Honoring Our Hometown Heroes
- Teresa Grosze
- Nov 11, 2025
- 11 min read
From the greens at Rio Pinar to the front lines overseas, we’re taking a moment to recognize Orlando’s own Peter Morlock as he shares a few stories of his life in service.
By T. Michele Walker
Peter J. Morlock, Jr. has always been on the move. One minute, he’s flying missions between Spain and Crete. The next, he’s chasing down ships smuggling oil during those tense embargo years. All in the name of serving his country.
He started as an air crewman, riding in the back of reconnaissance planes, gathering intel. When he first landed at the Defense Language Institute, the Navy handed him Hebrew. Peter didn’t waste time pushing back. “Come on, we’ve got one country that speaks Hebrew. We’re not going to war with them,” he said. After a little back-and-forth, they switched him to Arabic.
Negotiation? Peter picked that up early. Growing up in Rio Pinar Country Club in the ‘60s and ‘70s, golf was king. Before Arnold Palmer’s Bay Hill was even a thing, Rio Pinar’s private course was the spot. From 1966 to 1978, the Florida Citrus Open brought legends like Arnold Palmer, Lee Trevino, and Jack Nicklaus right to the neighborhood.
Peter was obsessed with golf. Every year, he begged his parents to let him go to the Open dressed as his hero. They struck a deal.
“The rule was, as long as I kept getting A’s, I could wear the same shoes, shirt, and pants as Jack Nicklaus,” Peter says. “That’s why I was always decked out just like him. He always let me come up front when he played.”
Peter stuck to his end—straight A’s. His parents kept theirs, and he showed up at the Open in full mini-Nicklaus mode. If you ever doubt the story, there’s even a photo in the old Sentinel Star from around 1970 to prove it.
So what makes a hero?
Where do they come from, really? Is there some secret ingredient that turns a regular kid into someone like that?
Every year on November 11, we celebrate Veterans Day. It’s more than just a day off—it’s a chance to show some real gratitude, to listen to the stories our veterans want to tell. These stories aren’t just words. They connect us, and sometimes they heal.
Peter J. Morlock, Jr. was born in Miami in 1961 and grew up in Orlando. He served as a Senior Chief Petty Officer in the Navy from 1987 to 2007. His first real conflict was Desert Storm in 1991, then Bosnia-Herzegovina and Kosovo. “I count that all as one campaign,” he says. “I did three tours in Afghanistan and seven in Iraq.”
He’s got more medals and awards than we can list here. Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medals with combat, the Kuwait Liberation Medal, NATO Medal, a Bronze Star with Combat—the list goes on.
He even ended up on the cover of Stars and Stripes. “I had one of those 1980s porn mustaches, so it had to be around 1992. After Desert Storm, four of us in our Navy command got air medals and commendations. I never looked at it because I was so embarrassed by the picture.” He laughs, “I got rid of the stache.”
Back in the 1960s, Orlando really was a kind of paradise—a true City Beautiful.
This was before Disney changed everything. Kids rode their bikes for miles, only heading home when the streetlights flicked on. Swimming in the lakes was just part of life. Sure, downtown I-4 was always a mess, but you could drive from Kissimmee to Tampa and count the cars on your fingers—well, maybe two hands.
Peter served as an acolyte at Church of Christ the King Episcopal and went to Orange County Public Schools. He balanced being the teacher’s favorite with pulling off the occasional prank.
By high school, Peter was a good-looking, busy guy, curious about everything. “I’m a Gemini. I always joked I could never be happy just sticking to one thing.”
He joined the National Honor Society, got into athletics, chorus—he even played tennis with his childhood friend Marcos Marchena. “Marcos is a good player, too. We’d go hit some balls sometimes.”
“As a young man, Pete was fun, funny, and fiercely loyal to his friends,” says Marchena, who’s now a well-known Orlando attorney.
Back then, Peter checked out the new disco clubs, suited up in his best polyester, hair just right. It was the ‘70s, and he wanted to try everything—except the military.
“I had zero interest. Maybe being a diver, since I’d been certified since I was 13 and got my adult certification at 16. But honestly, no interest at all.”
He started college at the University of Central Florida. “I didn’t finish at UCF—which, if you know the joke, stands for ‘you can’t finish.’ And I didn’t.”
On his 21st birthday, Morlock went to Atlanta to see his dad. “After my parents split, my dad barely spoke to us for years. But on my 21st, we reconnected. I liked Atlanta, so I stayed and enrolled at Kennesaw State.”
The two Morlocks then packed up and moved to Hilton Head Island. “Dad’s business moved, and I fell in love with Hilton Head. But even with the new start, I could feel I wasn’t getting anywhere.”
It was the 1980s. Reagan was in office, and the enlistment period for the military had dropped to just two years. Morlock’s dad, a former Marine, figured it was time for a real talk.
“We had one of those father-son conversations. I listened for a while before saying, ‘All right, I’ll think about it.’”
After mulling it over, Morlock decided, “Why not? Let’s try something new. I might find something that finally clicks.”
His mom, dad, and brother Scott all backed him. Morlock signed up for the United States Navy. What he didn’t realize—his dad, the ex-Marine, had a whole set of stories he’d never shared.
Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.
Before starting Navy Boot Camp, every recruit takes a series of tests. One of them, the ASVAB, measures your cognitive skills and helps figure out where you’ll fit best in the Navy.
Morlock shipped out to Boot Camp in San Diego. “After the ASVAB, which I maxed out, I took the language test.” He scored sky-high on the Defense Language Aptitude Battery (DLAB), so the Navy sent him to Monterey, California, for DLI training as an Arabic linguist.
He struck a deal with his dad: “If I finish first in my class, you have to come.”
Just like he’d promised years before—like the Jack Nicklaus deal back in 1970—Peter came through and graduated as “Honor Man,” top of his class. True to his word, his dad flew out to San Diego.
“He showed up,” Morlock admits, “but he skipped my graduation. He met the USO lady and took her on a date instead.” Apparently, charm runs in the Morlock family.
Next stop: Defense Language Institute in Monterey. “Honestly, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever studied.”
There was a catch, though—the pace was brutal. “For me, I have to figure out the grammar before the language makes sense. But once it clicked, I was set.”
His dad flew out again for graduation. “I introduced him to my teacher, this wonderful Arab Armenian woman from Syria.”
Then Morlock’s jaw hit the floor. “My dad starts talking to her—in Arabic. She turns to me and says, ‘Why’d you struggle in my class when your dad speaks so well?’ I told her, ‘I’ve never heard him speak Arabic. I had no idea!’”
Morlock always knew his dad had been a Marine, but he never pressed for details. “He had the tattoo, and that’s all I really knew.”
Turns out, Morlock Sr. served in the Marines and was posted to Egypt. “He did embassy security, picked up Arabic, and got so good he ended up translating for a deputy ambassador.”
After finding this out, Morlock called his mom. She said, “Of course—where do you think he went every Friday night?”
“I told her, ‘I don’t know. I was three. I was in bed.’”
His dad spent Friday nights at the Rio Pinar Country Club, playing backgammon with his Arab friends, keeping his Arabic sharp. “I’m sure he played a little gin rummy on the side,” Morlock laughs.
After DLI, he went to cryptology school in San Angelo, Texas, then to Air Crew School in Pensacola. “They said, ‘You want to fly? We’ll send you to Pensacola flight school, but you’ve got to sign up for two more years. We’ll give you $40,000.’ Remember, this was 1988. That was a lot of money. I said, ‘Okay, put me in, coach. I’ll do it.’”
Non sibi sed patriæ.
The Navy doesn’t have an official motto, but most sailors know this Latin phrase: “Not for self, but for country.”
Morlock’s first station? Athens, Greece. “I don’t joke about my postings—Monterey was gorgeous, and Greece is just unbelievable.”
He saw plenty of action. In one wild three-week stretch, he was in 47 firefights with SEAL Team 3.
He went through BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training—in Coronado. The Pritzker Military Museum and Library calls it “one of the most demanding mental and physical trials known to man.”
At 37, Morlock stood out—older than anyone else on his team, oldest graduate in special warfare special operations training. “I made a lot of good friends. I was lucky. The people around me, we made a good team.”
From 1994 through 1997, he worked as a deputy branch chief in the Arab shop at the National Security Agency. Like a lot of veterans, Morlock’s got stories for days. His life could fill a novel, maybe even a blockbuster. The film “Tears of the Sun” with Bruce Willis? Loosely based on one of his own adventures. He laughs, “We’re both bald, except he’s 6’2” and I’m 5’8”, and we both married Italian women.”
Most veterans agree on two things about their service: it forced them to grow up, and they learned a lot about themselves. Same for Morlock. The military even helped him discover a few things about his father.
He tells a story from Egypt—somewhere around 1998 or ’99. “I’ve been to Egypt so many times, I can’t remember. We finished our training, and got a break from one of the ambassador groups. I thought, ‘Great! I’ll pop over to Giza and see the pyramids.’”
While hunting for a souvenir for his son, Erik, he spots a hotel. “One of those sunken bars, because you can drink in Egypt if you’re in a western hotel. I go in, and the bartender—he’s like 108 years old—looks at me and says, ‘You look like somebody I knew.’ Turns out, he was the same bartender my dad went to in 1950.”
Morlock had this clunky satellite phone, straight out of Miami Vice, and called his dad. The bartender and his father talked, bridging nearly fifty years in a single call.
Something similar happened during Desert Storm, back when Morlock was stationed in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. Tuesdays were Happy Hour—one of the rare times anyone could get a drink in Saudi, but only at the embassy or the security compound.
On a short break, Morlock and three friends headed over to the Marine compound. He introduced himself.
“Morlock?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that someone related to you?” they asked, pointing at a golf trophy.
He had no idea, but in 1958, his dad won the Marine Corps Golf Tournament in Saudi Arabia. His father’s name was right there, on a plaque behind the bar.
“Do you play golf, too?” they asked.
“No, I grew up on a golf course. Why would I do that?”
He laughs. He doesn’t play anymore—claims he’s terrible. “My granddaughter’s not even three months old, and she could beat me.”
Morlock’s final deployment took him to Iraq, where he spent the first half as personal security for President Jalal Talabani. “He’s a Kurd, and we were supposed to be helping train the Kurds for personal security.”
Talabani, Iraq’s sixth president and a member of the Iraqi Governing Council, helped negotiate the country’s interim constitution, the Transitional Administrative Law. Morlock remembers him: “Talabani was a unique person—spoke five languages, brilliant mind. He was also 5’4” and a blueberry muffin short of 400 pounds.” He grins. After seeing himself on TV for the first time, Talabani said, “I’ve got to lose weight.” From then on, only white meat. Reuters reported that Talabani flew to the United States “to undergo general medical checks and to reduce my weight.” He died in 2017.
After leaving the military, Morlock settled in Virginia Beach, doing contract work with special operations groups. “My first contracting job was to write a special warfare publication. I think I have two publications at the Naval War College.”
He’s got a real knack for writing, and he put it to work in the Navy. He ran into Brandon Webb, owner of SOFREP, a military news site. “We knew each other from the West Coast. He’s a good guy, a writer, New York Times bestseller.” Morlock contributed several stories to SOFREP. “I’ll be honest with you. I kind of miss it. My wife, Danielle, keeps telling me, ‘Why don’t you get back into writing?’”
In 2009, he moved back to Florida to take care of his mother, who was later diagnosed with ALS. “We didn’t know at first, but she was really struggling and had no help.”
That was a tough decision. After twenty years in the military, he was finally living near his son, Erik, who was still a teenager. “I wanted to bring her to Virginia, but it was too cold for her. So I made the tough call and moved to Florida to take care of my mom. She died in 2010.”
He lights up when he talks about his son. Erik graduated from the University of Virginia and married his childhood sweetheart. Morlock, who’s also an ordained minister, officiated the wedding. Now Erik and his wife have a daughter, Sofie Mae.
At 37, Morlock stood out—older than anyone else on his team, oldest graduate in special warfare special operations training. “I made a lot of good friends. I was lucky. The people around me, we made a good team.”
These days, Morlock lives with his wife, Danielle, in St. Pete. He stays busy, always moving, always working on something. He’s a Gemini, after all.
“I’m probably the luckiest operator I know,” he admits. “It always felt like I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Whether it was Afghanistan or Iraq, something big would go down, and somehow I’d either find out about it first or get pulled into it.”
If Morlock’s got a curse, it’s the weather. “Wherever I went, the worst weather on Earth showed up, too.” He’s talking about the coldest winter ever recorded at 11,000 feet up in Afghanistan, then barely making it home in time for Hurricane Elizabeth to slam Virginia Beach.
And then there’s Paris. The Navy sent him there for language school. “That was the summer the heat never let up—over 100 degrees for a month straight. Ten thousand people died.” So what did Morlock do? He hustled. Bribed a bar owner to let him sleep there, just because it was the only place with air conditioning.
He credits his survival to quick thinking, a bit of charm, and those negotiating tricks he picked up in Orlando—back when he was just a kid trying to get near his golf hero.
But what really makes someone a hero?
Where do they come from? Sometimes it’s your mom, your dad, your sibling, or even the kid who sat beside you in school.
Every year, Veterans Day gives us a chance to say thank you, to honor the men and women who served. But honestly, it’s even better to sit down, buy them a coffee or a beer, and just listen. Let them tell their stories.
Most veterans? They’re not comfortable with the word “hero.” It makes them uneasy. Back in 2019, Vice President Pence put it plainly: “Our veterans really don’t consider themselves heroes. Most of them reject the very thought of it.”
Morlock gets it. “I didn’t do anything special or have some secret knowledge,” he says. “I just rolled the dice and got lucky.”
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