In the fall of 1979, I was driving a few shipmates to the firing range for yearly qualifications, all of us in uniform and in a GSA sedan. The range was located near Mt. Diablo, inland from the Bay Area, and we were passing through the far side of Oakland.

We had to hang a left at the intersection ahead of us, but there was a car simply sitting there, despite having the green, as the driver chatted with someone standing in the street.

I drove up behind him, waited a few seconds to be polite, and then tapped my horn to let him know that I was there.

The guy he'd been talking to jerked upright like I'd goosed him with a cattle prod and immediately started stomping back toward me. I rolled down the window.

"You really don't want to do that, Sailor," one of my shipmates quickly said, taking off his seatbelt and getting ready to get out of the car.

I grabbed his arm to keep him in place and nodded while smiling pleasantly at the advancing man, who was already shouting obscenities. I waited for him to reach my window before asking him if there was a problem.

In reply, he punched through the window ...

Okay, I understood that it's considered a bad idea to give somebody an open window in this sort of situation, but I'd never really understood why. I mean, sure, he could punch through the window ... but to do so, he had to extend his arm into the car ... and the car is made of metal.

I leaned back, grabbed his wrist with both hands, and pulled as hard as I could. The sound of his face smacking the edge of the car's roof was so nice that I pushed him back and then did it again. Then I let go of his arm and let him collapse onto the ground, bleeding from the mouth and nose.

The car in front of us had already left, so I pulled forward (careful to not run over any part of the guy laying on the ground) and flicked on my turn signal. He was still laying there when we made our turn and drove off.