Ground Safety Course Gone Wild!

Ground Safety Course Gone Wild!

The unit’s safety council meets monthly to discuss concerns and safety topics. You know, the usual riveting stuff. As the newest recruits to the council, five of us were “voluntold” to attend a ground safety course in California. Little did anyone know that this trip would be less about safety and more about surviving the chaos we were about to unleash.

It was July when we embarked on what we’d later call “The Great California Debacle.” Enter the “Three Amigos,” me, Scott, and Mark, the trio responsible for turning this trip into a comedy of errors. After landing, we discovered our hotel was conveniently located across the street from the airport. With bags slung over our shoulders and dreams of poolside relaxation, we trudged over to the Holiday Inn, checked in, and promptly began our “safety preparations”—by hitting up a local gas station for a 30-pack of beer. Because nothing says “responsible adults” like a beer run before a safety course.

By late afternoon, the outdoor pool became our stage for beers, stories, and questionable life choices. Planking was all the rage back then, so naturally, we decided to give it a go. Because pretending to be a wooden board is peak internet culture, right? Eventually, the party migrated to the indoor pool, where we attempted Olympic-level flips into the water. Spoiler alert: none of us were Olympians.

As the sun set, we decided to class things up (relatively speaking) by heading to a gentlemen’s club for food and drinks. I tapped out early, knowing we had class the next morning. Scott and Mark, however, were just getting started. Scott, blessed (or cursed?) with a DNA strand labeled “party animal,” was about to redefine the concept of “living large.”

The next morning, I treated myself to a small breakfast in my room before venturing across the hall to wake up Scott. After what felt like an eternity of knocking, the door finally creaked open to reveal him in all his post-party glory: disheveled, hungover, and accompanied by a random guest. He grunted something for about 10 minutes—and, shockingly, he delivered. Fully dressed, still reeking of alcohol, and ready for class. A true champion, or perhaps just a cautionary walking tale.

He may have looked the part, but sober he was not. Watching him devouring a bagel with cream cheese while wobbling on his feet was pure comedy gold. The room erupted in laughter when a local girl sitting nearby boldly declared, “You stink—you smell like alcohol and strippers.” Ouch. To top it off, the instructor made sure to call out “the partiers” to the entire group. Stellar first impressions all around.

That evening, Scott was ready to rally. He suggested we hit up a gentlemen’s club for dinner and a show. This time, Mark gracefully bowed out, leaving just me and the partier to carry the torch. Drinks were poured, and we soon found ourselves chatting with two women who, as it turned out, were more interested in each other than in us. My buddy hit it off with one of them, though, so I did what any good wingman would do: I took the grenade.

For the uninitiated, “taking the grenade” means hanging out with the less attractive or less approachable friend so your buddy can make his move. It’s a noble, if not entirely glamorous, role. We left the club around 2:30 a.m., grabbed some junk food from the gas station, and headed back to the hotel. My buddy’s new friend spent the night with him, while I politely entertained the big gal for a bit before we called it a night. No funny business—just a solid wingman performance.

The following day I found myself on Scott’s door again. After what felt like an eternity, he finally answered, looking like he’d been hit by a freight train. “Give me 10 minutes, I’ll be right out,” he grumbled, deja vu.. True to his word, he emerged—dressed, semi-functional, and, once again, still reeking of last night’s escapades. Off to school we went, hungover and running on fumes.

The day itself was uneventful, aside from the relentless teasing about the grenade. Everyone wanted to know if I’d “done the dirty.” I let them speculate—it was far more entertaining that way. For the record, nothing happened. She was into girls, and I was married. But hey, why ruin their fun when the rumors were far juicier than the truth?

That evening, after class, we returned to the hotel and spotted a cute girl working at the front desk. Naturally, my buddy and I wasted no time striking up a conversation. She quickly shut us down, saying she wasn’t allowed to hang out with guests and, by the way, could outdrink us anyway. Challenge accepted. My big mouth chimed in: “Bring your friends and meet us at a bar. First two rounds are on me.” She brushed us off, and we took the hint—opting for a quiet night of recovery instead.

The next evening, we decided to roll the dice again. This time, the front desk girl agreed to meet us at a local bar with some of her friends. Game on. With our designated driver in tow, we arrived to find three of us and three or four of her friends ready to party. Drinks flowed, dancing ensued, and before we knew it, we were invited to a house party. She insisted we go, and she’d ride with us. What could possibly go wrong?

On the way to the house party, Scott and the front desk girl decided the back seat was the perfect place for some impromptu romance. Meanwhile, the driver and I were in the front seat, trying to pretend we weren’t hearing...well, everything. But the fun didn’t last long. She went from flirty to flat-out sick in record time. Super drunk and super miserable, she was now our problem.

We got her to the house party safely and immediately switched into damage control mode. We found her friends—or so we thought—and explained the situation. “She’s really sick and needs to sleep it off,” we said. Their response? “You brought her, you take her.” Even her so-called bestie refused to help. Cue the rage.

Scott, never one to back down, unleashed a tirade that included threats to burn their house down and kick everyone’s butts. Not exactly the diplomatic approach, but hey, tensions were high. After a heated exchange of insults and some serious trash-talking, we left unscathed—though not exactly on good terms with our new acquaintances.

On the way back to the hotel, the girl started sobering up just enough to blame us for ruining her night. She swore she’d have us kicked out of the hotel. Meanwhile, we managed to get her mom’s phone number, called her, and explained the situation. Her mom met us at the hotel to pick her up, saving us from further drama. Over and over, she told Scott he was getting kicked out, to which he replied, “Fine,” and booked an early flight. He showered, packed his bag, and walked over to the airport like a man on a mission.

As for me, I went to bed, hoping for some peace and quiet. Instead, I woke up with a Charlie horse in my leg that felt like a punishment from the universe. The next morning, I limped into the lobby to meet the others, who immediately assumed I’d been in a fight. Let them think what they want—at this point, I was too tired to care.

Overall, what a crazy, chaotic, and unforgettable time. Safety course? More like a crash course in survival.

**Send a Get Well Soon balloon and card to a funeral**