It was a Friday in August 1994. It was hot. Coastal North Carolina is hot. I was flying carrier-based attack jets while assigned to a tactical electronic warfare squadron based at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point. In those days, Friday afternoons were centered on getting all the aircraft safely on deck and heading off to the Officer’s Club to blow off the week’s steam.

I was making my way through the parking lot toward my burgundy 1993 Anniversary Edition Corvette. I had bought the car in my effort to be a living cliché of a jet pilot.