A Navy Brat growing up in Oak Harbor Washington

Looking back on my life from the woods here in Tennessee, I realize that during the late 1970's, I grew up in one of the coolest places in the United States: Oak Harbor, Washington.  

When I tell people I grew up in Oak Harbor, Washington, and that I was born in Hawaii, they look at me in disbelief.  That I could be Salmon fishing one moment, then 30 minutes later at Cow Corner having a burger and a chocolate milkshake, or going down to the record shop downtown on Pioneer Way to buy my first concert tickets for Boston, then Pat Benatar.  Making love during the 4th of July Fireworks, with the moonlight shining off the ocean.    It was the first time we were both in love, and I still think about her often.  It was the perfect American Graffiti adolescence.  I think back to my time on that Island as some of the best of my life.

Growing up in Oak Harbor in the late 1970s gave me a quintessential Pacific Northwest youth experience, blending small-town charm with the vibrant energy of a close-knit community.  The town's unique social fabric was defined by a constant, shifting dance between the "Navy brats" from the base and the "local kids" who grew up on the island—two distinct worlds that naturally collided, adapted, and seamlessly integrated in the hallways of Oak Harbor High.  It was a time defined by simple freedoms and legendary local routines, where weekends meant piling into a bright red Ford Pinto to cruise down Pioneer Way or meet up with friends at Cowcorner.  High school was an unforgettable blur of camaraderie, culminating in the anticipation of graduating at the turn of the decade, with classic weekend keg parties out in the woods and regular hangouts over legendary pizza at Smilies Pizza.  The town's shared rhythm felt like a unique comfort, framed by the beautiful Whidbey Island landscape and punctuated by history-making moments like the rumbling eruption of Mount St. Helens on the horizon, making it an absolutely magical and irreplaceable place to spend one's formative years.

Muscle cars rumbled down Pioneer Way, their dual exhausts bouncing echoes off downtown Oak Harbor's brick storefronts.  It was the late 1970s on Whidbey Island, when a tank of gas cost less than five dollars, the air constantly smelled of saltwater mixed with muscle car exhaust, and our lives were measured by the length of the weekend.

Every Friday night started exactly the same way: cruising Pioneer Way.  The headlights of the bright red Ford Pinto caught the low fog rolling off the water as we made our evening rounds.  It wasn't a muscle car, but that red paint stood out under the streetlights—a continuous loop of open road, good friends, and a full tank that only cost a few bucks.  People would pack into Chevy Novas, Ford Mavericks, and beat-up pickup trucks, doing slow laps from one end of town to the other.  If you weren't on Pioneer, you were idling over at Cowcorner—the ultimate staging ground where everyone parked, leaned against warm hoods, and figured out where the night's kegger was going to be.  It was our version of a social network, written in the smoke of burning rubber and the static of FM radio.

The parties themselves were legendary, hidden deep in the woods off Taylor Road or down by the gravel pits.  Someone's older brother bought the kegs, and word of mouth did the rest.  We'd stand around a massive bonfire under the massive Douglas firs, plastic cups sweating in the cool Pacific Northwest air, listening to Fleetwood Mac or Led Zeppelin blasting from someone's open car doors.  You knew just about everyone there—the base kids whose families moved every three years, and the locals whose roots in the island soil went back generations.  We were all bound together by the high school, the island, and the looming reality of graduation.

The Class of '80's weekend routine was practically set in stone.  The slow cruise down Pioneer Way always led to Cowcorner, where we'd park, swap stories through rolled-down windows, and figure out who was heading out to the woods for the keg parties.  But before any bonfire or gravel pit gathering, the real destination was Smilies Pizza.  Slipping into a booth at Smilies meant catching up over a steaming taco pizza, loaded up just the way we liked it.  The crowded room was always alive with the familiar noise of jukebox music and high school drama, making it the perfect refueling station before heading out into the Whidbey Island night.

By the spring of 1980, the carefree rhythm of those pizza runs and late-night cruises began to collide with a changing world.  On May 18th, Mount St. Helens gave us a stark reminder that our high school days were officially ending.  When the mountain erupted, the sky over Oak Harbor turned a ghostly, bruised gray.  The daylight dissolved into a strange twilight, and a fine, gritty layer of volcanic ash settled over everything.  The mountain had changed forever, and we knew then that change was inevitable.

Walking across the stage to grab our diplomas a few weeks later felt exactly like that sky: completely surreal, a literal changing of the guard.  We left the comfort of Smilies and the familiar patterns of Pioneer Way behind, stepping into a new decade as the earth itself shifted.  The IIsland, the volcano, and that reliable red Pinto carried us to the edge of adulthood, a moment none of us would ever forget.

When graduation finally came for the Class of '80, it felt like standing on the edge of the world.  The stadium lights down at the high school field marked the end of an era.  Some of the guys were already signed up for the Navy, planning to just cross the highway to NAS Whidbey.  Others packed bags for Seattle, or, like myself, joined the Army.  We felt invincible, yet entirely unsure of what the new decade would bring.

 The 1970s ended not with a whimper, but with a rumble from the earth.  We eventually left those woods, traded the muscle cars for more practical things, and watched Pioneer Way change over the decades.  But if you close your eyes on a crisp autumn night in Oak Harbor, you can still hear the phantom roar of a V8 engine, the crackle of a bonfire, and the laughter of a generation that grew up in the shadow of the jets and the volcano.

This childhood defined my life.  It led me to realize life is short.  Life is like a wave crashing on the beach; you better ride it, or it will ride you.        

The Jimmy Hendrix that I know.

Although I have never met Jimi Hendrix, I feel like I know him somewhat.  He grew up in Washington State like I did. He served in the same Army units I did.  I live in a town that he lived in while he was in the Army. I've even met people who worked with him while in the Army.  Even though I don't really know him, I do feel a connection.  

"Jimi was a strange kid.  Jimi and the Army never got along with each other." - MSG Mosley, Jimi Hendrix's former Squad Leader when he was in the 101st Airborne Division.  I met MSG Mosley when I was first assigned to the 82nd Airborne Division.  He was a platoon sergeant in the company that I was assigned to.   

This last spring, we visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, where Jimi is an inductee.  His contributions to music left an indelible mark on American culture.  Long before he revolutionized rock music at Woodstock, Jimi Hendrix honed his world-class guitar showmanship in the shadow of Fort Campbell, splitting his time between the 101st Airborne Division barracks, the streets of Clarksville, Tennessee, and Nashville's jumping rhythm-and-blues clubs.  During this pivotal, underreported period in the early 1960s, Private James Hendrix transformed from a struggling, self-taught paratrooper into a formidable professional musician.

From Paratrooper to the King Kasuals

In May 1961, given a choice by a judge between prison and the military after being caught in stolen cars, a 19-year-old Hendrix enlisted in the U.S. Army.  By November, he was assigned to the storied 101st Airborne Division, the "Screaming Eagles," at Fort Campbell, right on the Kentucky-Tennessee border.

Military life, however, did not suit Hendrix.  Superiors noted he was a terrible shot, frequently shirked his duties, and was often caught sleeping on the job.  His mind was entirely elsewhere.  Hendrix begged his father to mail him his red Danelectro electric guitar, and once it arrived, he never let it out of his sight.

The turning point came when fellow serviceman and bassist Billy Cox walked past a base service club and heard Hendrix playing inside.  Captivated by a sound he described as "John Lee Hooker meets Beethoven," Cox walked in, introduced himself, and a legendary musical partnership was born.  Along with saxophonist Charles Washington, they formed a band called the King Kasuals and began playing locally.

The Clarksville Hub and a Stranded Twist of Fate

Because off-base housing was affordable, Hendrix spent substantial time living in nearby Clarksville, Tennessee.  He and Cox rented a house locally to write and rehearse, quickly becoming fixture musicians at regional dives like The Palms and the Pink Poodle Club.  Hendrix was a familiar face downtown, often staging impromptu jam sessions inside Collins Music Store on Legion Street.

By July 1962, the Army had grown weary of Hendrix's lack of military focus and granted him an honorable discharge.  With $400 of mustering-out pay in his pocket, Hendrix intended to take a bus straight home to Seattle.  However, he decided to spend one final night partying at a jazz joint in downtown Clarksville.  By the next morning, he had been fleeced or partied away all but $16, leaving him stranded 2,000 miles from home.

With no money for a ticket, Hendrix was forced to double down on his only bankable skill.  He tracked down a soldier he had previously sold his guitar to, begged to borrow it back, and dedicated himself entirely to making a living on six strings.

Weekend Battles on Nashville's Jefferson Street

With Clarksville as his initial anchor, Hendrix routinely traveled an hour south down to Nashville on the weekends to plug into the city's blistering Chitlin' Circuit.  While downtown Nashville was famous for country music, Jefferson Street in North Nashville was the thriving epicenter of the city's Black live music scene.

Weekend after weekend, Hendrix and the King Kasuals served as the house band at the Del Morocco Club and played packed sets at Club Baron.  In these clubs, Hendrix developed the flashy showmanship that later defined his global superstardom—learning to play guitar behind his back, pick strings with his teeth, and experiment with heavy rhythm grooves.  He also worked as an elite weekend sideman, backing up iconic soul and blues acts passing through town like Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, and Little Richard.

The Nashville scene was highly competitive and deeply grounded in traditional blues.  Local lore notes a legendary 1963 guitar battle at Club Baron, where Hendrix was famously outplayed and humbled by local blues icon Johnny Jones.  Hendrix later credited this highly demanding environment as his true crucible, stating: "Nashville is where I really learned to play guitar."

A Lasting Legacy

By late 1963, frustrated by the limits of playing only as a background sideman, Hendrix left Middle Tennessee for New York, then headed to London, where he exploded into international fame.  But he never forgot his roots; at the peak of his career, he formed his legendary Band of Gypsys, drawing on his 101st Airborne days and bringing his old Clarksville partner, Billy Cox, on bass.

Today, the region proudly preserves this chapter of rock history.  Visitors looking to retrace his steps can find an official Tennessee Music Pathways marker dedicated to him at the Downtown Commons in Clarksville.  At the same time, Nashville's Musicians Hall of Fame & Museum features a dedicated "Nashville to Woodstock" exhibit honoring the exact spaces where Private James Hendrix first discovered his wild, electric genius.

Fast forward a few years, and I got my first Warrant Officer assignment in the 101st Airborne Division in Clarksville, Tennessee, where Jimi lived for a few years.  The apartment building he lived in is still standing.  The music venue he played in has since been torn down.  But if you walk downtown Clarksville late at night, you might hear a guitar riff in the distance or see a shadow that might be Jimi's ghost. 

The Sinai: The Sulton of Soda

DESERT HIGHWAY, SINAI — During my 9 months in the Sinai, I made the trip from South Camp Sharm el-Sheikh to North Camp el-Gorah once by Military Vehicle.  The 8-hour trip was long and hot.  It is a lonely trip, only passing a few other vehicles along the way with long stretches of varied desert terrain. Traveling from the Red Sea in the south, following the Egypt-Israeli border to the Mediterranean in the north.  It is full of ancient sites and war damage from the past Arab and Israeli conflicts.  One unusual stop is the Detroit Oasis, where we talk with the Sultan of Soda.

In the late 1980s through the late 1990s, international peacekeepers making the grueling eight-hour trek between South Camp and North Camp faced punishing 110°F desert heat as a constant. But on a barren stretch of highway connecting North and South Sinai along the Israeli border, you can find an unlikely sanctuary: a cold Coca-Cola, a classic rock soundtrack, and a chat with the "Sultan of Soda" himself. Officially known as the "Detroit Oasis," this open-air wooden shack has become a legendary mandatory stop for members of the Multinational Force and Observers (MFO). Run by Mark Farber, an enterprising ex-Peace Corps volunteer from Metro Detroit, the remote outpost defies incredible logistical odds daily to serve military personnel, Bedouins, and backpackers alike.

A Logistical Miracle in the Sand that operates in the middle of nowhere, Farber relied on a diesel generator and a constant rotation of ice blocks to keep his beverages freezing cold. He hauls the ice and crates of soda across the desert from the nearest town several times a week.

As a newly minted Warrant Logistics Officer during my nine-month deployment in this desolate landscape, I find that pulling up to the shack feels like stepping back into Western comfort. The simple structure is adorned with international road signs, flags, and graffiti from passing travelers. Inside, the menu features: Ice-cold sodas and beer, freshly grilled cheese sandwiches, and Hot coffee.

During the long journey between camps, it was considered a haven for peacekeepers. The outpost has built a massive reputation among soldiers navigating the long transit between the MFO's primary bases. With his stereo blasting classic rock, Farber provides more than just physical nourishment; he offers a psychological escape from the isolation of desert patrols.

While geopolitical shifts, problems with rebels, and an unstable Egyptian government made the Detroit Oasis untenable.  This forced its closure in the late 1990's.  The Detroit Oasis was a vibrant, free-wheeling monument to hospitality in the heart of the Sinai. For a number of years, the soldiers who passed through the Sultan of Soda made the long drive between camps a little more bearable.