With six months of training in the T-37 jet, I had successfully completed basic, cross country navigation, aerobatics and formation flying. It was time to report for my final instrument check. This would be my last check before graduating from the T-37 to the larger T-33 jet trainer. The T-33 was the trainer version of the first Air Force jet fighter, the F-80 Shooting Star. I was so close to becoming a real jet jock I could taste it. But I wasn’t there yet.

After a short briefing, I walked to the flight line with the instructor who was designated as my flight examiner for the final instrument check. I did the walk-around inspection and strapped in, rapidly going through the now familiar preflight procedures. We all wore the standard flight helmet with oxygen mask and hose. Because the T-37 was unpressurized, it was necessary to breathe with an oxygen mask at higher altitudes. We used an acronym to remember all the steps for the oxygen check – PD McCRIPE: pressure, diaphragm, mask, connection – CONNECTION. I was momentarily distracted as my instructor repeated the altimeter setting he had just heard over the radio. Unaware that I had skipped the most important step of actually connecting the oxygen hose to the regulator, completion of the other items on the oxygen checklist were for naught.

After we took the runway, the examiner reached into his bag and took out the blinders used for instrument flying. These fit onto my helmet so I could see only the instruments directly in front of my eyes. That effectively killed any chance of looking outside the jet to determine the situation.

We climbed to 21,000 feet and went through various instrument maneuvers. Hypoxia onset at this altitude is an insidious condition. I had been through the altitude chamber and watched my fellow pilots go through very rapid hypoxia at 35,000 feet and had done so myself. At that altitude, the time of useful consciousness is about 15 seconds without oxygen. But at 21,000 feet the onset happens slowly. Not only is there no discomfort, gradual deprivation of oxygen results in euphoria.

At first I was alert and doing well. But after about 20 minutes, I started to get sloppy. Finally, my instructor looked at me and said, “Taylor, what’s the matter with you? You’re off your altitude. You’re off your heading and you’re all over the sky.”

I looked over at him, and though he couldn’t see it through my mask, I was grinning. “Uh – I’ll get it – just a minute.” I actually thought I was doing great.

“Taylor, something’s wrong with you. Check your oxygen.”

I slowly looked at my oxygen regulator. The regulator should have blinked every time I took a breath, but I was too far gone to see anything wrong. I turned and gave him a blank look.

“Check your hose connection,” he shouted, “NOW!”

I found the loose hose connection, but by now I was so daffy, instead of hooking it to the regulator, I tried to stick the end of the hose in my mouth, but it kept hitting the mask.

At that point I passed out. My next memory was coming to and going into convulsions. Even though conscious, I could not control the shaking and jerking of my body and, for a short while, I couldn’t talk. Though scary, this is a temporary part of the recovery process. But under the stress of the situation, my poor instructor forgot that detail and thought I was dying. We were in a steep dive toward the airport, and I heard the call to the tower.

“Mayday – mayday – mayday, I have an incapacitated student. I need an ambulance. I say again, I have an incapacitated student. I need an ambulance.”

By the time we were on approach, I had recovered and tried to convince the flight examiner that I was all right, but he obviously had doubts. I could see an ambulance and fire truck off to one side of the runway. As we taxied onto the apron, three medics ran from the ambulance with a stretcher. I tried again to convince my instructor I was fine.

“This is precautionary,” the instructor said. “Just do what they say. I will shut down the left engine and leave the right one running. Keep your helmet on so the noise doesn’t damage your ears.”

The medics, of course, had no idea what condition I was in, so they tried to grab me and put me on the stretcher. I resisted and walked to the ambulance with a medic on either side holding my arms. I was allowed to sit in the ambulance with one medic next me and one across from me still convinced in my mind that I was okay. But as each medic asked me a question, I found myself having to turn my head and look straight at him in order to see him. I suddenly realized I had no peripheral vision whatsoever. And then it hit me. Oxygen starvation could cause vision impairment. I saw my life flash in front of me, realizing it would mean the end of my flying career. In a panic, I shouted, “I’ve got gun barrel vision! I can’t see!I’ve got gun barrel vision!”

One of the medics calmly reached up and removed my instrument blinders and said, “Lieutenant, does this help?”

“Uh … yes,” I sheepishly replied.

Read more funny aviation stories from Steve Taylor in his new book “Wheels Up: Sky Jinks in the Jet Age” available from Amazon