I am pleased that I was not shot by Secret Service snipers when I marched in President Bill Clinton's second inaugural parade back in 1997.

But first, the back story.

I was a cadet at the United States Coast Guard Academy between 1994 and 1998. When Clinton was re-elected in 1996, I was given the opportunity to march with fellow students in his inaugural parade in Washington, D.C.

I volunteered, simply to get a break from the daily schedule of shining upperclassmen's shoes with their own spit between Reveille and Taps each and every day. (I did other things, like folding American flags incorrectly, but the spit-shines predominate my memories.)

To participate in the parade, I would be excused from school for a few days so we could take a bus from the academy in New London, Conn., to Washington, D.C., and then practice for a few days. And, best of all, all 50 of us marchers were given what I had been pining for ever since I moved from my home in California to Connecticut: a free pair of thermal underwear, paid for by the taxpayer.

After a long chartered (again, paid for by the taxpayer) bus ride that included several viewings of the first hour of "Full Metal Jacket," we arrived at the United States Naval Academy near Washington. We would be bunking and practicing marching there for a few days before the parade.

My comrades at Annapolis welcomed me with an aluminum cot almost as comfortable as the floor. (I'm able to make the comparison because at the Academy, I slept on the floor because I didn't want to mess up my hospital-cornered bed.)

Nevertheless, I was excited to be there. If I had been a civilian at a civilian school, I would never have gotten the chance to parade in front of the president down Pennsylvania Avenue. Marching in a parade, broadcast on CNN and seen by millions of single women, would make up for so many injustices I suffered at the Academy. (One injustice was that I wasn't allowed to listen to the radio or a stereo when I was a freshman.)

Just like parades we had every Friday at the Academy, in the inaugural parade I would march with my "piece." My piece was a U.S. rifle, caliber .30, M-1, gas-operated, clip-fed, air-cooled, semi-automatic shoulder weapon. The only reason I know all those specifications is because I was forced to memorize that piece of information when I was a freshman or the upperclassmen would make me sit on my bayonet while I was yelled at.

I was never a great marcher, though. In addition, although I was forced to sleep with my rifle when I was a freshman, handling a weapon was not second nature to a child whose parents' first date was a Joan Baez concert. I always declined to participate in extra marching practice when I was a freshman because I spent all my free time trying to fashion a radio out of a coconut.

Jan. 20 finally arrived. In the military, "If you're early, you're on time," so naturally we arrived about 12 hours before we were scheduled to march. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been sleeting, which made my wool peacoat as waterlogged as a water-boarded cadet. (But that hazing ritual will be discussed at a later time.)

All that time waiting around bored the senior cadets. To pass the time, they told us that we needed to be extra careful when marching by the president -- Secret Service snipers were ready to shoot us if we made any sudden move with our rifles. Some of us thought they were kidding.

Well, the last time I thought an upperclassman was kidding, I was wrong and ended up doing pushups to the tune of Bruce Springsteen's "I'm Goin' Down." (Every time the Boss said the word "Down," I had to do a push-up. He said the word "Down" 80 times. I hate Bruce Springsteen.)

So I believed the upperclassmen about the snipers. And, 12 hours later, when we stiffly marched past the president through a mix of snow and horse dung, I was the most rigid cadet you would ever see. I was so squared-away I would give Beetle Bailey nightmares.

I did catch a peripheral glimpse of the president as I marched by. It was an impressive sight. I didn't see my next president until I was a reporter at my first newspaper in Scranton, Penn. President George W. Bush visited Scranton for about 24 hours, and I was assigned to tail him the entire time, getting as close to him as I could for those 24 hours.

That time, I really did almost get shot by a Secret Service sniper.

But that's another story.