Fear of flying

Rule number 56.  Neoprene rubber doesn’t bend well at sub-zero temperatures.   It’s one of the many rules that military aircrew learn over the length of their career, but on a cold January morning in 1984, I was about to get an education of my own.

I was a survival instructor assigned to the Naval Air Test Center at “Pax” River, Maryland.  We taught pilots the basics of survival in the air and in the water, and so were encouraged to get “stick time,” or flight hours, in a variety of aircraft. The Naval Test Pilot School was the ideal place to do it.  The school sits on a bluff overlooking the Patuxent River, and is home to a staff of uniquely qualified pilots and aircrew who spend their days testing aircraft and training other pilots to do the same.  It houses a diverse collection of aircraft, boasts a flexible schedule, and is home to some of the hottest pilots on the planet.  Seriously.  What’s not to love?

I was fortunate enough to have an old friend stationed there during my tour, so I looked him up and asked if he would be the one to take me on my first flight.  This guy was as straight as they come: solid pilot, godly man, pillar of the community; you get the picture.  I felt safe with him at the controls.  He agreed to take me on my first flight in an ejection seat aircraft.  I had been flying in commercial planes since the age of 6, and had taken a few helicopter trips in Florida, but this was my first “real” flight.  I was slightly terrified, despite the fact that I trusted this man implicitly.

The morning of the fated flight came, and I reported to the school dressed in a shiny new flight suit and boots, ready to go.  I immediately learned we were required to wear rubber wetsuits under our flight suit to ward off hypothermia in case we had to eject or land the plane in water (not helping the whole terror factor, guys), so off I went to find one that would fit.  Off came the flight suit, and I ended up with a slightly too-small wetsuit and another, slightly less shiny flight suit.  Add an enormous helmet and 40 lbs of flight gear, and I was just another one of the guys; we were ready to go. 

As we opened the door to go out to the aircraft, bitter wind blew us back into the hangar. I looked over and the pilot’s lip was bleeding from the cold slap.  It should have been a sign. We soldiered ahead and made our way to a small, two-seater training aircraft.  I could feel part of my breakfast trying to escape, but swallowed hard and followed the pilot out.  Piece of cake, I thought.

Getting into the aircraft is no mean feat.  The lowest step is approximately 4 feet off the ground.  There are no step stools or fancy ladders, you just hike yourself on up there…unless you are wearing a full body suit of ¼ inch neoprene.  Did I mention that neoprene becomes less pliable in cold weather?  So there I was, staring sheepishly at this step, wondering how the hell I was going to get up there.  The crew chief, the guy in charge of the aircraft, comes over to assist.  “Just put your foot up there into the lowest step and I’ll give you a boost.”   So I raised my foot – about 2 feet off the ground  - and it slapped back down as the large rubber band I was wearing yanked me back.  The crewman had to forcefully lift my foot into the stirrup, then as I started to pull myself up, I felt this hand planted firmly on my right cheek and up I went, nearly head first into the plane.

 After righting myself and regaining my composure, I got seated into the cockpit.  It was barely wider than my shoulders and just long enough to hold the ejection seat, a control stick, and the largest control panel I had ever seen.  Breakfast threatened to come back a second time.  The ejection seat perhaps deserves a brief explanation.  Imagine a 4 inch molded rubber pad strapped to 20 pounds of TNT.  A pin the diameter of a pencil is the only thing between you and permanent weight loss.   It made my ass twitch (with apologies to Kevin Kline).

Finally, strapped in, pins pulled, helmet secured, oxygen mask in place (what?), we got the go-ahead.  The engines revved, and we were off.   So I thought.  I looked back and the aircrewman was giving us the infinity sign (a figure 8 on the side for you non-math majors).  It was the first sign I memorized in training: The plane was on fire.  Well, shit.  I didn’t think anything could burn in that weather.  The engine was shut down and we quickly reversed the ingress process: Pins in, fall out of the plane, limp back to the hangar.  I thought we were done.  Then my friend said, “it should only take a few minutes for them to bring the other plane around.”

Oh, God.