2014-5. Reflections & Remembrances: Pensacola, Florida

      This post is a bit different, an attempt to put some parts of this amazing trek into perspective while returning to a pivotal part of my life.

T2, first jet I flew.

     Thursday, April 16, that is 4/16/14, a palindrome (read the same forward and backwards) in the town of Perry, Florida, Phase 1 of the trek is coming to an end, with statistics, smiles, and memories:

     • Total miles so far driven: 3,729, against 2,419 had I taken the interstate direct.

    • Total days 19, with 2 more before I get to Siesta Key and the ladies. 

     Marilyn flew out Monday and is, as I type, at the beach with her lovely Aunt Gret, her cousin Ann, and Ann's daughter, Elise. I thank our great neighbors Keith and JayeTee for taking her to the airport at 4:00 AM for her flight consisting of three legs to Sarasota, Florida.

     As I sit and ponder the trip, I can say each day was special. Yet it was the visit to Pensacola and the Naval Air Station that seemed to bring the most bang for the buck.

Naval Air Museum, Pensacola FL.

     As I had not been back for over four decades, and it was quickly evident that you can’t go back. With that said, I soon found my mind reeling from some major flashbacks. Memories soon returned of the naive 22-year-old who entered the doors of Aviation Officer Candidate School (AOCS) to a screaming Marine Drill Instructor. The more I drove around the base, seeing more what was not there than what was there, the more the brain produced memories. 

     As I wanted to spend a few days in the area, I was lucky enough to get the last campsite at the Naval Air Station, only 1/2 mile from the Naval Air Museum. Soon the MRV and I were nestled down on our first evening to the sound of Navy Trainers shooting touch-and-goes at the field across the tree line. 

     Awaking the next morning, it was time to take in the museum. Now friends—those with and without aviation backgrounds—have told me how amazing their experience at the museum was, yet I had no idea. From the moment I entered and found it is free, to being able to walk amongst some aviation legends, my mouth just kept dropping. Soon I was walking next to amazing birds from the beginning of Naval Aviation to now, some old friends and others I had heard about. 

F9 Cougar, Advanced Trainer I flew at NAS Beeville, Texas.

    I lost track of time and did not come up for air until a lovely docent approached me and said, “You were here when I got here at 8:30 (it was now 1:30). You know you can come back tomorrow?” I quickly agreed, listening to my stomach, and proceeded to leave. 

H57, the first helicopter I flew.

     In my attempt to leave, I wandered into another building and immediately spotted the bird my son and I have in common. Andrew is a Marine, an MP (Military Policeman) with HMX-1, the squadron that flies the Presidential Helo. His job is to provide security for the bird, both stateside and when the President goes on international trips. 

H-3, the Presidential helicopter flown by HMX-1, my son's squadron.

    The Presidential helo is a variant of the Sikorsky H-3, the bird I flew for some 15 years, on both active duty and in the reserve. Though ours was constantly leaking fluids, extremely loud, and often giving us yet another reason to master the emergency procedures, the Presidential bird is shiny, soundproofed, elegant, and obviously mechanically well maintained. 

    We will soon be in Quantico and visit with my son and hopefully be able to visit one of the helos that they use now. I am just amazed how some things come full circle in ways that I never expected. 

     That evening I once again realized that I am blessed. The mother of good friends in Visalia lives in Pensacola, and we agreed to get together for dinner. Pat, a former military spouse, is a great listener. She allowed me to share my day, my memories, and my joy, while releasing many demons. After a great dinner, comfortable conversation, and a wonderful glass of Courvoisier, I winged myself back to the campground, wondering if I had seen enough of the Museum or would go back the next day.

     I arose the next morning with a plan: quickly visit the museum and before leaving Pensacola return to what was then NAS Saufley Field, where I flew for the first time and which defined my aviation career. 

    The brief visit to the museum was extended, as the IMAX presentation seemed to have my name on it. It was an amazing hour, be it flying with the amazing Blue Angels or just sitting back and enjoying a flight through clouds or near the ground. I left with a feeling of how liberating being in the sky truly is. Then off to Saufley.

"For decades Marine drill instructors at NAS Pensacola molded

civilians into naval officers, their first steps towards wings of gold."

     A little retrospect: April Fools' Day 1969 was the infamous day I entered the Navy and "Poopieville" (origin of name I do not know), which was the two-week boot camp portion for Aviation Officer Candidates. The day I learned that Marine Drill Instructors were not my friend. The day I involuntarily surrendered civilian-hood as quickly as the locks of my hair found the floor and I was given my "poopie suit," green cotton overalls that soon were covered with grime from the countless hours of physical training to make up for the constant mistakes our DI decided we were making. 

Naval Aviator training facility, Pensacola FL.

     After the first of what we thought was to be two weeks of "Poopieville," followed by eight weeks of AOCS and then flight training, things abruptly changed. It seems that someone who was in charge (for that day) decided that first we would prove that we could fly before the Navy spent any more money on us. If we could not, we were out of the program. Good news: We were leaving the DIs. Bad news: Once we soloed we would return to the second week of Poopieville and the DIs. 

    So packing our poopie suits in our locker, we dressed in our fresh khakis and off we went to NAS Saufley Field and Basic Flight Training and the T-34, a single engine tandem seated Beechcraft bird. All of a sudden we were being treated as humans, living in a two-man room and spending countless hours in ground school learning the ins and outs of the T-34, basic aerodynamics, and flight safety, while also preparing for our first flight. 

     I was soon assigned a flight instructor, Navy Lieutenant Fields, who on our first meeting told me to focus on my aerodynamics and other classes, as we would not be flying for three weeks. Soon I heard that one of his students DORed (Dropped On Request). DOR was common for many who could not or just did not feel they wanted to fly. They would be processed out of the Navy and returned to the civilian world—now eligible for the infamous draft. But I was reassured that my first flight was still two weeks off. 

     On a fateful morning about three days later, I received a call very early to report to the squadron immediately for my first flight. It seemed another student on my instructor’s roll had just DORed. (Dropped On Request, or quit). So much for my thought that I had two more weeks to learn all the stuff I needed to learn before my flight!  Welcome to the Military. I gulped a glass of orange juice for breakfast, suited up, grabbed my helmet bag, and ran to the ready room. I got through my brief, went through the paper work on our bird, SF 155 (Sioux Falls 155), did the pre-flight, and soon we were lined up for take-off. Sitting in front with my instructor behind me, I was talked through the take-off and soon was on an orientation flight of the area.  

T-34, a Navy pilot's first bird.

     The first part of the flight was uneventful, but then the orange juice did its job and to my embarrassment my "barf bag" was soon full. With my ego trashed and wondering if Naval Aviation was for me, we returned to the field for landing. Once in the traffic pattern for landing I realized it had become rather quiet and then noticed the propeller was beginning to slow down. Emergency procedures came to mind and my briefing the previous day of needing a minimum of 1,200 feet of elevation to safely survive a parachute landing. I looked at the altimeter and saw 1,000 feet—so the parachute option was out. I watched the various engine control levers moving rapidly as Lt. Fields managed to get the engine running, yet soon it once again became quiet. Being the novice, my job now was to sit on my hands and hang on. 

     Though there was no conversation in the bird, I observed him dropping the landing gear and heard his call to the tower stating, “Sioux Falls 155 abeam with complete engine failure.” The tower, caught off guard, responded with, “Aircraft calling tower, say again,” and all became silent. Soon we rolled out, almost lined up with the runway and he expertly planted the bird on the runway. As we slowly taxied to a stop, the only sound I could hear was my heart. A few weeks later, after he cut my tie in the ceremony celeberating my solo flight,  Lt Fields asked if I remembered what I'd said upon landing. Giving him a "huh" look, he quickly answered with a smile. "You said, "Sir, the engine quit. Sir, it really quit, didn’t it?'” So much for my macho under stress. 
     So armed with full barf bag, shaved head (it was 1969 and short hair was definitely out), and a feeling at age 22 of my own mortality, I realized that I had two choices: quit, go home, and hope that my hair grew quickly before the draft caught me, or, if I was to pull off this flying thing, never drink orange juice before a flight and master every emergency procedure. 

Saufley Field today. 

    Armed with this memory, I found myself on the flight line at Saufley Field, which the Navy closed in 1984, looking across the weed-infested terrain, remembering the pivotal day that I grew up.  

Jet Tail Hook.

     The rest, well there were many more memories, memories of friends who were not as lucky as I, friends whose passing still haunts me, and others who, as I, pulled it off and went on to chase further dreams.

                                                                                —Doug