No Kidding Panic in a Drum – Demon in the Water

I did not drown in the helo dunker.

But I did meet that demon there, the one who wears many faces. In THE RIGHT STUFF, Chuck Yaeger (Sam Shepard) found his demon at the sound barrier. Other aviators find it at "the edge of the envelope," or "the backside of the power curve." Runners call it "the wall."  Name it what you will, at some times or others, we all confront personal demons.

So there I was, on the fourth helo dunker ride, blindfolded in the infamous 8th seat. Rolling under water I took and held my deep breath, counted, released my harness, and -- lost my reference point. Immediate disorientation, combined with the flood of carbon dioxide into my blood, drowned reason in primal fear. Like a submerged seagull I flapped my wings to propel me to the water's surface, only to bounce my helmet off the ceiling (or floor, for I may have been inverted). After several bounces, just as primal fear turned to desperate panic, a strong hand grasped my survival vest, pulled me backwards out of the dunker, and guided me to the surface.

"Diver rescue, Sir," said the arrogant petty officer in charge -- an enlisted man who could make "sir" sound like "twit." "You have to go down again."

On the next ride, I focused on my reference point, the seat across from me. But when I reached there, I grasped not a metal seat but the fleshy leg of the shipmate who hadn't yet left his position. Hypoxia-abetted homophobic surprise forced me to yank my hand away. This spontaneous reaction led to another drowning sea gull maneuver, followed by another diver rescue.

"One more chance, Sir," said the petty officer. He wore the hint of a diabolical smile. "Or you fail the exercise."

In that final test I broke the water's surface on my own, triumphant. I did it! I lined up with the other dunkees, ready to receive my well-deserved "pass" from the nemesis petty officer.

Not so fast, twit.

What I heard him say: "You worthless piece of doctor dogshit. You think you have the right stuff for Naval air? Not on my watch, loser."

What he really said: "Early release, Sir. You get a down for the day. You have to repeat the entire training at a later date." Devastated, I nevertheless maintained my officer and gentleman composure and did not sink my fist into the young man's sarcastic mouth.

My classmates had long since completed the day's work and departed. Alone in the locker room, I fought the tears as I showered and dressed. Then I crept back to my room, avoiding all human contact. My head played an endless tape of Gunny Foley (Louis Gossett, Jr.) shouting in my face, "I want your D.O.R. I want your D.O.R."

So there I was, a 45-year old emergency physician in some sort of mid-life crisis, trying to live a dream in the same league as much younger men. What the hell for? Who was I trying to kid? What was I, really? Just a middle-aged doc trying to play aviator.

To be sure, I had no Maverick delusions. Not even trying for Goose. (Well, he did have Meg Ryan, but...no.) Viper, on the other hand...maybe. But not a Zack Mayo (Richard Gere), either. "I got no where else to go?" Yeah, I did. I could quit the flight surgery program, be an ER doc in a Navy hospital for the remainder of my two-year commitment, then return to private practice.

Negative, Ghost Rider.

The demon in the water had only won a round, not the entire fight. Back then, I could not ken how the age thing would trifle with my Navy career; how sometimes a two-digit number would define me beyond all the other stuff I had, the right stuff. But it wouldn't have mattered if I knew. The quest had become personal, within myself. Years later, another fictional character, LOST's John Locke (Terry O'Quinn), would give voice to my determination, "Don't tell me what I cannot do."

Like the future astronauts portrayed in THE RIGHT STUFF, I refused to be left behind. Demon be damned. Time to push the envelope, break the sound barrier, run through the wall. Return to the danger zone. To quit is to die.

Determination alone seldom wins the day when you push that envelope. Sometimes you have to outsmart the demon.When I returned to the dunker a few weeks later, I made sure to be in position #3, closest to the main exit. Four rides, and done. Helo dunker, passed.

No Kidding Panic in a Drum - Part II - Prelude to a Drowning

Before his first ride in the helo dunker, the oldest member of our class (not me) suffered chest pain and got whisked off to the hospital. His misfortune caused only a slight delay in the training, but a significant emotional impact on those of us still waiting our turn. Perhaps he was the lucky one.

We entered the dunker in groups of eight, our seating positions determined by the order in which we had signed the check-in roster. I had missed out on the "gouge" that some classmates already knew: Don't ever be number 8. Never. Don't sign the roster on lines 8, 16, 24, or 32. Run to the head, experience a severe coughing fit, complain of chest pain. Do anything to get out of the queue so as to recycle for a different number. I didn't know that. I signed onto line 24. I got seat 8.

The first two positions, located forward in the drum, simulate pilot and co-pilot seats. The remaining 6 places align on each side of the faux fuselage, backs to window-like cutouts, facing each other across a large central block that represents cargo on the deck. The main exit is located forward on the starboard (right) side, directly behind a bulkhead separating this main cabin from the cockpit. Seat number 8, my seat, is on the port (left) side, all the way aft, diagonally from the main door -- the seat furthest from the main exit. For the two rides when all dunkees egress through that one exit door, the person in #8 will be last out.

Wearing full flight gear, we took our assigned places in the dunker suspended over the pool. Once we latched our five-point quick-release harnesses, the instructors reiterated the required actions for each of four upcoming rides: 1) Just before your head submerges, take a deep breath and hold it; 2) Wait until all violent motion of inrushing water stops (count to 30); 3) Release the harness; 4) Egress and float to the surface. Only two factors would constitute failure on any given ride, mandating a repeat of that ride: 1) Early harness release; 2) Diver rescue. Three repeat rides would constitute failure of the entire event and would require repeating the training from scratch, at a later date.

My heart raced and I hyperventilated as the dunker slowly rolled inverted after hitting the water on the first ride. I clutched the window opening behind me -- my reference point -- and gasped in a deep breath just as my head went under. I counted to 30, released, and egressed as directed. Ride one, passed. Hey, not so bad after all. I can do this.

For ride two, we all went out the main door. Same sequence: Hold breath, count to 30, unlatch, egress. I followed the shipmate in front of me a little too closely and caught his boot in my face. But I could still see the exit, and made it out the door with air to spare. Ride two, passed. Half-way done.

The next two rides simulated night operations. Just before the dunker was dropped into the water, we donned swim goggles with the lenses painted over -- blindfolds. For ride three, I latched onto my reference point like a terrified toddler clinging to mommy's leg. When I felt the water on my cheek, I took my deep breath, resisted the overwhelming urge to release that harness until the full 30 seconds was up, pulled myself through the window, and yanked off the blinding goggles as soon as my head popped up on the water's surface. Ride three, near-panicked, yet passed. One more to go.

During the first three rides, I did not appreciate that I was upside down under the water when performing the actions for each egress. That little bit of sensory disorientation would prove to be my undoing for the remainder of what turned into a very long day.

No Kidding Panic in a Drum - Part I

Older readers may recall a panic scene from An Officer and a Gentleman, the 1982 drama featuring Richard Gere as an aspiring naval aviator suffering through preflight indoctrination. Along with Top Gun, this film became a positive recruiting tool for Naval Air. (What red-blooded American male wouldn't want to end up with Kelly McGillis or Debra Winger at the end of the story?)

The film does a credible job of depicting the challenge and stress of Aviation Preflight Indoctrination (API). API includes a series of didactic and physical tests to achieve two primary purposes: 1) Weed out the weak and marginally motivated before the Navy invests millions of taxpayer dollars training them as naval aviators, 2) Build confidence in the strong, preparing them to withstand the risks and rigors of the unforgiving aviation environment.


Water survival training addressed both purposes. In the film, one young man who lacks the right stuff nearly drowns after failing to negotiate the Dilbert Dunker. The apparatus simulates egress from a jet cockpit after an unscheduled water landing, also known as a crash. The never-gonna-be-a-naval-aviator chump fails to egress, forcing a dramatic rescue/resuscitation by the drill sergeant (played by Louis Gossett, Jr.).


Student Naval Flight Surgeon Class 92002 endured API. In addition to other water survival exercises, we did the Dilbert Dunker. After the dramatic movie scene, the Dunker itself turned out anti-climactic. No big deal. Hold your breath, release your harness, swim to the surface. Pass. Confidence built.


But the movie didn't show the REAL challenge, the Helo Dunker. Fondly known as "Panic in a Drum," that torture device simulates a helicopter crash into water. The You Tube clips below show a modern version of the Helo Dunker. Ours was more primitive, and really did resemble a super-sized tin can with 8 seats inside.


Because of all the engine weight on top, helicopters roll inverted after hitting water. The occupants must remain strapped in their seats and hold their breath as the aircraft, or tin drum, rolls upside down and sinks. Of vital importance is holding onto a reference point (window, seat, etc.) as water rushes in from all sides.







Once "all violent motion stops," you then release your harness and egress the aircraft/tin can. Easy, eh?

In 1992 we had to pass four rides in the helo dunker: Nearest exit/window, then main exit; first times with eyes open, second times blindfolded to simulate night operations.


The final, blinded, main exit ride resulted in me replaying the Louis Gossett, Jr. rescue -- for three takes.

SNFS 92002

First week of January, 1992, Student Naval Flight Surgeon class #92002 convened in an aging, stuffy classroom at the Navy Aviation Medicine Institute (NAMI) in Pensacola, FL. Outside, a winter chill filled the morning air. Those of us who had expected a balmy sojourn on the Gulf Coast would have to wait a few months for the seasons to change. Winters in Pensacola can be relatively frigid -- at least to an Arizona native who spent most of his life in the desert. By month's end we would get to know the cold up close and personal when we immersed ourselves in water and land survival training.

The course consisted of three phases: 1) Officer indoctrination plus water and land survival training; 2) Academic aviation medicine and physiology; 3) Flight training. For the last phase, we would move to nearby Whiting Field Naval Air Station to participate in the same primary flight training as student naval aviators. Those of us who met the grade would even get to solo fly the T-34C Mentor turboprop trainer. Since I already had a civilian commercial pilot and flight instructor ticket, I looked forward to that day. The chance to fly naval aircraft was a tangible motivator for me to leave a successful civilian practice and sign up for this gig in the first place.

Our class numbered about 30 souls. Roughly two-thirds were early career naval medical officers, fresh out of internships at Bethesda, Portsmouth, or Balboa. Many of them knew each other already, and quickly formed into small social groups. The sole woman, and only non-physician, in the class was a budding aviation physiologist with a passion for kayaking. She attracted several of the single young males in the group, but only to the point of learning that a) she had a boyfriend, and b) she could take any of them down at any time.

The remaining third were mid-career life changers like me. (Although I was the only one with no prior military experience.) Believing we were having more fun than the younger crowd, we soon formed our own social group. Several had been recalled from the reserves for Desert Storm and decided to stay on active duty. A few had no choice, as their civilian practices had dried up during their absences. Still others, myself included, had signed on for the adventure, and of course, the flying.

We in the "mature" group relished the transition from the vagaries of civilian medical practice to our new status as officers and gentlemen. Most of us would have qualified under DSM-IV psychiatric diagnostic criteria for "Narcissistic personality traits, not constituting a disorder." (Some observers might wonder about the modifier.) We swaggered about in our new uniforms, enjoyed lunch and afternoon libations in the Officers Club, and proudly returned courteous salutes from juniors as we strolled about the base. 

The great naval adventure began in earnest the next day when we reported  to Naval Aviation Schools Command for our officer indoctrination and survival training, the first real tests of our right stuff. To a man (and woman) we rolled into the course with childlike enthusiasm. Few of us would be disappointed at the end.

Somewhere beneath that early passion lurked a vague realization that we had signed on to the "highway to the danger zone." One reason the Navy trains flight surgeons is to prepare them for their role in fostering aviation safety and preventing mishaps. 

Engaged as we were in those first days of elan, how could we suspect that within the year one of our own would be dead, himself a victim of an aviation mishap. 

Some Time Has Passed

Almost a year has passed since I posted. What have I done instead? I wrote a screenplay and novel about some Navy people averting war in the Pacific while figuring out how to get along with each other in the high-stress confines of the fleet flagship. But that's a separate post for a later time. Maybe.

The reason for resurrecting and redefining this personal blog:

Some time has passed -- twenty years to the day -- since an emergency physician in florid mid-life crisis loaded up his red Mitsubishi Eclipse, bid adieu to his pregnant bride and stepchildren, and drove from Dallas to Pensacola to start a new career as a U.S. Navy flight surgeon. With no prior military service, whatever was he thinking? 

Early the next day, the recently commissioned Lieutenant Commander/Commander-Select drove his shiny Ensign-mobile through the front gate of Pensacola Naval Air Station while the soundtrack from "TOP GUN" blared prophetically from the car's stereo system. 

"Ride Into The Danger Zone"

"Mighty Wings"

"Destination Unkown"

"Take My Breath Away"

A shrink could feast for many sessions on that scenario -- but he got left behind in Dallas too.

Today that "Ensign in a Commander's uniform" looks toward mandatory retirement six months hence. In the rear view mirror, twenty years of memories and experiences recede into the cluttered landscape of his 66 years of life. Some of those memories deserve exposition, some do not. I can't tell the difference. But I intend to put down whichever come to me over the next six months, or so. Perhaps writing it will ease the transition; or the stories might edify a reader or two; or it may just be good catharsis -- cheaper than that shrink back in Dallas.