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.