Where Angels Tread : Screaming Past the Speed of Sound in a One-Jet Show

Every job has its perks.

Being a reporter, I can borrow a company car for assignments and use all the pens and paper I need.

Oh, and on Wednesday I got to fly faster than the speed of sound, higher than the clouds, rolling and turning and flipping upside down in the back seat of a $25-million fighter jet that belongs to the military’s elite stunt troop.

For a day--OK, for about a minute, when I grabbed the “stick” that maneuvers the plane and spun that baby over onto its side for a full 360-degree roll--I was a Blue Angel.

Sometimes, work is a whole lot of fun.

That’s right, fun. The scariest part was having to leave my notebook and tape recorder behind, knowing that I would have to write this story with nothing but my memory to help.

I remember zipping along a couple dozen feet above the runway, then, whoosh, heading straight up (they said 50-degree nose-up, but it seemed straight) to the sky, with 6.1 times the earth’s gravity--and nine iron-locked straps--keeping me in my seat. I remember sitting sideways, one wing of the F/A-18 Hornet jet pointing skyward, the other to the ground, doing 180-degree turns back from whence we came.

I remember “sustained Gs,” the never-ending (it lasted about a minute, real time) pressure slamming me into the seat, dragging my cheeks away from my face and slapping my hands back down to my legs every time I tried to lift them.

I remember floating a foot above my seat in the tiny, glass-enclosed cabin as we cruised upside down at negative Gs, weightless.

I remember looking at the wings, horrified to realize that my adventure vessel was designed to carry missiles and fight wars.

I remember gliding through the clouds, flimsy white cotton surrounding me like I was in a toilet paper commercial.

I remember not knowing which way was up--and not really caring.

*

Formed in 1946 to keep up public interest in aviation, the Navy’s Blue Angels take military maneuvers and turn them into show biz-like tricks. They’ll fly at 68 air shows this year and are the headliners for El Toro’s extravaganza, which opens to the public Saturday and Sunday.

So far, the Angels have flown in front of some 257 million spectators. A million more will watch over the next few days.

But Wednesday, as Lt. Dave Kidwell and I danced around the sky, the crowd was just a dozen jealous local Marines in camouflage lined up near the runway, shaking their heads as the clear canopy slowly closed over me and I strapped on the bright blue helmet.

Crew Chief Pete Amendolare had reviewed the procedures in the safety of a briefing room: Tighten your muscles and grunt “hook” when the Gs hit; don’t touch the yellow and black buttons that say “eject;” monitor speed, altitude and G-levels on the TV screens in front of you; keep your legs out of the way of the steering stick; turn the knob on the helmet to adjust the visor; tell the captain if you’re about to lose it.

(I didn’t throw up, though I felt sick, grabbed the barf bag and spit a little. Kidwell said his craziest passenger was an actor who plays a pilot on the TV show “Wings”; he yacked twice.)

“We’re not taking you up there to see how tough you are,” said Amendolare, who hopes to become a pilot someday. “Don’t let this scare you. This is your ride.”

But then he upped the ante, telling me that women “outdo the guys every time they fly.”

“They’re usually laughing when they get in the airplane,” he chuckled as I sputtered a nervous giggle, “and they’re laughing when they get out.”

I laughed while airborne too. It was hard to keep a straight face at 12,000 feet as we accelerated to 750 m.p.h. then slowed for wingovers and loops and a simulated carrier break--that’s big Gs, major multiplication of the gravity forces--and a whole bunch of other stuff I’d never heard of, including some weird flip where Kidwell turned us upside down and then lifted the nose up, delivering a blow to the stomach not unlike a cannon.

*

See, I’m no military brat. Never heard of the F/A-18, just learned about Gs yesterday. But I love roller coasters and I had a blast up in a helicopter the day after the earthquake. So when they asked if I wanted to fly with the Angels, it wasn’t a hard choice.

Then Tuesday I started to read other reporters’ accounts of the adventure.

It got worse Wednesday morning when I showed up and people started talking in a language I barely understood about flights they’d been on before, and the experts just kept shaking their heads and saying, “Faster. This is faster.”

And finally I signed some waiver saying: “I hereby release and discharge the United States, its agents, servants or employees from any and all claims for property damage and/or personal injury or death resulting from . . .”

It was too late to back out.

“It’s all just a blast,” Kidwell, 36, said when I asked about the most fun he’s ever had in a plane. “Doing maneuvers. Dogfighting. Dropping bombs . . . it’s all fun.”

A Kansas native, Kidwell began flying when he joined the Navy in 1984, and was named a Blue Angel last fall. He’s a father of three, but with the Angels’ hefty road schedule, he’s home in Pensacola, Fla., only on Mondays and Tuesdays.

“Can you believe,” he asked on our bird-like climb straight into the sky, “that they pay me to do this?”

Yeah, tell it to the grunts in camouflage, eyes fixed on the spectacular shiny blue jet as it zoomed by.

“It’s like owning a Corvette but you never get to drive it,” seethed the one with SMITH printed in black letters on his shirt pocket.

“I would do anything,” said his buddy, BUCHANAN.

“I’m jealous,” agreed another friend, LONGORIA.

“I joined the Marine Corps, but I can’t get a ride on a F/A-18,” Smith repeated. “I’m gonna get a job at a newspaper.”

Just another little perk.