It was October, 1969. Deployed aboard the USS Forrestal off Jacksonville, Florida. The Admiral's Fleet operational readiness inspection. Lots of pressure to get it right. 2PM. I am scheduled for an afternoon launch in my F-4B Phantom (we called it the "spook") to run intercept exercises. Basically boring holes in the sky following Tom's (my radar/gunner in back seat) vectors. Preflight check out is normal. All went fine until halfway down the 2.5 second stroke of the catapult. I heard a click in my headset, noticed a handful of warning lights blink amber, and lost communication between me and the gunner. I thought - well. Then - woops, off the end of the ship my nose rose so sharply I jammed the stick forward. The nose kept accelerating upward. I pushed both throttles to maximum afterburner. Still no response. Then the right wing dropped signalling a stall. Shit. I stood on the left rudder. Nothing. I took my hand off the stick and yanked at the "D-ring" ejection handle between my legs, tearing it out to eye level. Explosion. Explosion. Then another big one, this time under me. I passed out. The ejection seats driven by rockets and pancake charges blew our canopies, the gunner and then me away from the doomed aircraft all in about three seconds. I woke seeing an A-4 Skyhawk launch from the waist cat while still tied in my seat, restrained, leg and arm, by cords and seat belt. I heard the sound of the wind, breath, spirit filling my parachute. 60 feet off the water, off the starboard bow I stared at the long, 900' carrier at eye level. I looked to my right and saw the last of AA-107 slip silently into 80 fathoms of 68 degree water. To my left and slightly lower was Tom. He looked O.K. Some instinct woke forcing my hand to release my oxygen mask on one side, pull the RSSK-5 handle releasing and inflating a six foot rubber raft which hung 15 feet below me until I hit the water 4 seconds later. I went under. It felt cool. My back hurt. I pulled the vest cord inflating my Mae West. The "Angel" was overhead. They're trained to get the pilot first. A simple matter of economics? It costs more to train pilots. I can't get into the horseshoe collar. Tangled in shrouds, back hurt. Sailor jumps out of the helicopter. Swims over, cuts shroud lines, tries to push my head and shoulder through the collar. Can't do it. Sailor signals for three pronged lift to be lowered. Sailor helps my leg over prong and ties me to the post. I remember the men dragging the river at home one spring with hooks looking for a drowned boy. The Sailor signals. I am hauled from the sea into the rattling, belching, windy "Angel". We move over the white helmut with a red thunderbolt painted on both sides. Tom looks up. Thumbs up answers a thumbs up. He is pulled free quickly and now sits nearby. I feel like crying. Later that night I sent a telegram home "Some good news and some bad. First the good..."

They shot me off the end again two days later. I was not much good to them anymore. I had begun to care. Later, I lived through it all again in my dreams only this time it was not the "Angel" that rescued me, but a beautiful golden-haired woman.