BRUNSWICK – We arced toward the blue sky, punching through cotton ball clouds as the fearsome acceleration pressed me into the ejector seat with a force that equaled multiples of my own weight.
The Blue Angels will be dazzling a crowd at an airshow over Brunswick this weekend. They barnstorm the country promoting the U.S. Navy and Marines, in a display of mastery in the air.
Beforehand, they take a couple of people up for the ride of their lives. Usually, one of them is a media representative, and I drew the lucky straw.
I went up Wednesday after a local official returned from his nearly hour-long flight. He was sweaty and he looked spent, but he insisted he had enjoyed the experience, especially flying upside down, the expanse of green forest spreading out to the Atlantic Ocean under his head.
Although this F/A-18 Super Hornet was decades old, it was still capable of screaming at near Mach 2 and potentially surviving up to 10 times the force of gravity, or 10 Gs.
As I waited for the local official’s flight to end, people on the ground asked if I was nervous.
No, I lied. What could go wrong?
Before we went up, both of us got a briefing. Crew Chief 7, also known as Silent Bob (they all get nicknames) had laid out photos of the cockpit on a conference room table.
Don’t touch the objects with black and yellow stripes, he warned. That would result in “irreversible change” to the aircraft. He used a similar euphemism to explain the outcome of pulling the black and yellow hoop between the thighs: “bonus flight.” It would trigger the explosives beneath your seat, rocketing you up through the (hopefully) open cockpit canopy.
Despite that warning, he still walked us through what to do in the rare event that the pilot ordered ejection. Push your helmeted head back on the headrest and look up for the parachute.
When I arrived in the morning, Silent Bob was methodically going over the plane. He opened a panel in the fuselage and inspected the pasta bowl of electric wiring underneath. He hopped up and down behind the aircraft so he could peer into the nozzles of the twin jet engines. He slid his eyes slowly over the fuselage. He propped himself next to the cockpit, reviewing the controls and instruments. You could see him mentally ticking off a checklist.
If I was able to control my nerves, there were two reasons: Silent Bob and the pilot, Major Scott Laux. The pilot’s surname is pronounced “locks,” so of course they called him Goldie.
As Goldie triggered the motor on the translucent canopy, and it descended to seal the aircraft – and my fate, he told me he was here to make this an enjoyable ride. We would do many of the maneuvers that the Blue Angels execute during their show, but he would always check with me first and allow me to reject any of them.
I knew I’d never get another opportunity like this, so that was unlikely. But it was nice to have the option.
Silent Bob had strapped down my ankles, thighs, hips, and chest with the elaborate harness system, ticking off the steps by counting out loud.
During our briefing, he had explained the Anti-G Straining Maneuver, or AGSM. Most fighter pilots these days wear compression suits that squeeze their bodies during aggressive maneuvers, forcing the blood to stay in the brain.
Without this, the down-body pressure created by powerful accelerations and directional changes could cause blackout.
“In the world of aviation this is called a G-LOC, aka G-induced loss of consciousness, and remains a significant cause of loss of aircraft and pilot in both military fighter aviation and civilian acrobatic aviation,” says a medical website established by a U.S Air Force flight surgeon. “Throughout the 1990s, for example, the USAF lost approximately one aircraft per year due to G-LOC.”
Due to the precision required of Blue Angels pilots, they eschew those inflatable compression suits.
Hence, the AGSM: when the pilot says “three-two-one go,” you squeeze the muscles in your calves, your thighs, and your butt, then you suck in a breath, tighten your belly, hold to a count of three, push out the oxygen, then suck in and tighten again, repeating until the maneuver is over.
Now, on the runway, Goldie told me to arm the ejector seat. Silent Bob had said it was the only black and yellow lever we were allowed to touch.
The aircraft then lifted gently off the ground – like a passenger jet – until Goldie pulled back on the joystick and the fighter nosed up at 45 degrees, hurtling through the clouds.
We leveled off, and he said I could relax for a while and take in the view as we sped toward a Navy bombing range, the open airspace where we would be executing maneuvers.
As a warmup, he accelerated through 2, 3, 4 and 6 G turns, instructing me to lift my arms. They grew heavier and heavier! I scrunched up as hard as I could as he banked into a 6 G turn.
I hadn’t eaten much before the flight. I figured an empty stomach would ease the nausea. My teenage son had helpfully informed me that my strategy would merely lead to dry heaves.
I hate it when the kid is right.
Goldie said nearly all pilots, himself included, get airsick. He said it didn’t happen to him anymore though.
He’d downed a turkey sandwich with jalapenos for lunch.
Next on the menu was a “minimum radius” turn: he rolled the plane on its side in a quick and precise twist that seamlessly transitioned into a tight banking turn that pushed my guts into my hips. That was 7 Gs.
Next, were some aileron rolls that sent the sky spinning under us then back above.
We also did the inverted flight that my fellow traveler had enjoyed before me. Goldie told me to check that my harness was strapped as tightly as possible first, and I discovered that Silent Bob had, indeed, done a thorough job. After Goldie flipped us back upright, he demonstrated what astronauts feel, dropping the plane to replicate zero gravity. I was strapped in so tightly that I couldn’t tell. I flapped my arms about, but they felt normal.
Later, I wished I’d pulled out my cellphone to watch it float around. But then again, the next maneuver, would have sent it shooting through our cockpit like a missile.
Goldie had saved the “sneak to vertical rolls” for last, and I can see why. After that one, I was cooked, done. Get me to the ground.
Three-two-one go!
We instantly pivoted from horizontal to what felt like straight up, then he executed what I conceptualized as an ice skater’s double axle, before looping out of the maneuver back to level flight. I could see my field of vision narrowing, a sign of pending G-LOC.
We hit 7.5 Gs on that one, the maximum safe threshold for the Super Hornet. My body effectively weighed 1,200 pounds. I don’t think I blacked out.
After that, we buzzed the Navy control building, screaming past at low altitude. Goldie also demonstrated slow flight, angling the nose up and dropping the speed to 120 miles per hour, as if setting us down on an aircraft carrier. The stubby wings shuddered.
We floated over Interstate 95 then banked sharply over Golden Isles Airport. My belly was jelly by that point, so I was thankful when we lined up with the runway. Within seconds we were on the ground, and Goldie was instructing me to disarm my ejector seat.
We soon came to a stop, and the cockpit opened. Silent Bob unstrapped me and guided my feet down the blue airship’s ladder.
I considered kissing the tarmac but that seemed a bit dramatic, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stand back up.
Back in the conference room, I peeled off the dark-blue jumpsuit and sprawled on the carpet to keep the walls from spinning.
Goldie, true to form, was a calming presence. This dizziness is common, he explained. The maneuvers disturb the fluid in your inner ear, and there isn’t much to do about it. He warned me not to drive back to Atlanta right away, so I took a nap first.
The next morning, I had traded the jumpsuit for a gray suit and tie, as I listened to lawyers argue in federal appeals court. By then, the flight seemed like a fever dream, but the ache in my back and the difficulty of rising from the wooden bench was evidence that I had, indeed, ridden along in the backseat of a fighter jet at over 600 miles an hour.