I'm Proud To Be An American (Bird Photographer and Blogger). And Honored to Call Warren Robb a Friend ...

I’ve been there too — not in the surf, but in the air. I had no prior experience surviving an A-7E after taking a hit from North Vietnamese anti-aircraft fire. The burst ruptured the main fuel tank feeding the TF41 Rolls-Royce engine, resulting in a fuel-fed fire—a scenario that historically always ends badly. But I did have extensive training on how to survive.

When the situation first developed, I was far from the relative safety of the ocean. I chose not to eject immediately — despite the handbook’s emergency procedures demanding it in bold type — because I valued avoiding capture over possibly not surviving. Although I could clearly see flames reflecting off the port-side wing pylons in my left rear-view mirror, and I had lost all electrical power and communications, my plan was to eject after crossing the coastline outbound. I figured I would take my chances in my survival raft, assuming the ejection seat, parachute, and gear all worked as advertised.

When I reached the coast, the large number of fishing boats just offshore surprised me. Knowing there was a bounty on recovered American aircrew, that wasn’t encouraging. However, I could now see the USS Jouett (CG-29) manning the North SAR station a few miles in the distance. I eased into a gentle turn toward her, planning to eject alongside the ship so they would clearly see me and the jet wouldn’t hit them.

That’s when the fuel tank must have emptied, allowing the external fire to flash inside and trigger a catastrophic explosion. The blast instantly separated everything aft of the wing — including the engine, vertical tail, and horizontal tail — from the wing and forward fuselage. I was at roughly 10,000 feet and 400 knots with zero control when my plan ended so abruptly. The immense kinetic energy in the remaining section of the aircraft had to dissipate before settling into any kind of steady state where I wasn’t pinned against the upper-left canopy by extreme negative G-forces. It felt unending.

So there I was, unable to reach either ejection handle, knowing that even if I could, the rocket seat would likely kill me because I was so far out of position. I was calmly watching the sea surface rapidly spinning through the front bulletproof glass, thinking, “This is just like the movies,” followed by, “So this is how it ends for me.”

Then, a voice in my consciousness that I didn’t recognize said clearly and matter-of-factly: “No, not yet.”

At that exact moment, positive G-forces returned and slammed me backward into the seat. I pulled the ejection seat’s face-curtain handle as fast as I could move. That was the start of an E-ticket ride like no other. But to my amazement — and with profound gratitude to the many people who made that moment possible — everything worked. Seeing the fully inflated parachute canopy above me is a sight I’ll never forget. Soon, I was floating in my raft in the relative safety of the ocean as I had envisioned.

The ship had no problem seeing the fireball emerging from enemy territory, the explosion, and my parachute. They had two rescue helicopters airborne while I was still struggling to get into my raft. In the rough sea conditions, they temporarily lost sight of me, but my survival training paid off again: I popped a smoke flare from my vest, allowing the helicopter crew to reacquire my position and gauge the wind.

They dropped a rescue swimmer into the water, and the helo backed off while he assessed my condition before signaling the aircraft to approach. He hooked my harness to the lowered hoist, and we were soon on our way back to the cruiser. Meanwhile, I believe the second helo fired on my abandoned raft to sink it so enemy boats couldn’t recover it as a decoy.

I returned to my starting point that evening — the USS Kitty Hawk (CV-63) — on another helicopter, which is where I finally realized how badly beaten up I was. After a few weeks of recovery and some time on crutches, I was happily flying missions again, needing only a little help from my willing plane captains to make that big first step up the boarding ladder.

The crew of the H-53 “Big Mother” that day was from Helicopter Combat Support Squadron 7 (HC-7). The three aircrew in the back were awarded Navy Commendation Medals some years later for fishing me out of the Gulf of Tonkin on that September afternoon in 1972 — a day I call “my bad day at the office.”

That near-death experience permanently changed my view on death. I’ve since learned that many people in similar extreme circumstances experience that same voice. In his book on NDEs, John Geiger calls it “The Third Man Factor.”

And thanks also for the great advice.

Artie is a tough cookie too. I got to work with him last weekend on Long Island, and despite being extremely ill, and I do mean extremely ill, he still showed up for our instructional session at 6:00am! He needed to stay in his car to be close to the facilities but he still came to meet me and try to help. He also had Anke there to help where he couldn’t due to his illness. He even took us all out for coffee and bagels afterwards! Never have seen such dedication to his craft and exceptional teaching ability. I learned so much and was hoping to get just “one” great shot. Artie help me get several. He changed the way I thought about this bird photography thing. This new perspective is incredible, He was recovering and still managed to get out again later in the week — hence round #2 of being ill. He’s UNSTOPPABLE!

My favorite is #3 Blast off. Great composition and I like the birds somewhat more in focus. Beautiful image.