The rain had stopped and there was a big puddle in front of the bar just outside the American Legion Post.
A rumpled old retired Navy commander was standing near the edge with a fishing line in the puddle.
A curious, young, rather cocky Marine fighter pilot came over to him and asked what he was doing.
"Fishing," the old commander said.
"Poor old Navy guy," the Marine pilot thought to himself and invited him into the bar and ordered him a double shot of vintage 12-year-old Scotch.
As he felt he should start a conversation while they were sipping their spirits, the young jet pilot winked at another pilot and asked the retired Navy guy, "How many have you caught today?"
"You're No. 14," the old commander answered, taking another sip from his vintage Scotch, "Three Air Force, two Army and nine Marines."
A rumpled old retired Navy commander was standing near the edge with a fishing line in the puddle.
A curious, young, rather cocky Marine fighter pilot came over to him and asked what he was doing.
"Fishing," the old commander said.
"Poor old Navy guy," the Marine pilot thought to himself and invited him into the bar and ordered him a double shot of vintage 12-year-old Scotch.
As he felt he should start a conversation while they were sipping their spirits, the young jet pilot winked at another pilot and asked the retired Navy guy, "How many have you caught today?"
"You're No. 14," the old commander answered, taking another sip from his vintage Scotch, "Three Air Force, two Army and nine Marines."