The Magical Stranger (20 page)

“Hey, Steve, that was my bad. I did your survival center request form. I guess I wasn't paying attention. I was watching something on YouTube. I think I put in the regular request for us, and not a one-time waiver thing.”

The room went quiet. Socr8tes wandered away.

“That makes sense,” said Sherm. “When I called over there, they kept saying ‘You requested all of this. It's in your request letter.' ”

All I could do was laugh. I thought of a long-ago pilot telling a lost seven-year-old boy that it was all going to be okay. For a rare moment, I believed him. I got another beer.

T
he flight was scheduled for Monday; all I had to do was survive the weekend. That wasn't as easy as I thought. There was Stoli's bachelor party in Vancouver, for one thing, but that wasn't causing much concern. I began thinking about the flight and started to freak out. It wasn't the danger part; it was more practical and gross: I thought I might blow waste from one of my orifices.

Actually, I wasn't so much worried about vomiting—it happens—but shitting myself was a real concern. My bowels are temperamental in climate-controlled circumstances, and that much worse four miles in the air dealing with five Gs. There were apocryphal tales of aviators losing control of their bowels because of a pressure change, bad eggs, and/or tricky maneuvers. They would jump out of their jets on carrier decks, strip off their sullied flight suits, and fling them into the ocean.

That wasn't something you lived down easily. I was certain I didn't want my call sign to be Shitter. I began to plot my strategy. There would be nothing but bananas and soup for the next thirty-six hours, along with lots of clear liquid. I wasn't sure if that was enough.

The morning of the flight, I woke up and slid into my flight suit. The bathroom issue had me in a full-flown panic. I debated going my usual Imodium route but worried that would leave me severely dehydrated, a condition that can lead to passing out in a twisting and turning Prowler. I drove over to the drugstore, paced a bit, and finally went over to the personal-needs section to check out adult diapers. I picked up a four-pack of Depends and carried them weakly to the counter. I removed my sunglasses and tried to grin.

“For my grandfather.”

The counter woman said nothing. I quickly threw the Depends into my backpack, jumped into my car, and headed up to Whidbey. I turned off my iPod as I crossed over Deception Pass Bridge and switched over to the CBC station broadcasting from Victoria, in British Columbia; the drone of the always pleasant, inoffensive Canadian voices usually settled me down. But not today. My heart was pounding. I parked my car across the street from the hangar and next to the Prowler memorial. I stopped and put my hands on my father's etched name.

Then the strangest thing happened. I started laughing. And there was a moment of odd clarity: I was not going to fly in Dad's plane wearing a diaper, no matter the consequences. I tossed the Depends into my trunk and headed in.

On the flight schedule were the names Tupper, Sherm, Shibaz, and Rodrick. The four of us headed into the briefing room where Tupper already sat slouching in a chair poring over a map. He saw me and smiled.

“We're going to take you on the million-dollar ride. The conditions are perfect for it.”

Million-dollar ride wasn't an exaggeration. It's VR-1355, an air route that snakes through the canyons and peaks of the Cascades. The route doesn't get flown that often: flying in and out of canyons requires excellent visibility, a rarity in the Northwest. Tupper continued with the brief, noting the different checkpoints and radio frequencies to be monitored.

“We've got someone not that familiar with the aircraft, so let's all keep a lookout for things that could go wrong.”

We then all walked down to the equipment room. Behind wire cages hung rows and rows of helmets, parachutes, and flight suits. The equipment was somewhat familiar from my survival training but the helmet, borrowed from the FNG, seemed top-heavy. I slipped on my green pack—containing my parachute and life vest—and nearly tumbled over from the weight. After everyone was suited up, we stomped Munster-like down the steps, out the hangar, and onto the flight line.

Our Prowler awaited with its canopies already opened. The plane was twenty-eight years old, one of the young ones. I gingerly climbed up the jet's steps. This put me next to the backseat cockpit, which meant I had to slide-step another few feet toward the front cockpit. One false step and I'd fall fifteen feet and crack my head on the tarmac. I made it to the front and heaved my body into the front seat. A maintainer scrambled up and strapped me in.

Tupper was already in the pilot's seat and reached over and adjusted some of my straps, making me feel like a special-needs kid settling in on the short bus. He had one question for me.

“You know what not to touch, right?”

This was a relevant question. There was a red handle above my head and another one at my feet. If I pulled either one, I'd be ejected from the plane. This had happened once before on a VIP ride; a surface ship admiral in a Hornet's backseat hadn't been strapped in properly, and he reached down to adjust his seat during a flight. He pulled the wrong handle. The admiral was ejected and the Hornet returned to base minus a passenger. An hour later, the admiral was bragging about his ejection at the officers' club. That's when the pilots threw him out.

I nodded to Tupper. He pulled at my oxygen mask and grabbed a small white bag off my lap.

“Put the puke bag up here. Just know how to get the mask off. You don't want to puke into your mask—that wouldn't be good.”

In my obsessing about crapping myself, I'd forgotten the puke possibility. I had been told it was fairly common on a first flight. I'd seen veteran aviators on the
Nimitz
looking green and gray after their flight. Fortunately, someone had forgotten to issue me flight gloves so I had a modicum of dexterity not present during my survivor qualifications. I showed Tupper that I could get the mask off.

“Let's do this.”

The canopies closed. The engines were turned on, their grinding whine making it hard to think. A few minutes passed and then Tupper taxied us to the takeoff runway. He waited for clearance and pushed the throttle down. In a moment, we were down the runway and up above the Pacific. Tupper switched the radio over to Seattle air traffic control and we headed south. We moved through the sky to about 21,000 feet. I nodded my head in an ecstatic rhythm. I was a child again. “This is so cool, this is so cool” was all I could say. We headed south passing over Everett, where Shibaz lives with his wife and kids. Tupper squawked over the radio.

“There's Shibaz's house. Hey, Shibaz, whose car's in the driveway? I'd be worried.”

I learned later this is the oldest Navy pilot joke, but I'd never heard it before. Maybe it was the altitude, but I let out a giddy laugh.

“That's hilarious.”

I was feeling pretty good. Here I was, flying in my dad's plane, no sickness and no nausea. We passed over Boeing Field and Sea-Tac Airport. In the distance was the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. Farther still was a glint at the top of a mountain.

Tupper spoke into the radio.

“Okay, that's Mount Hood in the distance. That's Mount Rainier over there.” He paused for a moment. “And this is my ass.”

The cockpit filled with flatulence.

“Sorry about that.”

We continued south toward the Columbia River on the Washington and Oregon border. Seattle air control had us drop to 10,000 feet. Tupper came back on the radio. “Okay, time for the FOD check.”

Tupper put the plane in a slight dive and then pulled the stick back, sending us upward. A screw and some small pieces of metal floated up from the cockpit floor. Tupper grabbed the biggest piece and then leveled off. I began to feel something different, spaciness and queasiness in the belly. Tupper did a G-force warm-up for the flight. He turned the plane 90 degrees to the left and then 90 degrees to the right. This was supposed to increase blood pressure and prep us for more G force to come. I survived the twists and the turns, but bile was creeping up my throat.

Tupper lowered the plane to 5,000 feet and gave a last instrument check. There was one major problem; the radar altimeter—the calculator of air altitude that my father flew without on his final flight—wouldn't turn on, a malfunction that would scrub a low-level flight. For a few minutes, it looked like the flight would be over before it began. But after a series of turn-ons and turn-offs, the radar altimeter light clicked green.

Tupper descended to 500 feet over the Columbia River near the foothills of the Cascades. He gunned the jet up and then sharply to the left. We were soon flying upside down. I stared deep into an ice pond perched on top of an 8,000-foot peak. Tupper came across the radio.

“Get a good look. I bet no man has stood where you're looking.”

And then we were right side up. And then we were on our left side. And then we were back on our right side. We bent around a mountaintop close enough that I could count pinecones on the trees. I focused forward. We swooped down and all of a sudden there were sheer canyon cliffs on three sides. Tupper clicked on.

“If we were in a Cessna, we'd be dead men.”

He paused for effect as the canyon wall in front of me moved closer. The radar altimeter started beeping.

“Fortunately, we're in a jet.”

Tupper pulled the stick back and the Prowler bucked skyward. We cleared the ridge and the beeping stopped. But not for long. Tupper glided us in and out of canyons and cliffs, the beeping altimeter providing a syncopated accompaniment. At one point, a thought came into my head: is this all completely necessary? VR-1355 has a purpose; all the twisting and turning mirrors evasion tactics Prowler pilots use when more nimble and lethal fighters are pursuing them. But Tupper was basically done flying; this was a joy ride, staged for my benefit. I alternately loved every second of it and also wondered whether this kind of flying is what took Dad away from me.

The thought lingered only for a moment. I began to lose consciousness. Well, first came the vomiting. As we skirted the 10,541-foot top of Glacier Peak and then dipped into a valley, the bile burned up through my windpipe. I flipped off my mask and booted a spectacularly bright yellow fluid into my airsickness bag.

It wasn't a lot, but the activity sucked away my life force. I entered an awake coma. Tupper took us into a different canyon and the altimeter began chirping again. But this time, there was no angst, just a vague feeling that if we flew into the side of a mountain at least that would put an end to my misery.

I watched the rest of the flight with a detached third-person feeling. Sweat began dripping down my arms and legs. Tupper gunned the Prowler over the Sauk River low enough that I could see the waves from the floppy-hatted fishermen. We were going 540 miles per hour, at roughly the altitude Dad was at before he crashed. The radar altimeter ticked off again, and in my hazed state I had an obvious thought: “Boy, that radar altimeter would have come in handy for Dad.”

We headed for home. Whidbey's Ault Field could be seen in the distance and Tupper put the jet into a shit-hot break. We flew over the runway at about 450 knots—100 knots above the speed limit—and banked to the left at 4.5 Gs and a 90-degree angle. I tried the HICC maneuver, but didn't get much air. Tupper then chopped the throttles and applied the Prowler's speed brakes to bring us below 250 knots so he could lower the landing gear. The gear and flaps were extended and he slowed the Prowler to about 135 knots and brought us toward Earth. We glided down toward the concrete. I let out an exhausted breath of relief. It was over.

But then the nose rose and Tupper went to full power. His mic went back on.

“I need to work on my touch-and-gos.”

We circled back around Whidbey. I saw the same things my father would have seen: cows in a pasture, the white caps of the ocean, my elementary school and the peaked roof of the Navy chapel. But the catharsis I was looking for wasn't there, not that I could put my finger on what exactly I was looking for. After four or five touch-and-gos, Tupper set the Prowler down quietly and we taxied back to the hangar. He turned off the engines, and they whined slowly to a stop. He pressed a button and the canopy opened. I immediately began to feel better, gulping in the ocean air. I was helped down the steps and peeled off my helmet. Someone joked about my hippie hair. I threw my arms around Tupper and Sherm and posed for pictures. We headed into the hangar, where I stripped off my sweat-soaked gear. I had not shat myself.

There was a post-flight brief that I remember nothing about. A few minutes later, I walked past the Prowler memorial and got into my car. I wish I could say that I stopped and touched Dad's name again, but I didn't. I drove back to Sherm's, oblivious to everything—the flashing light indicating I was nearly out of gas, the left on red I took near the base. The flight had sucked out all my energy, all my pain, and all my joy.

I slept for the rest of the day, waking once when I thought I heard the beeping of the plane's radar altimeter. It was just a garbage truck. I spent a lot of time thinking of the line between recklessness and joy, the infinitesimal space between shit-hot flying and mortality. I wondered if the risks Tupper took that day were for my benefit or for his.

Over that summer, we talked for hours about other things—kids, wives, and politics—but never about our flight. But then months later, somewhere at a noisy bar, maybe Jacksonville, maybe Pearl Harbor, Tupper put his glass down.

“When you fly, you're always looking to do something perfect. But usually you fuck something up, miss something, or the plane is broken or your crew isn't there for you. I never had the perfect flight pilots talk about.”

He slung a drunken arm around my shoulder. “But that low-level, VR-1355, that was my perfect flight. You saw my perfect flight.”