(Editor’s Note: The Southernmost Air Spectacular featuring the Blue Angels returns this weekend to Naval Air Station Key West. As I write these words on Wednesday, April 13, the Keys Weekly’s own Britt Myers is donning a flight suit and preparing to fly in the back of the No. 7 Blue Angels jet. Stay tuned for his take on the once-in-a lifetime experience. Meanwhile, well, any time I can relive my own flight with them in 2006 is a good day. So here’s what I wrote back then…)
I didn’t throw up and I didn’t wet my pants.
Normally, those wouldn’t be newsworthy accomplishments. But then, I had never spent an afternoon in the cockpit of a Blue Angels F/A-18 Hornet. But there I sat grinning stupidly and reminding myself to breathe as U.S. Navy Crew Chief Chris Fancher secured the 11 buckles that would hold me in place for 45 heart-stopping minutes.
“Don’t scream,” he said with a wry smirk as he handed me a blue and gold helmet.
“And don’t touch anything,” Fancher instructed for the sixth time. “Most importantly, don’t touch THAT.” He was pointing to the yellow loop of the ejection handle between my knees that would launch me and my pilot, U.S. Marine Maj. Len “Loni” Anderson, on a “bonus ride” that wasn’t included in my itinerary.
Earlier that day, Fancher had spent an hour with me and two other local media representatives selected to experience the most exciting ride of our lives in a Blue Angels jet a few days before the precision flying team demonstrated their supersonic skills, strength and training at a weekend air show.
Fancher had reviewed with us mere mortals the physiology of flying at the speed of sound and “pulling Gs” that would press us into our seats as the blood left our heads and tried to puddle around in our feet — along with any other puddles that might also end up down there.
The ever-patient crew chief went over the effective, yet entirely unattractive,
“hic” maneuver in which you try to flex all the muscles in your body at once to force the blood (and consciousness) back into your brain.
(Thanks, Chris. The maneuver worked and my vision only got blurry once. Note: It’s not a look you want to demonstrate on a first date. I imagine my face looked as it would if I were giving birth.)
The anticipation had mounted as Fancher handed out blue flight suits and led us out to the tarmac, where other aviators from the air station, including retired fighter pilot and current County Commissioner Jim Scholl, exchanged knowing looks they apparently learned in flight school.
By the time I lowered myself into the cockpit, my face already hurt from smiling and my eyes weren’t blinking at regular intervals. Fancher didn’t seem alarmed.
He gave me a thumbs-up as Major Anderson ascended the ladder and shook my hand before taking his seat in front of me. I’m not sure what he said, but I think I managed to blurt out my own name before he started laughing, sat down and tugged on his gold helmet, constantly reassuring me and explaining everything he was going to do, and everything I was going to feel.
But no one can prepare you for the immense rush of adrenaline that comes as the F/A-18 gathers speed instantly, hovers above the runway for a second and then launches straight up into the airspace surrounding the Naval Air Station Key West. It was phenomenal. I wish I could start every day with that takeoff.
Anderson, through his laughter and my screams of glee, expertly maneuvered the plane through fluffy white clouds and tipped us on our side “to give me a better view” of the water below. We broke the sound barrier. We were inverted. We flew on our side. We were weightless. We barrel- rolled, diamond rolled, performed a split S and pulled a total of 7.4 Gs. (Again, not an attractive look, but I stayed conscious and vomit-free.)
We also discussed the precision of the Blue Angels flight team, which flies with only 18 inches of space between their wings, and times everything perfectly according to “the Boss,” who flies the lead plane and calls out the maneuvers over the radio. Of course, it must be a little easier to maneuver in formation without a crazed blond in the backseat screaming, “This is awesome,” from my helmet’s microphone to Anderson’s.
The trip could have lasted all day, and I would trade jobs with Anderson in a heartbeat (although he didn’t seem real willing to give up his super-sonic career). I think I may also have asked him to marry me at one point.
As we settled safely back on the ground, I was exhausted. I was exhilarated. I was jealous of the pilots who get to experience that rush every day. And I was honored to be allowed into the cockpit of the F/A-18 Hornet as it went hurtling through the sky.
So when you’re at the air station this weekend watching these guys deftly maneuver the multimillion-dollar insects, give them the thumbs-up, wish them well — and don’t touch anything. Godspeed, guys. Thanks for the permanent smile.
