Veterans' Voice: A Matter of Fortune

I often reflect on how a series of small decisions, good timing, and a fair amount of luck shaped my life as a U.S. Navy helicopter aircrewman.

My path began in high school with aviation, inspired by my dad. He was a crew chief in a helicopter in the Army, taught us to fly an ultralight and took us every year to the Oshkosh airshow. I planned to become an airline pilot and even enrolled in flight school. Then I changed direction toward the military. The Air Force seemed like the obvious choice, but a Navy recruiter claimed the Navy had more aircraft. He also offered advice that stuck: If they don’t offer you the job you want, walk away.

At MEPS, the Navy offered training with one word that mattered — aircrewman. I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but it turned out to be the most consequential decision of my life.

I entered boot camp in October 1992 in Orlando, Florida, where civilians quickly become government property. From there, I went to Pensacola for Naval Aircrew Candidate School. Training intensified fast: physical conditioning, flight safety, water survival, and land survival. Next came Anti-Submarine Warfare school in Millington, Tennessee, where I learned to track submarines acoustically and distinguish friend from foe.

After graduation, several paths were possible — P-3 aircraft, ship-based roles, or helicopters. Fortunately, my path led to Rescue Swimmer School, widely regarded as one of the Navy’s most physically and mentally demanding courses.

Rescue Swimmer School lasted six relentless weeks. Every day began with inspections and physical training, followed by punishing hours in the pool. I was assigned as class leader, reinforcing one of the military’s hardest lessons: leaders are accountable for everything. By graduation, only about half of those who started remained.

Afterward, I chose between the Atlantic and Pacific Fleets. Wanting to see the Mediterranean, I selected the Atlantic Fleet, which sent me to Jacksonville, Florida, for H-60 Seahawk helicopter training. There, I learned the aircraft inside and out.

My first flight was memorable — mostly because I threw up into my helmet bag. I suspect the pilots intentionally flew the aircraft slightly out of balance. After nearly two years of training, I briefly wondered if air sickness might end my career before it began. Thankfully, it never happened again in more than 1,000 flight hours.

Earning my aircrew wings remains one of my proudest moments. At the time, tradition required drinking from a flight boot before a shipmate pinned the wings directly into your chest — no clutches, just pressure. Painful, symbolic, unforgettable.

Another defining experience was SERE school — Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. The training culminated in simulated prisoner-of-war scenarios that felt disturbingly real. It left a lasting impression on resilience and mental toughness.

I eventually reported to Helicopter Anti-Submarine Squadron 15, the Red Lions, in Jacksonville. I arrived just as the squadron returned from a six-month deployment aboard the USS Saratoga. As the newest crewman, I learned quickly that seniority has its privileges. Over time, I earned mine and became a senior crewman in the back of the helicopter.

Our missions often involved serving as the rescue swimmer platform during aircraft carrier flight operations. The job demanded constant vigilance. Small mistakes could mean life or death. That’s why we trained relentlessly — because training is what takes over when adrenaline does.

One training mission still stands out. During a nighttime, night-vision goggle exercise called HVBSS, we fast-roped Marines onto a ship. My job was to place the rope on deck and signal when it was clear. As the first Marine descended, I noticed the helicopter drifting over open water off the fantail. I called it out immediately. The pilot corrected just in time as the Marine hit the deck. He never knew how close it came until the debrief. That moment confirmed what training teaches: awareness saves lives.

Between the ages of 18 and 23, I grew up fast. We trained out of the Bahamas, tracking submarines in deep water using dipping sonar and sonobuoys. I completed one six-month deployment through the Mediterranean, visiting Israel, Greece, Mallorca, and France — before plans changed abruptly and we transited the Suez Canal to the Persian Gulf.

In 1996, flying over Kuwait, I saw bridges and bunkers I had only seen on CNN as a teenager — remnants of the first Gulf War. It was sobering. Still, I was proud to be part of an aircraft carrier group — a massive, coordinated force of ships, aircraft, submarines, and people. As my senior chief liked to say, we were the “tip of the spear.”

Above all, I consider myself fortunate. Fortunate in my choices, my training, my experiences, and my timing. I never had to perform an actual rescue — only training. I spent countless hours flying starboard delta off the carrier, ready but never called. I served during a period without major war and was never shot at.

That, more than anything else, is my story of service — and my gratitude.