The transfer of our squadron, VS-33, from the aging USS Kitty Hawk to the state-of-the-art USS Nimitz felt like stepping into a completely different world. The Nimitz wasn’t just a ship; it was a supercarrier, a marvel of engineering, a floating city that dwarfed everything around it. As our bus rolled into the foggy San Francisco pier after a long, uneventful ride from San Diego, the sight of the massive ship stopped us in our tracks. Its towering superstructure seemed almost surreal, looming above us like a sleeping giant waiting to be awakened. For a bunch of aviation sailors, who were more accustomed to jets than ships and never considered “real Navy” by traditional standards, this was an awe-inspiring moment.
We disembarked, shouldering our seabags as we trudged down the pier, feeling every bit like sailors for the first time. The fog, the echoing sounds of the harbor, and the sheer size of the ship gave the whole scene a cinematic quality, as if we’d walked into the set of some naval war epic.
Once aboard, we were directed to our quarters, tucked two decks below the flight deck, right beneath Cable Three—the primary arresting cable for incoming jets. It didn’t take long for someone to point out that this was, without question, the loudest and busiest part of the ship. Cable Three wasn’t just any landing cable; it was the cable every jet aimed for during landings, meaning day and night, it would be a relentless cacophony of metal-on-metal, jet engines, and vibrations that rattled your teeth.
We hadn’t even set sail, and already the veterans among us were exchanging grim jokes about what it would be like to try and sleep under that constant chaos. “Things to look forward to, I guess,” someone muttered, earning a chuckle. But deep down, we all knew this was just the beginning. The Nimitz wasn’t just a ship; it was an experience, and we were about to learn what life aboard a supercarrier truly meant.
The good news? Our squadron didn’t have planes to work on yet, which left us aviators with plenty of free time. A group of us decided to make the most of it by heading out to explore San Francisco. For a bunch of young, cocky aviation sailors, all barely out of our teens, the city was ours for the taking.
We were a ragtag mix of oddballs, each bringing our quirks and bravado to the table. One guy was from Ohio, tall and quiet, with a Midwestern politeness that somehow survived Navy life. Another was from Milwaukee, sporting a gap between his front teeth that he’d flash every time he cracked one of his terrible jokes. There was the hothead from Texas who thought he was God’s gift to women, and the scrawny kid from Louisiana who could drink anyone under the table despite being built like a twig. Together, we were a collection of misfits, but in that moment, we felt like kings.
San Francisco was ours to explore, and we had every intention of making the most of it.
Our adventure began with the essentials: oversized Big Gulps, each filled halfway with Jack Daniels. Among our group of misfits, one guy stood out, aside from myself—a Spaniard named David. I hadn’t seen him much around the squadron before, but from the moment we started talking, it was clear he might as well have been my twin. Confidence radiated off him like a second skin, paired with just the right amount of arrogance, manipulation, and a sharp edge that pushed Navy standards to their limits.
By the time we started wandering the streets, it was obvious—David was my partner-in-crime for the night. He had the same cocky swagger I prided myself on, a sharp wit that made everything sound like a challenge, and an uncanny talent for finding trouble without even trying. Together, we were a volatile mix, a walking disaster waiting to happen, and neither of us had the good sense to care.
As a clan, we roamed the streets with a growing buzz, eventually stumbling into the Red Light District like a pack of overconfident kids discovering the world for the first time. The alcohol had fully kicked in, loosening tongues and lowering inhibitions, and soon we found ourselves wandering into a grimy little adult shop. We laughed and pointed at the covers of the porn videos lining the walls, admiring the absurdity of it all. For a group of young, naïve sailors, this was uncharted territory—equal parts thrilling and ridiculous.
Out of nowhere, the Ohio kid spotted a private booth opening up as some disheveled guy shuffled out, and like a pack of fools, we raced each other to cram inside. The tiny, dark room barely fit all of us, and the door clicked shut, locking us into an awkward, tight space. None of us knew what to do next, but someone pointed out the blinking red light above a screen that read “25 cents.” After some fumbling and snickering, one of us dug out a quarter and slid it into the slot, curiosity outweighing common sense.
The screen flickered to life, illuminating the cramped booth in a hazy glow. What greeted us wasn’t anything we expected—a graphic scene involving two men in the middle of something we definitely hadn’t signed up to see. But that wasn’t the worst part. The previous tenant had apparently left behind some evidence of his enjoyment—a streak of questionable liquid smeared across the screen.
The room erupted into chaos. Shouts of disgust, gagging noises, and panicked laughter filled the tiny booth as we scrambled to get out. I swear, we cleared out of that space faster than we’d ever run in our lives, stumbling back onto the street like a bunch of horrified schoolboys. For all our bravado, that moment humbled us real quick.
As the night wore on, our group began to thin out. One by one, the guys decided to call it quits, muttering something about not wanting to miss the ship’s departure in the morning. By midnight, the group had almost completely dissolved, each sailor peeling off and heading back to the Nimitz.
By 1 a.m., it was just me and David left—two stubborn, overly confident kids still clutching our half-empty Big Gulps like they were trophies. We weren’t ready to let the night end. Fueled by booze and a reckless sense of adventure, we wandered deeper into the city, laughing at nothing and daring each other to keep going.
That’s when we stumbled upon them—a group of street kids huddled under an overpass near the BART system. They were a ragtag bunch, some smoking, some talking, others just loitering in the shadows. A mix of scruffy faces, patched-up jackets, and guarded eyes, they had that hardened look of people who lived their lives on the edge.
David, ever the cocky one, walked right up to them, unphased, and asked for a cigarette. The group didn’t seem to appreciate our intrusion, but they didn’t immediately tell us to leave either. Among them were two blondes who stood out, their youthful energy clashing with the rougher edges of their crew. David zeroed in on one of them, flashing his trademark smirk, while I struck up a conversation with the other.
The guys in the group exchanged wary glances, their body language tense, as if deciding whether to tolerate us or start something. But the blondes didn’t seem to mind us being there, and their interest only fueled our bravado. For the moment, we were two Navy kids playing with fire, and we didn’t care if we got burned.
Out of nowhere, a dark-skinned guy appeared, shouting and squaring off with the group we’d just joined. Whatever history or bad blood they had, it was boiling over fast. The yelling escalated to threats, and before we knew it, the guys we’d just met took off after him, disappearing into the shadows in a chaotic pursuit.
David and I exchanged a quick glance but stayed put. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t our fight. Besides, we still had the girls, and for the moment, that was all that mattered. We stayed behind, leaning into the moment, feeling invincible in our buzzed haze.
But just as things were starting to settle, chaos found us again. A car flipped over the center rail of the street nearby, crashing in a spectacular show of screeching metal and shattered glass. The sound echoed through the night, loud and violent, a stark reminder of how close the edge always is. The crash was too big to ignore—we knew the cops would be swarming the area in no time.
Instead of sticking around to help, we bolted. There was no hero act here, just two drunk sailors weaving through darkened streets with the girls trailing close behind. We didn’t stop until we found ourselves in a small plaza near the BART entrance, hidden away from the chaos and prying eyes.
For a moment, it felt like we’d finally found some peace—a quiet corner of the city where it was just the two of us, the girls, and the distant hum of urban life. The air was thick with possibilities, and for a brief second, it seemed like we might actually steal a private moment with the girls before the night—or our time in San Francisco—came to an end.
The peace didn’t last long. The guy who’d been chased off earlier reappeared, this time with a backup—a shorter, wiry friend who had trouble written all over him. Their anger was palpable, and though whatever beef they had wasn’t with us initially, it didn’t take long for their attention to shift. The two guys who had been part of our group earlier conveniently vanished into the night, leaving just me, David, and the girls to face the situation.
David’s girl had a sharp tongue and absolutely no filter. She locked eyes with the taller guy—a muscular figure who seemed ready to explode—and told him, “Fuck off and eat shit.” It was the verbal equivalent of throwing gasoline on a fire. His face twisted with rage, and he called her a bitch.
That was all it took. Drunk and drunker on misplaced chivalry, David stepped in front of her, puffing out his chest like a knight in a leather jacket. “What the hell did you just say?” His fists clenched, and his whole body tensed, ready to throw down.
Before I could even process what was happening, David swung the first punch. The tall guy barely had time to react before David tackled him to the ground. The scuffle unfolded fast, a tangle of limbs and adrenaline. David had the upper hand, straddling the guy and raining down punches. But the taller guy had his arms up, elbows and forearms taking most of the blows. It wasn’t a clean fight, but David was relentless, hitting with drunken determination.
I stood back, sipping my drink like an idiot, trying to gauge if I needed to step in. But then things took a sharp turn. The shorter guy, who had been hanging back, suddenly jumped into the fray. He had something in his hand—a weapon, maybe a knife—and he brought it down hard on David’s head.
The blow was brutal. Blood spilled immediately, running down David’s face and staining his shirt. He let out a roar of pain, and I knew right then that this was no longer a harmless brawl. The situation had escalated, and David needed help.
I set my drink down and stepped forward, my blood boiling, ready to drag us out of this mess before it spiraled completely out of control.
Before he could strike again, I grabbed the smaller guy by the back of the neck, locking my hands together in a hold I’d mimicked from too many nights watching WWF. His feet flailed as I hauled him off David, his kicks weak and frantic. Adrenaline coursed through me, blurring my judgment as I dragged him toward the stairway with its cold central railing.
“You don’t mess with Navy!” I roared, slamming his head into the railing with each word. Once. Twice. Again. The metallic clang echoed in the night, drowning out the shouts and chaos around us. It wasn’t until I heard the sickening mush of bone giving way that I realized I’d gone too far. His body sagged in my grip, limp and lifeless, as if all the fight had drained out of him in an instant. I froze for a moment, horrified by what I’d done, before letting him drop like a discarded rag doll to the ground below.
I turned back to David, who was still on the ground, blood running down his face in dark streams, staining his shirt and pooling around him. He looked up at me, rage still burning in his eyes, but there was something else too—a flicker of disbelief. Maybe at me. Maybe at what had just happened.
“Hold the other one for me,” he growled.
Reluctantly, I grabbed the taller guy, locking him in the same hold I’d used moments before. David, still seething and dripping blood, swung a few wild punches, landing them with the fury of someone trying to reclaim every drop he’d lost. The taller guy grunted, his resistance faltering, but I couldn’t keep this up. The weight of the chaos, the adrenaline, and the guilt pressing against my chest was too much.
“Dave, we gotta go,” I muttered, my voice low and urgent, as if trying to break through the fog of his rage. I released the man, and he slumped to the ground, sliding down my leg like a marionette with its strings cut. His breath came in ragged gasps as he lay there, broken but alive.
Just then, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the plaza. San Francisco’s finest had arrived, eight officers rushing down the stairs with their hands on their belts. As the step over the little body that I had discarded, they shouted for us to stop and pointed to the bloody mess on the ground. I told David we needed to run, but he wasn’t listening.
Instead, David couldn’t let it go. With one final burst of rage, he landed a vicious kick—right in front of the cops—pulling off some wild, exaggerated kung fu move as he chased the guy around the plaza. It was like something out of a bad action movie, except this one ended with the police tackling him to the ground with full force. They pinned him as he thrashed and cursed, his fury refusing to die down even as they restrained him.
That was the last glimpse I had of my new friend. I didn’t stick around to see how it ended. Heart pounding, I took off, darting through side streets and alleys, the sound of sirens fading behind me. After what felt like an eternity, I flagged down a cab and sank into the seat, breathless and numb, giving the driver the only destination, I knew—back to the Nimitz.
The next morning, the Nimitz left port, bound for San Diego. David never made it back to the ship. I didn’t know much about him—where he was from, what his role in the squadron was—but his absence left a void.
That night in San Francisco was a chaotic whirlwind of youth, testosterone, and bad decisions. We were just kids—drunk on cheap booze and a false sense of invincibility. Looking back, it’s a miracle we both didn’t end up in jail, or worse. It was a night I’d never forget, one that cemented David as a fleeting but unforgettable part of my journey.
