The Man Who Couldn't Save

The ocean that night was a churning void. \ It was a black night, and the landing F-8 Crusader from a neighboring squadron hit the angle deck with a sound no one wanted to hear: a metallic shriek and an explosive, sickening crash. The jet cartwheeled and flipped violently off the port side of the carrier.

I was standing just a few agonizing yards from the point of impact. The flight deck crew erupted into a frantic sprint, throwing our heavy, plastic-cased flashlights like desperate beacons into the pitch blackness. Our beams pierced the dark long enough to see the aircraft lying upside down in the water, already starting its inevitable, terrifying plunge into the depths. The drop from the flight deck to the water was approximately 90 feet—a long fall into a watery grave.

In that instant, every rule, every protocol, evaporated. My first, raw, primal instinct was reckless action: I had to jump overboard and try to free that pilot. I didn't think pilot. I didn't think