Naval aviators are trained to handle the worst weather imaginable. Sometimes, though, our imagination is too—unimaginative.

I mounted my Sikorsky SH3D on the carrier’s deck in filthy weather—low visibility and fog. At least it was daylight. My crew (copilot and two sonar operators) took their seats, we went through the checklists, and launched into the gray goo.

Our tactical flight lasted almost five hours. We flew to where there might be a submarine, entered a hover, lowered a sonar transducer on the end of a long cable into the water, searching. Retrieve the cable, exit, hover, and repeat. Hour after hour.

As usual, we had moderate success locating and tracking the exercise submarine. By the end of the tactical period of the flight, we were tired but mainly bored. We returned to the boat, planning a quick recovery and a nice hot shower. If only.

The mood was relaxed. We spent time ensuring we were on course, stowing documents and equipment we’d used, chatting, and cracking jokes. Until we heard the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center call the fixed-wing aircraft we’d been working with.

“AT 25, AT 32,” CATCC radioed, “your signal is Bingo.”

Uh-oh. The Carrier Air Traffic Control Center was telling the fixed-wing aircraft in our flight to divert to the nearest airport on land. The weather at the carrier was too bad for the fixed-wing planes to land.

My pulse rate went up a bit. Helicopters never had enough fuel to reach a divert airfield when we first took off, never mind at the end of a five-hour flight. Today was no exception. But we usually had an easier time getting aboard than they did. Usually.

As my Nomex gloves wicked sweat away from my palms. I clenched and released my hands a few times, then gripped the flight controls firmly. I could handle this. The copilot relinquished control to me and reached for his checklist book.

CATCC gave me a vector where I could begin a radar-controlled approach to the boat. Once we got there, they told me to turn toward the carrier. I droned on, waiting, trying to stay calm.

“Alpha Tango 47, approaching glide slope, begin descent,” CATCC radioed.

So far, so good. A helicopter doesn’t have to do much to make a low-visibility approach—just start down. We were flying at 90 knots, 300 feet above the water—a standard approach in bad weather.

“Alpha Tango 47, on glide slope,” CATCC said. I adjusted power and attitude to maintain our standard three-degree glide path.

CATCC talked me down, giving me instructions when I deviated left or right, up or down from the desired trajectory. His calm voice gave me confidence. Routine. My pulse was steady. A glance at my fuel gauge told me I had enough for the approach.

The carrier was still shrouded in fog when we arrived at our minimum descent altitude. I could see nothing.
Well, hell. A missed approach was a common occurrence. A missed approach with minimum fuel and no place to go but the sea was not ordinary.

“Alpha Tango 47, missed approach,” I radioed. Though my heart was racing, I forced myself to adopt the calm façade required of Naval Aviators in distress.

I followed the missed approach procedure, climbed to three hundred feet, and leveled off. I took a breath. This wasn’t likely to be any more successful a second time, and I was running low on fuel.

CATCC called and told me they’d bring me around for another approach. This time, they’d do something different: a smoke light approach.

I’d heard of this. Theoretically. Now, it was time to find out if it would work. If not, we were going in the water.

CATCC vectored me back to the radar approach point. This time, instead of descending at a gentle angle, they had me descend with the radar altimeter as a reference until I could see the water.

I leveled off at about twenty feet above the ocean and slowed to about 60 knots, far below average approach speed. As CATCC gave me directions toward the carrier, sailors on the carrier started dropping smoke flares off the stern. A smoke flare is a floating cylinder with a readily visible burning flame just above the water. It also emits a lot of smoke.

As I slowly flew up the ship’s track, I started seeing smoke flares in the water. Like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs, they were leading me home. The direction of the smoke from the flare showed me which way the wind was blowing and made the flare more visible. I got involved in the procedure and let my subconscious take care of worrying.

I followed the trail of smoke flares up the carrier’s wake, slowing gradually. When I could see the water roiled up by the screws, I climbed until I was above the flight deck, then eased slowly forward. Gradually, I began to see the carrier through the mist.

I air-taxied forward and set down on spot 9, the flight deck’s furthest aft helicopter landing zone. Through the fog, I couldn’t see anything forward of spot 8. We had about 250 pounds (roughly 40 gallons, about double what my SUV holds) of fuel remaining—enough to fly another fifteen minutes.

Piece of cake!