Strapping myself into the T-34C Turbo Mentor that windy early morning was the culmination of many years of working towards a goal. All goals, just like journeys have to start somewhere. My goal of becoming a military pilot was essentially just beginning and I needed to get a good grade on this mornings flight. Steady improvement was critical, as we are now beginning the first phases of acrobatics and I needed to show improvement every flight out. After going through the mornings pre-flight checks, weather, and finally now running through the start-up procedures for the aircraft, my US Navy instructor and I taxied down the runway. The T-34C was the workhorse of the US Navy and US Marine Corps pilot training pipeline. Successful graduation from the first phase of flight school meant moving-on to flying larger and more complicated aircraft. As I pulled back on the controls, rotating upwards into the Corpus Christi, Texas airspace, I felt the turbo prop engine vibrate as the aircraft gained altitude. The student pilot sits in the front seat, and much like other flights before, I scanned the horizon looking for errant aircraft entering or near the training airspace over the Gulf of Mexico. Once we were “feet wet” or over the water, I made my radio calls, and the instructor took control of the aircraft as he piloted the T-34 into the airspace.

Right at this moment, I began “burping.” The damn McDonalds breakfast was not sitting so well. I thought to myself, “fuck I shouldn’t have ordered that.” It was too late now, my original order of a small coffee had turned into a number #2 breakfast meal. I was single and being single means not eating so well. I was going to try to calm myself so I would not just throw-up right then and there. I figured I could make it. As the instructor angled the aircraft into position for our maneuvers, he demonstrated the first move, in which I would attempt to do a second time. Depending on how well I performed, we would either move on to something else or we would keep on doing it until I had perfected the move. It was loop. As the instructor completed the move, I focused my eyes, cranked up the cold air, and blasted the Oxygen through my facemask. I could feel the urge to vomit, college had taught me what the sensation felt like, and I knew I was beyond recovery. Reaching into my flight suit, I went to grab my yet unused plastic puke bag. Packaged in a manila envelope, I searched my pocket and realized it was not there. Frantically, I searched every other pocket on my flight suit, I was out of luck. I radioed to my instructor for his bag, my heart sank as he radioed back “sorry brother.” Damn it, what the fuck do I do now. Throwing up in the aircraft was not an option, searching for an option, I thought of MacGyver and what he would do. I looked at the urination tube, “no way I am wrapping my lips around that thing,” I thought to myself. Quickly running out of options, I unzipped my green NOMEX flight suit and proceeded to unleash ‘holy hell’ into my flight suit. Unlike a Victoria Secret Super Model, I don’t throw-up so well. Ejecting Ronald McDonalds ham and cheese breakfast sandwich’s (I had the twofer) into my clothing at 6700’ feet above the Gulf of Mexico sucked.

McDonalds and flying not the best combo

My instructor asked me if I was good, looking down at my flight suit and the soup now sloshing around my body, I radioed back saying, “not so much.” He asked me if I wanted to head back and after describing the situation, he slowed the aircraft and cracked the canopy open. He said, the smell was staring to get to him. Damn it ‘Goose’ what the hell. The straps of the seat were holding the now bulbous flight suit together. Looking like I had size DD breasts, we finally touched down back at the base. Feeling pretty deflated at this point, I felt that it could not get any worse. However, the military can find ways to strip you a bit more of your humility. The cleanup crew arrived, with mop-buckets and cleaning supplies in a golf cart with a yellow flashing light on the roof. As I climbed out of the aircraft, I explained to them that such things were not necessary, as my flight suit had done its job. Ha, “you came out all this way for nothing” I thought to myself. Attempting to pick myself-up as best I could as we walked back to the squadron. After turning my flight gear back in, my instructor told me to head to medical, we would debrief later. Talking to the medical personnel on duty, he asked me if this was a ‘one-time thing.’ I told him I felt something was wrong, as I had never quite thrown-up like that. I should have said yes. Never say no, especially if asked if this was a one-time thing. Saying yes earned me a trip to a little known place on the 4th floor of the Naval Medical Center at Corpus Christi. In the hallway was a barber chair with large handles on it, much like a merry-go-round found at a playground. I may never walk the runway at New York Fashion Week, but I know how Models get skinny. They smoke and make themselves throw-up. A chubby Chief Petty Officer checked my medical records and told me to return the following morning at 0800 and in his words “please don’t eat.” Rumor had it that going to the “spin and puke” was your last ditch effort to get over the sensation of throwing-up. Feeling already pretty crappy at even having to be needing assistance, I resigned my fate. “Just get through this” I thought. How bad could this be.

Arriving a few minutes before 0800, I sat and waited for my name to be called. Sure enough, a few minutes later the Chief Petty Officer arrived and he said “follow me.” Motioning to the ‘barber chair’ I sat, strapped in with the car seat belt belonging to a 1980’s GM vehicle. He went over what was going to happen, he was going to spin me in case you didn’t realize it yet, and then he said in his Texas draw “If ya gona’ go all super model on me, just let me know, now ya hear!” God damn it.