As a U.S. Navy Sikorsky MH-60 Romeo pilot, I logged 2,000 flight hours. Many of those were spent escorting ships through the most contested trade route in the world, the Bab-el-Mandeb strait that connects the Red Sea to the Gulf of Aden.
On a different deployment, I hunted submarines in the South China Sea. My favorite part was landing on the flight deck of a destroyer ship that sits 15 feet (4.6 meters) above the water with space for a single helicopter. On nights with rough seas where the ship rocked and rolled underneath the aircraft, I waited patiently for my aircrewman to call “steady,” meaning the flight deck was level, then I stuck the landing before another big wave rocked the ship.
I thought being forward deployed was thrilling until I became a flight instructor at Naval Air Station Whiting Field in Milton, Florida. Student naval aviators — a mix of Navy, Marine Corps, Coast Guard, and allied country officers — tried to kill me on a daily basis in a Navy TH-57B/C Sea Ranger, a derivative of the Bell 206 Jet Ranger helicopter. It has a small, bubble cockpit that forces you to sit on top of your co-pilot, sweating onto each other’s kneeboards in the Florida heat, with what feels like the power of a lawn mower.
The weather in Florida provides its own challenges as summer afternoons can turn up storm cells in an instant. Low ceilings, strong winds, and lightning with a chance of heavy showers exist no matter what the forecast predicts.
Beginner students learn without the help of an automatic flight control system in the TH-57B or “Bravo” — just gears and finesse. The Bravo is a visual flight reference aircraft, meaning it is non-instrument rated. Per 14 CFR 91.155, a helicopter flying under daytime visual flight rules (VFR) weather must maintain one-half statute mile of visibility and stay clear of clouds.
Naval Air Station Whiting Field falls under an Alert Area “A-292: High volume of rotary and fixed-wing training surface to 17,500.” The airspace is congested and reliant on specific visual checkpoints, altitudes, and airspeeds known as “course rules” to keep every aircraft predictable while flying to and from the outlying training fields.
On a hot, sunny afternoon in June 2020, my introductory level student and I flew to an outlying field located eight miles (13 kilometers) southeast of our home airfield. We entered a playground for helicopters — some flying normal approach patterns to helipads, others hovering in box patterns, while advanced students simulated engine failures plummeting to the earth on the edges of the field. We entered the normal pattern and remained there most of the day. The dark distant sky grew closer with each circle around.
The moment I thought, “Just one more lap,” was the moment I made a mistake.
The grim clouds approached the edge of the field as we departed on course rules. Flying eastbound along the powerlines, we searched for our second visual checkpoint, but it was blocked by clouds. To the north, I could see our home field. My first inclination was to remain predictable on course rules and go back to the last known place with good weather. Circling overhead of our checkpoint, I could see that was no longer an option as the field was socked in by weather. I considered turning right into another outlying field to the south, but that was clobbered too.
Because of the high traffic volume and weather that made course rules impossible to fly, I climbed up to 1,400 ft. (427 m), well clear of the clouds, and had my student dial in the approach frequency. I requested a practice precision approach radar (PAR) approach to South Whiting Field. My student dialed in our new squawk as I briefed her the plan.
As an instrument rated pilot, I am able to conduct VFR practice approaches in a non-instrument rated aircraft, provided I am able to maintain visual reference to the ground. But, with two large rain cells and clouds converging from the southeast and southwest, I felt seconds away from holding my runway despite being able to see clear skies to the north.
I descended to the decision height and called to proceed visually, then expedited our approach to the runway. As I turned for the taxiway, tower called, “The Field is now IFR and the line is closed.” Then the sky dumped heavy rain onto our little Bravo. We crept slowly to a spot on the flightline, shut down, and arrived at the hangar in dripping flight suits.
Looking back, allowing my student more practice laps while we prepared to shut down and wait out the weather at the outlying field would have avoided the unnecessary rush, unique approach to the field, challenging taxi, and one very wet walk of shame.
For more than a decade, Erin Edwards served as a Navy helicopter pilot. Now, she writes. She is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy with a master’s in journalism from Stanford University and a 2023 Tillman scholar. Her work has been published in ProPublica, The Seattle Times, Pacific NW magazine, San Francisco Chronicle, War Horse Journal, and others.
