TRIED & TRUE : Fight or Flight: Simulator Puts Pilot in Earthbound Cockpit

All my life I’ve loved things that fly.

At age 9, I used to put live lizards in little plastic tubes with silk parachutes attached. Hanging a parachute over the string of a high-flying kite, I’d trudge to the top of Signal Hill overlooking my hometown of Long Beach, find a scenic spot near the edge and let the kite soar over the city. Then, at the strategic moment, I’d give the string a hard yank and watch, fascinated, as the little handkerchief sailed away toward the distant horizon dangling its precious cargo beneath.

Later I graduated to rockets. The first time I launched one, it shot out of sight in a flash and simply never came back. I assume it must still be in orbit.

Next I tried radio-controlled airplanes, which worked fine until one day a wayward craft under my less-than-expert control swooped to within three feet of a passing bicyclist’s head, causing me to lose my nerve and relegate the errant airplane to my closet forever.

And, finally, I hired a local balloonist to take me for an hourlong ride above the sands of Riverside County and had such a grand time doing it that I turned around and purchased the same experience for my then-wife. One of the oddest sensations of my life came the moment I saw that balloon disappear behind the horizon from the chase car and realized, with a start, that it was completely at the mercy of the winds and might take her away forever.

In all my meanderings, however, I never once came close to feeling like a pilot. That is, until a recent visit to Fightertown.

“Welcome aboard,” said Alex Smith, my flight instructor. “Let’s get you into a flight suit for your briefing.”

The idea at Fightertown, in Irvine, is to provide opportunities for Walter Mitty-like characters such as myself to live out their fighter-jock fantasies without leaving the ground. That way they can continue paying taxes, putting their children through college and generally being good citizens with no risk to their lives or limbs. Obviously, this was the place for me.

The illusion is created in each of several flight simulators which, from the inside, look and feel exactly like the cockpits of jets. Wearing a flight suit and helmet, the would-be “pilot” sits in the seat, handles the controls and directs his aircraft through a maze of computer-generated runways and skies projected on a screen that fills the entire windshield directly in front.

The effect is enhanced by the sounds and vibrations of actual flight, as well as the steady voice of the air traffic controller crackling into his headset.

For me the most intimidating part was the briefing, during which Smith plied me with inscrutable charts bearing mysterious lines and circles. Once I got into the cockpit, however, my utter confusion was replaced by mere panic and terror.

“OK, Thunder One,” the voice in the headset cracked. “This is Cubbage Tower. You’ve been cleared for takeoff.”

To my right, of course, was the stick, the means by which the aircraft--in this case an F-111--is steered. On the left was the throttle. In addition, there was an air brake, a microphone switch, a hook switch, landing gear and wing-flap controls, the engine starter, rear and peripheral vision buttons and, on the screen in front of me, speed, altitude and direction indicators.

As we taxied, the trick was to remember which control was which long enough to clear the field. “Lower your flaps and raise your landing gear,” the tower instructed once I was in the air. After some fumbling, I miraculously managed to flip the proper switches and felt the aircraft lurch upward.

The key to flying one of these things is keeping your nose pointed at the horizon. That’s easier said than done, especially when you’re banking to the left or right and the horizon goes haywire. At such moments it takes all the concentration you can muster just to fight down the panic and vertigo you feel rising within you, despite the knowledge that you aren’t actually leaving the ground.

The illusion of flight is so real that it’s a challenge to stay clear long enough to make a sober assessment regarding where you ought to be headed and to try to position the stick accordingly.

Because I was a beginner not yet qualified for dogfights, my task was fairly simple: take off from an air base resembling El Toro Marine Corps Air Station, circle about 50 miles out over the ocean maintaining a speed of about 350 knots and altitude of about 4,000 feet, and, finally, land on a moving aircraft carrier called the Liberty.

Once I got airborne and figured out how to turn left without punching my nose into the ground, I began to relax a little and even feel some exhilaration. Nothing but blue sky and the roar of jet engines all around me. Power and vibration.

The panic returned only when I started approaching the carrier, a moving target that began as a tiny speck in the far upper-left corner of my screen and gradually loomed larger, growing into a deck and white-lined runway. The ticket, of course, was to bank left, get the spot square in the center of my sights and keep it there until touchdown.

That assignment was tough. The target jiggled mercilessly. But, staring at the distant carrier as if my life depended on it (which, symbolically, it did) and listening to the instructions of the air traffic controller as to the voice of God, eventually, miraculously, I bounced onto the deck, skidded, and came to a stop.

Climbing out of the cockpit, I felt sort of cocky until I heard the controller’s assessment. Not a bad flight, he said. Then the kicker: I’d only crashed once. Banking hard left early in the flight, I had forgotten to pull back on the stick and hadn’t even noticed when my altimeter hit zero. No flashes, no roars, just blue space and blue silence as my jet crashed into the deep blue sea before the controller reset the computer.

So I come to you now as kind of a ghost, speaking from the vantage of hindsight and with the wisdom of one who’s been in the sky but didn’t stay there long.

What did it all mean to me?

To be honest, I can’t help but think of those lizards. Sometimes I’d hand that kite string to a friend and chase their tiny parachutes across the city by bike. Occasionally I’d even catch up with one--finding that only about half of the poor creatures survived.

Those that didn’t make it got elaborate funerals atop the hill with tiny graves marked by stones.

A motel now stands where the graves were, but whenever I pass the spot I can’t help but feel a certain affinity--and not a little guilt--for those dead lizards of my youth. Looking back now, I am profoundly glad of at least one thing: thank God I didn’t have a kite large enough to hang myself over its string.

Fightertown, 8 Hammond, Suite 100, Irvine. Open Tuesday through Friday, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.; Saturday, 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.; Sunday, noon to 8 p.m. Single-seat jets, $27.95 for a half-hour flight; two-seat jets, $34.95 and $49.50 per half hour. (714) 855-8802.