Turns Out the Smartest One in the Water Wasn’t Me
Heading West to Sunny California
I’ve spent the better part of the last few weeks trying to figure out where to take the next entry in this series. I keep reminding myself that the goal isn’t to write a memoir or a biography — it’s to capture the moments, the pivots, the people, and the chaos that shaped the long road to becoming this version of myself: a retired Chief Warrant Officer, a published author, a husband, a father, and whatever other so called “titles” I’ve collected along the way. The highlights, not the whole encyclopedia.
After arguing with my inner monologue (who is, frankly, a bit of a jerk), I finally decided it’s time to move into the next major chapter of my Navy career: the moment I wrapped up my first ship tour and headed west to sunny California.
My new home was Mobile Mine Assembly Unit One — MOMAU‑1 — at Naval Weapons Station Seal Beach. If you’ve never heard of it, picture the coastline between Huntington Beach and Long Beach, then drop a small Navy base right in the middle. That’s Seal Beach. A quiet installation that housed most of the West Coast’s surface combatant armament. At the time, MOMAU‑1 primarily supported training and exercise operations, which meant we worked with both the Air Force and the Navy… and yes, even the Navy’s marine mammal program. Dolphins and sea lions. Real ones. Not mascots. Not CGI. Actual animals doing actual missions. It was wild.
Writing this series has shown me just how much I’ve forgotten over the years. Some details come back instantly, while others feel like they’ve been locked in a storage unit I lost the key to. But every time I post one of these entries, someone from my past pops up with a comment like, “How do you remember that?” or “No, no — that happened after the thing with the forklift.” Reconnecting with people I haven’t spoken to in years and having them help fill in the blanks has been one of the coolest parts of this whole project.
I left Ingleside, Texas, in early 2005 as a newly promoted Petty Officer First Class, heading to Southern California with a month of leave in my pocket. I spent most of that time in and around Las Cruces, New Mexico, with my son Gage and the rest of my family. What I did not spend that time doing was eating healthy, exercising, or practicing anything resembling a responsible lifestyle. I was twenty‑five, invincible, and living my best life one enchilada plate at a time.
So, when I checked into Seal Beach… I was fat. No sugarcoating it. I was a big boy pushing 270 pounds, and none of it was muscle. I had more rolls than Polly’s Pies — which, by the way, is still one of the best bakeries in all of Orange County.
I bring this up because that command changed me. There were people there who pushed me, taught me, and inspired me to get my life together. They introduced me to weightlifting, running, and the concept of not eating like a competitive food‑challenge contestant. And when you’re twenty‑five, dropping weight is a whole lot easier than when you’re forty‑five. Back then, the pounds practically fell off if you just walked past a gym.
Seal Beach became a turning point — not just in my career, but in my health, my confidence, and the way I carried myself. It was the first time I realized the Navy wasn’t just shaping me professionally; it was shaping me personally, too.
And that’s where the next part of this journey begins.
On the ship, I’d been the Deck Division Leading Petty Officer and work center supervisor. Rolling into my new command, I was now seen as a full‑blown Non‑Commissioned Officer, and that came with a whole new level of responsibility. I was put in charge of Quality Assurance and became the Command Leading Petty Officer shortly thereafter. Our command was small — usually 25-40 personnel — with two chiefs and one officer serving as the Commanding Officer. Because of that size, we were tight. Close. The kind of close where everyone knows everyone’s business, whether they want to or not.
Leading on the deck plates of a ship was vastly different from leading at a shore command. The mission and schedule were different, and while the work wasn’t as relentless, we stayed busy. That’s where I really learned how to plan ahead, forecast schedules, and motivate people to get the job done. It turned out to be simple once I understood the basics: people want to be respected, listened to, and have their opinions valued, oh yeah, and given as much time off as possible. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t want maximum liberty when you’re living in Southern California?
I failed at this countless times in the beginning. I was part of the “changing of the guard,” where the Navy was shifting from the old ways to the new, kinder, gentler ways of doing things. Gone were the days of “shut up and do what you’re told.” Suddenly, it was, “Let’s sit down and talk about your feelings and why we do the things we do.” I know that’s a dramatic comparison, but that’s exactly how it felt.
Don’t get me wrong — I loved when Sailors brought up questions or applied common sense to whatever was happening. Half the time, I was thinking the same thing and would pass it up the chain. In a perfect world, that’s how things get better. And in many ways, it did make things better. But it also made it harder to maintain good order and discipline. Everything could be questioned, and if suggestions weren’t handled perfectly, feelings got hurt, grievances were filed, and suddenly, little Tommy or Susie didn’t feel valued enough. This is how the Navy slowly turned into what I jokingly call an Adult Assisted Living Facility.
Okay, enough of that. Back on track.
I learned about people in a way I never had before. It was all trial and error. Some things worked. Some things didn’t. Respect and kindness went so much further than firmness and fear. Admitting when I was wrong — and not trying to carry everything alone — made all the difference in the world.
Sea Lions, Sharks, and the Smartest One in the Water
One of the best parts of working at Seal Beach was the sheer number of exercises we supported. We went everywhere — from Hawaii to Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana — building, delivering, and often deploying inert (exercise) underwater mines. And when it came time to recover those mines, we used a wild mix of methods: Navy Divers, free‑diving in the shallow waters off Hawaii, and yes… trained sea lions and dolphins.
That’s right. We worked alongside units that used marine mammals to help locate and recover underwater mines. It sounds unbelievable until you see it up close.
During RIMPAC 2006, we were operating off the coast of Hawaii, recovering the mines we’d deployed about a month earlier. Our team had several sea lions onboard to assist. Their job was simple in theory, impressive in execution: they’d bite down on a padded wooden block attached to a hook and rope, dive down to the mine, and clip the hook onto a recovery device we’d mounted earlier. Once they surfaced, we’d winch the mine up, crate it, and move on to the next one.
One of those sea lions was Nick — a bit of a legend at the time. He held the record for the deepest dive by a sea lion back in 2006. The exact number is classified… and even if I remembered it, I wouldn’t say.
But on one particular day, Nick wanted absolutely nothing to do with the water. The trainers tried everything to coax him off the zodiac. Nick wasn’t having it. He planted himself in his kennel like a stubborn toddler refusing to leave the grocery store.
Then we saw why.
A fourteen‑foot tiger shark cruised right beneath the boat.
Nick took one look at that monster and basically said, “Nope. I’m not becoming lunch today.” And honestly, he was right.
Who ended up getting in the water? No one. Not even the Navy Divers.
Their Master Diver — a Chief Petty Officer — took one look at that shark and said, “If that sea lion won’t dive, we sure as hell aren’t diving in these waters.”
That day, the smartest one among us was a sea lion, and nobody argued.
That trip was full of moments like that — free‑diving to recover mines I’d deployed weeks earlier, days so calm the ocean looked like glass, and storms that rolled in out of nowhere, turning everything into chaos. One minute, we were soaking in the beauty of Hawaii; the next, we were hanging on for dear life as massive rollers slammed the ship.
It was unpredictable, exhausting, unforgettable — and exactly the kind of experience that shaped the sailor I became.
The Journey – Orange County and the Art of Losing Yourself (and Finding Yourself Again)
So far, the Navy had taken me from Las Cruces, New Mexico to Great Lakes, Illinois… down to the Gulf Coast of Texas… across the Atlantic to Sicily, Italy… back across the Atlantic to Ingleside, Texas… and eventually to Southern California. I’d been to more European countries than I could list without a map, Mexico, Canada, Hawaii, and more states than I could count. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for my first months living in Orange County.
When I checked into my new command, I finally got my own place: a studio apartment in Newport Beach, about a twenty‑minute drive from the base. “Studio apartment” is a generous term. It was basically a glorified walk‑in closet with plumbing. But it was mine, and it was all I could afford because California was—and still is—expensive. That’s the price of living somewhere beautiful. Unfortunately, the people weren’t always as beautiful on the inside as they were on the outside.
And trust me, on the outside, everyone looked like they had just stepped out of a magazine shoot. Perfect hair, perfect tans, perfect smiles. But the inner core? That was a different story.
One of the first nights I went out, I ended up at a bar called 333 in Newport Beach. I hadn’t even finished my first drink before someone hit me with a question I had never been asked in my entire life:
“So… what kind of car do you drive?”
I did a full head tilt like a confused golden retriever. “A Nissan Xterra… why does that matter?”
That’s when I learned I had entered a different universe—one where your car, your clothes, your zip code, and even where you ate breakfast were used to determine your social value. And then came the sticker check.
Back then, every car registered on base had a sticker on the windshield—red for enlisted, blue for officers. Some even had rank indicators. Operational Security at its finest: “Stay low‑profile, don’t be a target… also here’s a giant sticker advertising exactly who you are.” Brilliant.
Local women—well, some of them—knew exactly what those stickers meant. They’d walk past your car, glance at the sticker, and instantly decide whether you were worth their time. No conversation needed. Just a quick color‑coded judgment. It was shallow, ridiculous, and yet somehow completely normal in that world.
And here’s the part I’m not proud of: I fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker. Not the sticker‑checking, but the lifestyle. The flash. The shine. The illusion that having “nice things” meant you were doing something right. I stayed true to my values—mostly—but I’d never been exposed to that level of materialism before. It was intoxicating in all the wrong ways.
A few years later, I moved to San Diego, and everything shifted. Sure, you can still find those same shallow qualities if you look hard enough, but San Diego is different. It’s a melting pot of people who aren’t from San Diego. It’s more grounded, more real, more human. It’s where I finally felt like I belonged. It’s where I fell in love with the city, the culture, and eventually, the life I built there.
So, what did I learn from those few chaotic, confusing, ego‑checking years in Orange County before I cut my tour short to join a forward‑deployed unit in Bahrain?
First: Happiness is something you have to create. If you rely on possessions, status, or other people to hand it to you, you’re in for a rough ride.
Second: Sometimes being the quietest person in the room gets you further than standing on a bench yelling, “Look at me!” The loudest person isn’t always the most respected.
Finally: Being a good person—genuinely good—feeds your soul in a way no car, no apartment, no outfit, and no bank account ever will. That kind of fulfillment is priceless.
Stick around for more of my journey. I’m not entirely sure where the next chapter will take us, but that’s half the fun. If you haven’t already, please like, follow, and share—your support means more than you know.
