By now, many of you may or may not know what I did Friday morning. If not, lemme show you it in pictures:


My chariot awaited. You’ll notice in subsequent pics that
my plane is the only USAF plane, while the others are Navy.
That’s because, according to my pilot, Brian “Digger” McCann,
the plane’s owner was Air Force and flat-out refused to paint
“Navy" on the plane, even if the colors are in fact Navy.


My colleague and pal Scott Bort, getting the rundown
from his pilot, John “Ripper” Rippinger. The flotation device
is but one thing you get harnessed into on one of these flights.


Digger gets into his parachute and straps in for the ride.


Heading toward my deaththe runway


Aw yeah, there’s no turning back now.


This here’s the control panel in my part of the cockpit.
Didn’t need to know anything about it and didn’t want
to know, as it’s better that way for all involved.


Aaaaaaaand we’re up!


Ripper and Bort.


See those planes waaaaay over there? Yeah, we had
to catch up to them. There was speeding involved.


We caught up, natch, and here we are in formation. See?
It really is further apart than it looks from the ground.


Now it’s time to head over the lake, where Digger says
the ride is smoother. We’ll see about that.


Six planes up in (Lima Lima) formation. Over the lake.


Coming off the lake.


Back in formation off the lake. I know I’ve got a lot
of these shots, but I was fascinated by how the planes
looked like marionettes.


As I headed back to the airport for my second assignment
of the day, there were these ginormous billowy clouds
that would’ve been gorgeous to fly through. When
WE were up in the air, we got this. Not quite as exciting.


“If you’re gonna spew, spew into this!”


Back on land and Thunderbirds in the hizzzouse, y’all!


This is what happens when you try to convince people who’re
flight-challenged that there are going to be loop-de-loops
and spiraling dips. Right, Bort!??


That’s right—he had to pose with his barf
bag. And he would’ve made me do it if I’d
have tossed, so don’t be all, “Awww, poor
Scott.” It’s a hazard of the job.


The master and me, no worse for the wear. And no barf
bag.

This is not to say, however, that the ride was all smooth sailing for me, either; until you’re up there, you really have no idea how unbelievably hot it gets, and if you’re not properly hydrated (like I’m not most of the time), it’s going to hurt, and I spent the last five or so minutes of the flight concentrating on my breathing so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. And I now also understand the appeal of sticking your head out the window like a dog while driving—I’ve never been so happy to open a window as when Digger told me I could reopen the chamber.

So yeah, it’s an extremely cool thing to do if you ever have the chance to do it, no question, and the Limas couldn’t be a better bunch of guys to fly with. You won’t see ME doing it again—I thought doing something like this would cure my fear of moving heights, but no such luck—but I’m thrilled and grateful I had the chance to do it this once.