Wild Wind Tour: The Pacific Whirlwind Edition

Wild Wind Tour: The Pacific Whirlwind Edition

Starring Master Sgt., a very tired suitcase, and an ankle with abandonment issues

We stayed for 15 days. It was freezing, confusing, and somehow humbling. I missed eating rice with chopsticks. I even missed the toddler-size water pitchers. But by the end, I realized something: adventures are rarely perfect, but they’re always better with ridiculous friends and an ankle that refuses to quit.

The Wild Wind Tour ends not with a surfboard, but with thermal socks and dreams of Australia gone cold.

One moment I was upright. Next, gravity decided it was my turn to star in a cautionary tale. I broke my ankle doing something I won’t even dignify with a description—it was that dumb. Surgery followed: screws, plates, a recovery boot that smelled increasingly like regret. But by late August, I was limping with purpose and had a fresh pair of Master Sergeant stripes sewn on. The universe said, “Let’s test that ankle against five airports, seventeen stairs, and a sprint across Guam.”

Prologue

In case you missed it in my other posts (or skillfully dodged them), I was what the Air Force National Guard affectionately calls a “Maintainer.” Basically, I was the plane’s personal butler—tucking it in at night, waking it up in the morning, and making sure it didn’t throw a mechanical tantrum mid-flight. For this particular escapade, our job was to help shuffle aircraft from one location to another. Think of it as plane Uber, but with more jet fuel and fewer awkward small talk moments.

There’s nothing quite like healing from major surgery just in time to be flung across multiple time zones with a semi-packed duffel bag and no idea what day it is. At the end of August, I’d just been cleared for duty when I received a message asking, “Can you hopscotch the Pacific for all of September?” Warm weather? Exotic destinations? Questionable lodging situations? My ankle said “no,” my heart said “warm weather adventures,” and my mind said, “Here we go again—better pack some protein bars.”

🇯🇵 Chapter 1: Japan — Rank Drama and Rice Battles

September 1, we launched toward Japan. I was joined by two fellow Crew Chiefs and a flight crew. One of the Chiefs had never met me and immediately had a meltdown when he realized I outranked him. The drama? Immaculate. I wanted to tell him that we were on a professional scavenger hunt to keep planes alive, not auditioning for Survivor: NCO Edition, but I kept my thoughts to myself and casually reassured him, “I’m not above you—everyone on this team is equal. I just get slightly better snacks on the plane.” He didn’t laugh. Strike one.

We landed at 0200. No idea how to get aircraft services. Wandered the flight line like confused Sims. Finally got fueled up and were picked up by a mystery van around 0430. Lodging? Navy building. Receptionist? Not having it. She pointed us down the road to Air Force lodging—a walk that felt like a mini-marathon for my ankle. I nearly filed a complaint with my bones.

Our condo setup was cozy-ish. The new Chief and I were roommates, and after we got settled in, we went on the hunt for food. We found a twilight tavern filled with drunk karaoke champions and mystery noodles, ate like goblins, and as we staggered to our room, we were told we’d be leaving in the morning for Hawaii.

🌺 Chapter 2: Hawaii — Lobby Limbo and Sunshine Sadness

Oahu greeted us with sunshine and a tough-luck smile. Amazingly, everyone was able to check into their rooms early—well, everyone but me, that is. So I sat in the lobby with my bags, slowly becoming part of the furniture. Have I mentioned that my life is a simulation?

Once I finally got a room, I changed into civilian clothes with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew and searched for food and clarity. We were leaving the next day for Guam, and the only thing certain was my escalating sleep debt and fading ankle morale.

🌊 Chapter 3: Guam — Waterparks and Creative Use of Wristbands

Smooth flight. Glorious rooms. And a hotel with a waterpark included. At check-in, we received wristbands and learned from all the tourists that the wristbands never change. Therefore, if you never took yours off, you could come back and use the waterpark anytime you were in town... possibly illegally. Obviously, we kept the bands. Theft? Or creative reuse? You decide.

We met up with our already-deployed unit, partied responsibly-ish, and ate like kings. Clammy air, sketchy karaoke, and mystery cocktails—we were thriving. The ankle? Furious but silent. We promised ourselves we’d return and, wristbands intact, planned a stealthy re-entry for next week.

✈️ Chapter 4: Back to Japan — No A/C and Iron-Stick Dining

After 2½ days in Guam, we flew back to Japan, where we were welcomed with daylight. We headed to our lodging only to be told we were staying at Navy lodging. “Um, okay.” Simulation!

The good news: we each got our own rooms. The bad news—and I swear there’s always bad news—the rooms had no A/C. It was like sleeping inside a humidifier.

The newer Chief wanted to go to a local restaurant off-base. He insisted we wouldn’t need yen. “They’ll take your credit card,” he said—confidence radiating through his cargo pants. Wrong.

After we ordered, we sent him running back to base like an unpaid intern to fetch currency. Ordering food was a comedic challenge. When I asked for a pitcher of lemon water for the table, I received a toddler-sized pitcher that might fill my glass. I quickly grabbed it and announced, “I guess you’ll all have to order your own.”

Those of us who didn’t know quickly learned that when you go to an authentic Japanese restaurant, you will experience the following:

• You cook your own food at the table.

• Portions are tiny (like the water pitcher).

• You can ask for a fork, but it will probably insult the waiter—and they’ll tell you no.

• Chopsticks are mandatory, and when eating rice, chopsticks are your enemy.

• Clams dance on the grill, miming conversations from Finding Nemo.

We all ordered rice, soup, chicken, beef, and a few extra sides. The waiter explained in his best English that it was too much food, but we said “nah.” Little by little, they brought out our food, and we cooked our own meat on a hot iron grill in the center of the table. Following our meal, we received complimentary shots of sake and a plate of clams—nature’s little ventriloquists. Once they’re hot enough, they start flapping open and shut like they’re trying to confess their sins. It was oddly mesmerizing. Here is a picture I took of the talking clams...

By the end, we’d won the waiter over—possibly with our charm, possibly with our inability to use chopsticks. We’d heard tipping in Japan is considered an insult, so we double-checked with a few English-speaking folks inside. They confirmed: no tips allowed—just smiles, nods, and a firm commitment to not accidentally start an international incident.

🏨 Chapter 5: Hotel Ping-Pong and The Wake-Up Call

The next two days were a blur of naps and gym sessions—basically the military version of a spa retreat, minus the cucumber water and add some grunting. Then came the news: we were heading to Australia next. Departure time? A crisp 0400, because apparently joy must always be tempered with sleep deprivation.

Still, I was buzzing with excitement. Australia! Suddenly, every ankle twinge felt like a minor inconvenience.

The next morning, the room phone rang. Never a good sign. I answered to a grave voice stating, “You need to be downstairs. We are leaving shortly,” and he hung up.

In a panic, I threw my stuff together like I was escaping a fire. Shoes untied, half-packed suitcase, deodorant nowhere to be found—I ran downstairs like a haunted action figure. My ankle screamed the whole way, but I was downstairs and ready in record time.

Then I saw the man who had called, chatting casually with some of the crew. When I asked about the rush, he replied, “Oh, the bus is coming. It should be here in 45 minutes,” sipping coffee like he hadn’t just triggered my fight-or-flight response.

That critical detail somehow didn’t make it into the group chat. “I thought you were waiting on me—I sprinted through my morning like it was the Olympics,” I responded. I almost cried.

So I could’ve showered, packed my bag like a civilized human, maybe even tied my boots instead of doing the frantic one-legged hop.

Finally, I spotted two of the flight crew and asked, “So… what fresh chaos is this?” They casually informed me we’d been rerouted to Alaska for alert duty. So much for my tropical dreams—goodbye warm weather, hello frostbite and regret.

❄️ Chapter 6: Alaska — Alert, Ice, and Inner Reflection

We flew to Alaska that morning, spent 15 thrilling days on alert—pretending to be ready—and then flew home commercially. So much for Australia. Instead of beaches and kangaroos, we were rerouted to Alaska. “Be onalert,” they said. For what? Moose? Polar diplomacy? I never found out.