I attended the Miramar Air Show at San Diego’s USMC base in 2002. The airfield was dotted with planes, jets, tanks, helicopters and men in uniform. F-16s screamed overhead and I was in heaven, a kid in a candy store. I almost did a cartwheel, but I refrained. After all it was Press Day, and I was a member of the press with an image to uphold.
Hard-bodied Marines were everywhere, but better than that, just down the tarmac (within sprinting distance!) were my all-time god-like heroes: the Blue Angels. The Navy’s Flight Demonstration Squadron.
Be still my heart!
Press swarmed around Media Relations Chief Sergeant Davis, who, with clipboard in hand, ticked off the scheduled press flights. “You’re slated for 0900 with Tim Weber,” he told me.
“He flies aerial acrobatics?” I asked, crossing my fingers.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.
Perfect!
O900 came and went. My ride was MIA.
I was offered a Lear jet ride, but I declined. I wanted the upside down, try-to-make-me-throw-up ride.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” my mother would have said.
Waiting, watching other journalists fly off killed me, but when a German-built Extra 300 taxied to a stop, Sergeant Davis yelled, “There’s your ride!”
I ran toward Tim Weber’s two-seater. “I’m your 9 o’clock,” I said to the drop-dead gorgeous pilot. It was love at first sight.
Once harnessed in, Weber hit the ignition. The propeller turned but didn’t catch. Weber tried again. And again. Nothing. “If it doesn’t start this time, we’ll have to scrub the flight.” I could hear his frustration through the headset.
I looked across the tarmac. The Red Baron Stearman Squadron of biplanes hadn’t taken off yet. They had promised me a flight. Would it be silly to abandon a young handsome pilot for antique biplanes? I held fast and crossed my fingers.
The puttering sound of the flooded engine dashed my hopes.
“Sorry,” he said.
“That’s OK” I quickly undid the buckles and jumped from the plane. “I hope you get her fixed for the show (he did),” I yelled as I sprinted across the tarmac.
So much for true love.
“I’m here,” I said breathlessly to head Red Baron, Maynard Kruse.
The look on his face almost made me cry. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I gave your seat away to the Colonel when I saw you in the Extra 300.”
To the Colonel? “Bump him!” I blurted. “That’s my seat!”
Crushed and flightless, I swallowed my disappointment and put on my most charming smile. No one likes a crybaby.
Despite my false bravado, Kruse took pity. “Be at our hanger at 4:00,” he said, patting me on the shoulder, “and we’ll take you up.”
I almost kissed him. “I’ll be there!”
Time sped by quickly. After climbing into a Huey helicopter, listening to pilot stories and watching jets practice, I headed to my heroes, the Blue Angels. My heart pounded as I traversed the wide stretch of pavement separating us.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” a Marine said blocking my way as I was about to step over the yellow line circling the crew and their F/A 18 Hornets. “You’re not allowed past this point.”
My heart sank. So near, yet so far.
“Interviews and photo ops,” he said, “are in 15 minutes, at the press tent.”
But that’s when I was to meet the Red Baron. What was a girl to do? Fly in an aerobatic biplane or interview my heroes?
A bird in the hand….
A quick learner, I trotted toward the Red Baron hanger.
Two Red Baron Stearmans were lined up wing to wing. Two pilots in bomber jackets greeted me. “I’m Tom Womack,” said the taller one. “This is my wingman, George Moore. So sorry, you’ll be flying with him, but don’t worry, he almost always brings his passengers back.”
“Tom can say that,” Moore said in a smooth Southern accent, “because he knows I fly better than him.” He winked as Womack sputtered half-heartedly in protest.
“Joke all you want, boys,” I said. “I’m ready to fly!”
Buckled into the open cockpit, with my goggles and helmet on and my too-thin jean jacket snapped chin-tight, we taxied toward the runway. We took off, and up, up we went. In tight formation. So close I could see the seam on Womack’s leather helmet.
Suddenly both Stearmans went vertical, then did a formation loop. The earth was where the sky should be and I burst out laughing.
“Feeling okay?” said Moore.
I hollered, “More!”
We broke away into a Barrel Roll and a Reverse Half-Cuban Eight, seeing sky then earth, then sky, earth. I clapped my hands, giggling like a kid. We did an eye-popping, jaw-dropping Immelman (1/2 loop and roll) and Aileron (360-degree roll). George finished us with a Hammerhead, climbing vertically into the mouths of clouds then diving straight down toward the freeway below.
“Yahoo,” I yelled. Dr. Strangelove taking a ride!
When we landed and parked, Stealth Bombers flew like black ghosts overhead, an F-14 Tomcat roared down the runway and George flashed a sparkling grin as he gallantly helped me from the plane.
Hoorah! Those Marines sure know how to throw a party!
Lucy Llewellyn Byard welcomes comments and shares. To contact her email lucywgtd@gmail.com
