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.
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.
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