Alex’s grandfather served in Korea, and his older brother joined the Marine Corps. Alex followed in their footsteps and entered the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, on June 27, 2013, and began his plebe year. During PROTRAMID, the professional training for midshipmen, he fell in love with aviation.
The night before first flight, my instructor calls me on the phone and says, “About 60 percent of students get airsick on their first flight, so plan accordingly. Pack Ziploc bags and stuff them in your flight suit. Keep ’em handy if you need to throw up tomorrow.”
“Roger that, sir.”
I immediately go and grab a pair of Ziploc one-gallon bags and shove them in my flight bag. The next morning, I throw it in the cargo compartment.
We’re flying in a T-6 Bravo—a single-engine turboprop aircraft with a maximum speed of three hundred knots. It’s a high-performance aircraft but not necessarily on the same scale as a jet fighter. Still, it’s a big step up from the Cessna 172 I flew eighteen months ago.
I sit in the cockpit behind my instructor, wearing a helmet and oxygen mask with a hot mic that allows us to talk to each other. The mic picks up every breath, any sound I make.
After we take off, I realize that I left the Ziploc bags in my flight bag, which is about fifteen feet from where I’m sitting and inaccessible during the flight.
Things go well for the first forty-five minutes. I begin to relax. This is no big deal, I tell myself. Clearly, I’m a natural at this.
My instructor says we’re going to perform a G awareness maneuver, which is where you roll perpendicular to the horizon at two hundred KIAS, then smoothly pull back on the stick to start a tight 360 while maintaining altitude in order to induce a g-force on the body. I’ve never done the maneuver before, and I’ve never had any g-load on my body.
My instructor performs the maneuver. My vision shrinks to the size of a quarter. It’s awful. Not only that, but I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s get some landing practice in.”
“Roger that, sir.” I don’t tell him I feel sick to my stomach.
We do touch-and-goes—landing and then immediately throwing max power and taking off before you leave the runway.
“How you feeling?” he asks.
“Still haven’t thrown up, sir.” But I’m about to, I add privately. There’s no doubt in my mind.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s head home.”
We’ve got a twenty-minute flight ahead of us, and I’ve got about twenty seconds until I puke. There’s no way I’m going to make it—and there’s no way I’m going to throw up in the plane because if I do, I’ll have to clean it up. Plus, if I throw up now, there’s no place for it to go. I’m wearing an oxygen mask, and I left my Ziploc bags inside my flight bag and I can’t get—
I throw up.
Clamp my lips together to prevent it from escaping.
Swallow it back down.
It’s awful.
So, so awful.
Thankfully, though, my stomach settles.
I’m good. All I need to do now is make it back home and I can—
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I vomit inside my oxygen mask.
And I know my instructor heard it.
“Hey,” he says. “What the heck was that?”
“It’s nothing, sir.”
“It sounded like—”
“I’m fine, sir. Let’s get home.”
When we finally land, I want to jump out of the plane and kiss the ground, I’m so happy. And I feel fine. I take off my helmet and then, very, very carefully, I remove my oxygen mask and, holding it like a bowl, place it inside the helmet so I can’t spill it.
Now I have to unstrap myself from all the stuff inside the airplane. Because I’m strapped inside an ejection seat, I have to elevate my helmet above my head and place it on top of the canopy—the sliding transparent enclosure—in order to get out.
My helmet tips.
Falls inside the plane and splatters vomit everywhere.
My instructor pulls me aside.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says. “Happens to everybody.”