Marine Flight School Hangover…the last thing a flight school wants to hear is that the instructor pilot is not available to save his life. This Marine flight instructor is having some fun at the expense of this new aviator. Or does he really have a hangover?

Marine Flight School Hangover: Not the Instructor You Were Hoping For

It was a bright and early Monday morning at Marine Flight School, and 2nd Lt. Travis Jenkins was feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. Today was the day—the day he’d finally get to fly the AH-1 Cobra with a real instructor pilot. He had trained for months, gone through endless simulations, and practiced every procedure down to muscle memory. But nothing could prepare him for what he was about to experience.

As Jenkins approached the flight line, he saw his instructor, Captain “Salty” O’Reilly, leaning against the helicopter, sunglasses on, arms crossed. There was something…off. Maybe it was the way Captain O’Reilly swayed slightly or the fact that his uniform looked like it had been crumpled up in a ball all weekend. Jenkins didn’t think too much of it. After all, this was the Captain O’Reilly—legendary for flying through sandstorms, threading the needle in combat, and supposedly once shooting down a drone with his sidearm for fun. The man was a hero.

But when Jenkins got closer, he smelled something faintly resembling tequila and regret. “Uh, good morning, sir!” Jenkins said, snapping to attention.

O’Reilly winced. “Can we keep it down, Lieutenant? Jesus, are you trying to kill me before we even get in the bird?”

Jenkins blinked. “Sir?”

The captain lowered his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes. “Look, Jenkins, here’s the deal: I may or may not have gone a little hard last night. You know, one drink led to another, and the next thing you know, I’m challenging some Navy guys to a karaoke contest. Long story short, I’m not exactly…at my best.”

Jenkins’ stomach dropped. “Uh, sir, should we—”

“No, no,” O’Reilly interrupted, waving him off. “We’re Marines, son! We push through. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to do anything stupid, right?”

Jenkins gulped. “Right…”

They climbed into the cockpit, Jenkins nervously running through his pre-flight checks while O’Reilly adjusted his seat in a way that made it clear he was trying to get comfortable. Very comfortable. Maybe too comfortable.

As they lifted off, Jenkins’ hands were sweating. It wasn’t just the flying—it was the sudden realization that his life was quite literally in the hands of a guy who probably hadn’t slept and was running on fumes and a bad breakfast burrito. Every time Jenkins made a slight correction, he could hear O’Reilly mutter under his breath.

“Don’t mess this up,” Jenkins whispered to himself, adjusting the collective.

Suddenly, O’Reilly’s voice crackled through the headset. “Alright, Lieutenant. You’ve got control. Just…don’t crash. I’m gonna, uh, rest my eyes for a minute.”

“Sir?! What do you mean rest your—” Jenkins’ panic was cut short as he realized O’Reilly had actually reclined his seat back and pulled his helmet down over his face.

Flying solo in a Cobra for the first time was not how Jenkins envisioned his day. But he did his best, keeping everything smooth and steady. Every so often, he’d glance back at O’Reilly, who was doing a pretty convincing impression of someone either meditating or slipping into a tequila-induced coma.

Just as Jenkins was starting to feel somewhat in control, O’Reilly suddenly jolted awake. “Jenkins, what the hell are you doing?”

Jenkins nearly jumped out of his seat. “Sir?! You told me to fly!”

“I didn’t say fly like you’ve got the hands of a toddler! Come on, man, this isn’t a roller coaster!”

Jenkins’ confidence crumbled. “Sir, I thought you were, uh, resting.”

O’Reilly sighed dramatically. “You know what, Jenkins? I think this is a good lesson for you. When you’re out there, in the thick of combat, and your instructor’s had too much to drink the night before, you have to adapt. Improvise. Overcome. That’s what it means to be a Marine aviator.”

Jenkins nodded slowly, not entirely sure if that was a real lesson or just the ramblings of a man with a monumental hangover.

As they finally touched down, O’Reilly climbed out of the cockpit, stretching and rubbing his temples. “Alright, Jenkins, you didn’t kill us. Not bad for a rookie. But next time, maybe bring some aspirin and coffee for your instructor. Got it?”

Jenkins could only smile weakly. “Yes, sir.”

And as Captain O’Reilly walked off toward the hangar, probably in search of more hydration and fewer responsibilities, Jenkins thought to himself, Well, at least I know what to expect now… maybe.

The End

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