Cy and I have been involved in firearms training for years. While we both grew up around guns, it really went to a new level in recent years after he had asked me to teach a basic firearms class to his wife, mother, sister, and several close friends for a Christmas present. This was several years ago, and we taught a lot of classes together after that. We went all over the country training together, having a blast at each course we went to, hosted, or taught together. Many memories were made; some of which can be told here, others that will be shared only in person or only in memories when I raise a glass in his honor.
This particular course that I'm referring to was in Virginia. To put this in perspective, the name of the course is "Killhouse" and consisted of fighting with handguns and rifles in and around structures. Not that it's important for this story about Cy, but there is an After Action Report available HERE for this course. The point being- we had a lot of gear with us... a LOT of gear. Multiple rifles, handguns, 50 rifle mags each, thousands of rounds of ammunition, chest rigs, and more. Needless to say, it was a lot of gear, especially when traveling out of state.
Speaking of which- this would likely be a fine time to explain that Virginia is one of four "commonwealths" in the country (not technically a state). I don't know enough about what all that means, but I do know that it means that traffic laws are ridiculous there. Having driven through Virginia many times, I've never navigated that state without a traffic stop. Ever.
This time was no different.
When traveling for training courses, Cy and I usually had an agreement. I would cover hotel and ammo expenses, and he would cover the flight and rental car. Such was true in this instance. We flew from Monroe airport, now properly named in Cy's honor, to an undisclosed airport in Virginia. We had a great flight up, and checked in at the airport as we waited to get our rental car. The process was fairly smooth, much the way that it usually was whenever we traveled somewhere together. Cy was a professional, and truly in his element in the airport realm.
We get in the car, and Cy is driving. First priority is to obviously find a gas station that has snacks, Gatorades, and other essentials for any training event. Oh, and beer... Definitely need to pick up beer for after the strenuous hours that would be spent on the range. In order to speed up the process, I put everything on my card and we took multiple trips to our loaded down hatch-back that was our rental car. We spent a laughable amount of money at this grocery store on nonsense. Worse yet was that we're now standing in the parking lot trying to figure out exactly where we can stuff our cases of beer into this tiny car which is overflowing with rifles, ammo, equipment, etc.
Paint that picture in your mind, and think about us laughing at ourselves with the ironic "I hope we don't get pulled over" statements that we were making. Good grief...
We get in the car with Cy driving and we're on our way. In the wonderful commonwealth of Virginia, they can legally reduce the speed limits from 65 to 40 mph with no other zones in between. (Ask me how I know...) We're cruising right along and pass over a bridge only to see a Sheriff's Deputy positioned perfectly in a speed trap some 500 feet passed a sign where the speed limit inexplicably dropped as above mentioned. He immediately lights it up, signaling pull-over for this rented hatch-back car that is stuffed to the gills with equipment we don't want to explain. A few moments pass, and it dawns on me that there might magazine restrictions in the commonwealth of Virginia. A quick Google search shows that indeed they do limit magazines to 20 rounds, with anything more being a misdemeanor.
I calmly ask Cy "how many AR mags did you bring with you?" He replies with "I don't know, 48-50." Yeah, me too.... That's about 100 misdemeanors sitting in the back seat. I said "Cy, if this deputy chooses to search this car, we're going to be here for a month." Cy laughs as he's rolling down his window and says "Brother- if he tosses this car, we're going to be here for several months."
With that we proceed with the traffic stop. The deputy glances in the back seat and inevitably saw all of the gear. Being where we were (more importantly, what we were close to), the deputy was completely professional and never mentioned any of the equipment. He simply took the paperwork and returned to his car to start writing the tickets.
This is where it took a turn... On his approach back to the car (you know, the one filled with equipment we don't want to explain to our new friend), Cy has his phone up and is taking a picture of the cop car behind us as we're pulled over. I'm yelling at Cy saying "Are you serious? Put your phone away and let's just take the ticket and get out of here!" He replies with "Man, I have to send to this Chole, she won't believe this!"
He snapped the below photo and shortly thereafter took the ticket that the Deputy handed him. He wasn't thrilled about the ticket, but we did laugh (while driving slowly) at our good fortune of not having to go through the vast amount of equipment that we had packed into this tiny, non-assuming hatch-back rental car.
For the rest of the trip- many a memory was made, many a beer was drank, and many a story was told. We laughed a lot. We learned a lot. We complained about the early mornings and long nights of training that included sore muscles, bruises, and mild dehydration. It was a great trip that I will always cherish... One of many that we took and one that included plenty of downtime for us to talk, laugh, and talk trash to each other. It was my favorite training course/trip that I've done, and I've done quite a few.
Training just isn't quite the same any more.
Cheers, Cy. I love you, brother- and I miss our training together.
Fly high, Cy.
