Back in the mid-1980s, MCAS Tustin was the hub of West Coast Marine helicopter aviation. Rows of CH-46 Sea Knights and CH-53 Sea Stallions sat beneath those massive wooden blimp hangars, silent reminders of a time when the mission was different. Those hangars, built in 1942 to house Navy blimps patrolling the coast during WWII, were something else: 17 stories high, over 1,000 feet long, and among the largest freestanding wooden structures ever built. By the time the Marines took over in 1951, airships had moved on, and helicopters called the hangars home. They weren’t just buildings. They were landmarks, woven into the daily lives of everyone who served there.
For the Marines who trained there before heading to Vietnam, or who returned to train others, it held an even deeper meaning. To them it was LTA Santa Ana, and the name carried weight. Generations of aviators and crew passed through those hangars on their way to war and back again. That history was still in the air when I got there, even if we didn’t always talk about it.
Tustin felt different. It had its own steady rhythm, not as flashy as Pendleton or as loud as jet-heavy El Toro nearby. Instead, it was grounded, steady, defined by those gargantuan hangars casting long shadows across the Orange County fields. The faint smell of JP-5, the constant low hum of rotor blades, the long California sunsets. There was something about it. It was a place that felt like it would always be there.
Liberty weekends were when we got to break the routine. Marines from Tustin and El Toro would spill out into the surrounding towns. The El Toro E-Club was always the starting point. Cheap drinks, familiar faces, a safe place to unwind before heading further out. The Crazy Horse Steakhouse & Saloon in Santa Ana was my favorite, a magnet for Marines back then with live country music, line dancing, and steaks big enough to choke on. Saw some great shows there too. Other nights it was Newport Beach. Mutt Lynch’s on the sand, Blackie’s by the pier, or Goat Hill Tavern in Costa Mesa with its gritty dive bar feel. Sometimes just pulling up together was enough, sitting outside, watching the night roll on, knowing we’d end up somewhere memorable by the end of it.
As the years went by, the missions changed, and so did Tustin. The base closed in 1999, the aircraft moved to Miramar, and housing developments replaced the fields we used to jog past. Still, those giant hangars remained. For years, they stood tall, visible from the freeway, silent markers of a history most had forgotten. Every time I drove by, they pulled me back. Even flying into John Wayne Airport, I’d find myself scanning for them from the sky. They were impossible to miss.
Then November 2023 happened. The north hangar caught fire, and within days, it was gone. Watching the news footage was like losing the base all over again. That giant, which had been part of the skyline forever, burned and crumbled. Nothing but echoes and ash. The south hangar still stands, for now. They talk about making it a park or cultural site. I don’t know what the right answer is. Maybe nobody does.
Driving past Tustin these days is bittersweet. There’s no more flight line, no more rotor wash, no more scent of JP-5 in the air. It’s hard to imagine what it felt like back then, to think about how those weekends off-base always felt endless, even when they weren’t. Still, that lone hangar looms in the distance, stubborn and steady, like it’s waiting for someone to finally decide what to do with it.
If you were part of that time, turning wrenches, running in formation, playing a pick-up game of basketball inside the hangars, or just standing outside those giants wondering what would come next, this post is for you. Share your stories in the comments if you want. The base is gone, but the memories. Those will stick.
Semper Fi.
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Semper Fidelis
