I begin my career during some of Coast Guard aviation’s darkest hours.

After Coast Guard aviation gained worldwide recognition for the excellence displayed during Hurricane Katrina, there was a grim aftermath. It starts in September 2008, when an H-65 helicopter on a hoist training flight impacts the water in Hawaii and all four crew members are lost. In October 2009, a C-130 on a SAR case has a midair collision with a Marine Corps Cobra, killing seven Coast Guard crew members and two Marines. In December 2009, an HU-25 Falcon jet has a hard landing and collapses the nose gear, with no injuries to the crew. While in flight school, we all hear about these crashes, but in a Navy training command, they feel far off and distant.

Shortly after I check in to Borinquen, an H-60 crashes into a mountainside in Utah after providing support during the Winter Olympics. The aircraft is totaled, and three crew members are injured. It feels different now that I am at a Coast Guard unit. We discuss the crash together in the wardroom and most of the older pilots know people who were on the crash.

Just days after my first rescue, on April 20, 2010, an H-65 crew is practicing hoist operations, suffers spatial disorientation, and crashes into the water. Miraculously, the entire crew survives, and I learn that I know one of the pilots from the Academy. Seeing an H-65 crash while doing the same kind of training mission I have been doing hits much closer to home.

The wound is still fresh in our minds when, only nine days later, another H-65 rolls over on the runway during a training maneuver. Luckily, all aircrew survive with no injuries.

Weeks later, on May 13, 2010, I am on my way to Air Station Borinquen when I get a call from Duby. I can immediately tell he has been drinking, which isn’t necessarily abnormal, but he sounds very shaken up. He is in the middle of primary flight training in the T-34, and he tells me about his flight earlier that day. It was an aerobatic solo flight, where essentially you take the T-34 out into the operating area by yourself and practice loops, barrel rolls, and other aerobatic maneuvers. Duby attempted to do a loop but entered it slow and without enough energy. He pulled back hard on the stick, increasing the G’s in an attempt to pull all the way through the maneuver. His airspeed bled off, and he entered a stall.

We train how to recover from stalls and spins, and at this point in training, Duby is very proficient with these recoveries. The only problem is that, for whatever reason, the T-34 does not enter a normal stall or spin. Duby enters some type of out-of-control flight where he is plummeting toward the ground, but no recovery technique has any effect on the aircraft.

He is not flying. He is falling through the air.

He started the maneuver at around 9,000 feet above the ground, and he is watching his altimeter approach 5,000 feet. The procedure for out-of-control flight is to neutralize the stick and pull power to idle. Aerodynamically, the T-34 is designed to eventually right itself and begin to fly again.

This does not happen.

The next part of the procedure, if you have not recovered by 5,000 feet, is to bail out. Duby hits 5,000 feet and makes the difficult decision that he will bail out of the T-34. The only problem is that the T-34 is old and does not have an ejection seat. The procedure is to get out of the harness, open the canopy, stand on the seat, and jump out over the wing before inflating your parachute. Duby pops the canopy, stands on the seat, and attempts to dive, but he hits the airstream and is pinned underneath the canopy, flailing like a rag doll. He attempts several times to free himself, but he can’t. He climbs back into the seat and makes peace with the fact that he is going to ride the plane into his untimely death.

After a few moments of sitting there, the aircraft buffets and begins to fly. He is pointed straight down at the ground, floating out of his seat, with a 50-degree angle of bank. He levels the wings and pulls as hard as he can through 7 G’s, seven times the force of gravity. He pulls out and levels off at 1,700 feet. He collects himself, declares an emergency, and flies home escorted by half the squadron that was out flying and heard him on the radio.

I don’t even know what to say to him, and I wrestle with the fact that I was seconds away from losing my best friend. We talk for a little while, and I try to make sure he is okay. Then I bury it somewhere in my mind because I have to go on a night flight. I write it off as a freak accident. I have never heard of anybody attempting to bail out of the T-34, and we were promised it would recover itself during out-of-control flight. I am just thankful I still have my best friend.

The interesting thing is that despite all of these crashes and nearly losing my best friend, I have never thought it could happen to me.

During flight school, a TH-57 suffered a mechanical failure and was forced to perform an autorotation into the trees. Thankfully, the aircrew survived with only minor injuries, but the aircraft was wrecked. After the initial investigation at the crash site, the aircraft was brought back to Whiting Field and put in the hangar. We had to walk right past the wreckage on our way out to the flight line.

I never let myself think it could happen to me.

Failing, that felt probable. Failing was always in the front of my mind and felt like a realistic outcome. I constantly envisioned myself getting kicked out of flight school and living life as a failure, but crashing never entered my mind. I saw the wreckage as a warning, like when they put wrecked cars on display to warn you not to drink and drive. I was warned. I took all these crashes and Duby’s story as a warning. I knew that I needed to study and practice all my emergency procedures because flying is dangerous, but I never thought about crashing.

On July 7, 2010, an H-60 is on a flight from Astoria, Oregon, to Sitka, Alaska. The crew sees a Coast Guard 47-foot small boat and descends to fly over it and wave, a maneuver that is commonplace. As they descend toward the boat, they strike a nearly invisible set of power lines hanging over the shoreline. The aircraft is ripped apart and crashes into the water off La Push, Washington.

We all wait anxiously to hear if anyone survived. We have learned to expect the worst. I go through a whole Rolodex in my mind, trying to remember if I know anyone flying H-60s on the West Coast, and I can’t think of anyone.

Not long after the mishap, we learn that of the crew of four, only one pilot survived and three crew members were killed. The names of the crew are released, and in an instant, my illusion of invincibility is pierced and my beliefs about crashing are shaken.

I did know someone out there.

LT Sean Krueger was the aircraft commander.

I immediately think back to meeting Sean at Air Station Cape Cod, watching him launch into the unknown to save someone he didn’t know. Sean was one of the first Coast Guard pilots I met, one of my first heroes, and now he is gone.

I am friends with Sean’s brother, who is also a pilot. We played hockey together at the Academy, and their mother was the unofficial team nurse who took care of me a few times. I think about them and how devastating it must be for their family. I am shaken by this loss, and the slightest amount of fear begins to creep in.

During the last 22 months, there have been seven serious Coast Guard aviation mishaps, and we have lost 14 aviators. In the last five months alone, from February to July, we have crashed four helicopters, and someone I looked up to is gone. This time period has one of the highest mishap rates the Coast Guard has ever seen. It makes it harder to believe that I am somehow immune to the serious risks of aviation.

I think back to CAPT Pettitt’s email in flight school, where he wrote, “George, you’ve got the great attitude that you’ll need in aviation. Things don’t always go your way: aircraft break, the weather tricks you, fellow aviators get killed. But you can handle it with a sense of humor & all-out effort. You WILL have to outwork everyone — but that is OK. That is something YOU can control.”

I realize it isn’t enough to just believe nothing will happen to me. I can’t just will it out of existence, but I can do everything I can to prepare. As a young Coast Guard pilot watching this unprecedented time in Coast Guard aviation unfold, I become obsessed with trying to be the best pilot I can be. My fear of failure becomes nothing compared to my fear of being unprepared.

Coast Guard leadership responds to these crashes and establishes the Aviation Safety Assessment Action Plan, or ASAAP. They conduct a thorough review of aviation operations with the goal of making it safer before we lose any more aircraft and crew. One of the messages communicated is that, as pilots, we must “honor our profession.”

After all of these crashes, losing so many aircraft and crew, this message hits hard. Honoring our profession means dedicating ourselves to mastering our craft, studying hard, and staying disciplined in the aircraft. We must prepare like our lives depend on it, because they do. More than anything, honoring our profession means that we must honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice and live a life that would make them proud.

It becomes my life’s work.