behind their backs like true sailors do.

Goodbye Sicily, Hello Texas: Searching for the Real Navy

Finishing up my tour in Sicily, my next stop was the USS Warrior (MCM‑10), homeported in the thriving metropolis of Ingleside, Texas. If you’ve never been to Ingleside… well, there’s a reason.

I spent about two years in Sicily for my first tour of duty — arriving as a clueless Seaman Recruit and somehow leaving as a Mineman Petty Officer Third Class and my command’s Junior Sailor of the Year. Shocker, I know. I still don’t understand how that happened. With the rowdy bunch I ran with, I think I just got into the least amount of trouble. And even that’s debatable.

The Navy wasn’t complicated. My first Chiefs drilled the basics into me:

Show up on time.

Look squared away.

Have a good attitude.

Do what you’re told.

And if you’re feeling froggy, do a little extra.

Turns out, that alone puts you in the top 10 percent. Most Sailors make it harder than it needs to be.

When it was finally time to leave, I boarded an aging military charter bound for Norfolk — a flight that should have taken ten hours. Instead, it took thirty. We stopped three times to refuel, unload, reload, and question every life choice that led us onto that aircraft. By the time we landed in Norfolk, I’d already missed my commercial connection because the Navy plans travel with the same precision as a drunk man throwing darts.

You might be wondering what happened to Nate and Scott. Nate joined me in Texas, but he got orders to the USS Gladiator (MCM‑11). Scott, on the other hand, was headed back to Basic Underwater Demolition School — again. Because apparently, the first time the SEALs tried to kill him wasn’t enough. I swear that man enjoyed getting kicked in the nuts for fun.

Stay tuned, because there’s plenty more to come — stories from Texas with Nate, and years later, more about Scott, including how he eventually became a badass pilot in the Coast Guard. If you think the Sicily stories were good, just wait. Sea duty life doesn’t even compare. At this point in my Navy career, I was still searching for the real Navy.