Kegan “SMURF” Gill, a former US Navy F/A-18E pilot, overcame life-altering injuries sustained during a high-speed ejection into the sound barrier in 2014. After undergoing multiple surgeries and a two-year recovery process, he triumphantly returned to flying Super Hornets.
Kegan eventually struggled with delayed-onset PTSD and cognitive issues from a severe traumatic brain injury. Traditional pharmaceutical treatments exacerbated his condition, leading to hospitalization. Frustrated with the limitations of the VA healthcare system and grappling with overwhelming mental health ailments, Kegan found renewed hope through alternative therapies, including the use of psychedelics. Now medication-free, he continues his holistic healing journey and participates in ultra-endurance events. He also speaks and writes about his transformative experiences, focusing on mind, body, and soul wellness while raising a family. Here is a preview of his forthcoming book Phoenix Revival! Click here to preorder it now!

January 15th, 2014: My eyes were bloodshot, punished by hours of intense focus on a laptop screen as I programmed a stack of thumb-drive-like mission cards for the upcoming Airwing Large Force Exercise, LFE. The stuffy, windowless room was packed with highly caffeinated, seasoned, and aggressive type-A personalities. Besides the sadistic Weapon System Officer, who was orchestrating the rigorous week-long mission planning phase, we would have much rather been in the cockpit.

The self-escort strike we were designing served as preparation for the hazardous task of launching dozens of our airwing’s aircraft simultaneously into shared airspace to train for complex air-to-air warfare. Despite its chaotic nature, training as close to the real thing as possible prepared us to handle the worst-case scenarios that could arise.

Executing an LFE self-escort strike requires aircrew to utilize the wide range of skills the F/A-18 is designed for. In the event of actual warfare, a single aircraft carrier can mobilize an entire airwing, enabling us to penetrate enemy lines and strike strategic targets almost anywhere in the world. This capability positions the aircraft carrier as a powerful game-changer in the grand scheme of global geopolitics.

As the LFE planning dragged on, I eagerly absconded from the room, anticipating the afternoon’s flight lighting up my nerves. Upon escaping the steel-and-concrete confines of the Naval Air Station Oceana TOPGUN Weapons School, the open sky promised an afternoon of thrill.

Engulfing my bagged lunch during the brief transit across the master jet base, I made my way up the narrow hangar staircase into the VFA-143 Pukin’ Dog-ready room. The duty desk was occupied by Fisty, my good friend and squadron mate, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Chris Pratt in terms of his charm and ability to nail impersonations that boosted morale through our grind.

Humor, especially the kind that teetered on the edge of sanity, was the lifeblood that kept us sane in the high-stakes world of strike-fighter aviation. Case in point, Fisty used the Shark Tracker app to playfully mark the real-time positions of GPS-tagged sharks on the Squadron Duty Officer’s whiteboard. One particular entry, a massive thirty-five hundred pound, sixteen-foot Great White named Mary-Lee, lurked ominously below the airspace I was about to occupy. With the water offshore chilling at a frigid thirty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, Fisty, in his usual wise-cracking manner, commented that today would be a less-than-ideal day to eject.

Having served eight months with the squadron, Fisty and I had barely graduated from being the Fuckin’ New Guys, FNGs. Nonetheless, every day served a fresh brew of lessons as we guzzled knowledge from the firehose of experience necessary to stay alive. In the Pukin’ Dogs, the newcomer is anointed with the callsign ‘Poop,’ the most worthless part of the dog.

Fisty had only recently earned his callsign after a near mishap that briefly had him on thin ice. He’d inadvertently sailed through an active restricted area that didn’t appear on the aircraft’s electronic moving map. Technology can be a fickle friend, luring you into a trap without so much as a warning. A few seconds of lousy timing nearly landed him in the unenviable position of being the inadvertent target of a live Stinger heat-seeking missile tested by US Marines to shoot down aircraft. Thus, he was christened Fisty – Flew Into Stinger Territory.

One of the Pukin’ Dog’s seasoned pilots, Basil, noted that I still needed to do something sufficiently idiotic to earn a callsign. Another whiteboard in the ready room served as a leaderboard for the newest pilots, with various potential callsigns scribbled next to their names. My entry was a rather anemic list of throwaway suggestions. My strategy of keeping my mouth shut and ears open paid off as I steadily navigated through this maze.

Navy callsigns are often badges of dishonor, marking embarrassing gaffes committed by the pilots. The more mortifying the incident, the stickier the callsign, especially if it grates on the recipient. Basil’s callsign is a prime example – allegedly stemming from an intimate relationship with his sister-in-law. While this is possibly pure fiction, Bangs-A-Sister-In-Law seemed to have a ring, so it stuck.

Moments before my flight brief, I did a quick once-over of the briefing room, ensuring that no rogue phallic doodles had appeared on my immaculate briefing board. These sneaky drawings were a popular prank, a whimsical way to keep spirits high and to put those with less attention to detail in the hot seat. The objective was to sketch a small male appendage so subtly that the presenter wouldn’t notice until he was knee-deep in a serious briefing in front of an audience of seasoned pilots. I was relieved to see my board was free of such juvenile artistry, and it passed muster as our flight of three pilots went over the day’s mission.

The bone-chilling water and sub-zero air temperatures necessitated wearing dry suits for our sortie over the Atlantic. It had been an exceptionally frigid winter.
Getting ready to pilot a F/A-18E Super Hornet was an experience that bordered on the surreal. At the tender age of twenty-eight, with my cherubic features, I must’ve looked like Doogie Howser playing dress-up to the grizzled chiefs manning the squadron maintenance department. Despite my boyish countenance making bouncers scrutinize my ID like it was forged, I was about to be handed the reins of an eighty-nine-million-dollar, lot 27, F/A-18E Super Hornet.

The F/A-18E is the Swiss army knife of fighter jets – a single-seat variant armed with a pointy nose, bubble canopy, twin afterburning engines, a sophisticated flight control system, an APG-73 attack radar, and a six-barrel M61-A2 Vulcan cannon. It boasts a tailhook for aircraft carrier landings. This fourth-generation fighter jet is a veritable weapons platform, a jack-of-all-trades, albeit master of none. As I contemplated this, the whisper of imposter syndrome rustled in my mind – just how did a kid like me wind up in the driver’s seat of one of the most advanced warbirds ever built?

Entering the paraloft, a familiar olfactory cocktail greeted me – the heady fusion of jet fuel, well-worn leather, and human musk that pervaded the cramped locker room. Like any pilot worth his salt, I quietly cursed the inconvenience of wriggling into my clammy dry suit. Over this, I zipped up a G-suit that bore a passing resemblance to a set of faded green stirrups. When plugged into the cockpit’s pressurized air system, the G-suit inflates during aggressive maneuvers, helping to force the blood from your legs and core back into your brain, staving off incapacitation via G-LOC (gravity-induced loss of consciousness).

Next came a snug-fitting, full-body parachute harness, soon my lifeline to the ejection seat and parachute. A poorly adjusted harness can lead to profoundly uncomfortable and potentially offspring-compromising situations. Into my survival vest, I slid my arms, its pockets brimming with relics: a radio, knife, inflatable life preserver (LPU), and an assortment of signaling equipment.

The austere plastic flask we were issued held stale-tasting water, a far cry from the choice spirits once provided to embolden downed pilots. A single swig of the plastic-flavored water could extinguish any lingering will to live. The fun police and bean counters were hell-bent on wringing the fighter spirit out of Naval Aviation.

Strapping on a pair of brown leather, steel-toe boots over the dry suit’s booties, I felt a surge of pride. Aviators favor these distinctively brown boots over the black ones worn by Surface Warfare Officers, or SWOs. This tradition dates back to the early days of naval aviation. While the black boots of the SWOs were ideal for camouflaging coal dust from the ships, brown boots were favored by aviators to conceal the dust of the early airfields. More importantly, brown boots irritate SWOs.

Once fully suited up, a squared-away parachute rigger (PR) assisted me with my JHMCS helmet, pronounced Jah-Him-Ex. The Joint Helmet Mounted Cueing System is a marvel of engineering that allows pilots to direct aircraft weapon systems simply by looking around. It uses magnets to track head position, making the weapon systems follow the pilot’s gaze. This helmet also displays vital flight information like altitude and airspeed. It’s something straight out of a sci-fi movie, and dropping one with a price tag higher than my mortgage is frowned upon.

Stepping out onto the flight line, the bracing winter wind was a welcome refreshment. Even under the cold sky, my dry suit rapidly transformed into a personal sauna, a puddle of perspiration pooling under the thirty-five pounds of gear. Despite my ears being cushioned by the foam combat ear protection and my helmet, the omnipresent thunder of jet noise was an inescapable melody, the relentless roar of Super Hornets thrumming through my bones as they prowled around the Master Jet Base.

My mission today called for a hot switch – the hand-off of a jet fresh from a sortie, idling on one engine as it swapped pilots. Through the tinted lens of my JHMCS visor, I sighted jet 103 with its faded VFA-143 tail markings smoothly cruising down the taxiway. Pulling up to its spot on the VFA-143 flight line, the canopy rose, and my dashingly handsome squadron mate, Sugar, descended the ladder. A cursory salute to the plane captain and a firm handshake from Sugar assured me the jet was good to go.

Climbing the eight-foot ladder into the cockpit, I began a meticulous once-over of the ejection seat. As the bubble canopy descended, encasing me in my own little world, I started to make the space mine. With careful deliberation, I connected my cords and G-suit air hose to the aircraft. One misstep connecting the JHMCS cables could lead to a beheading in an ejection scenario. With each movement measured and purposeful, I navigated through my flowing memorized checklists, ensuring everything was as it should be.

Further rounds of checklists and the other engine was primed for ignition. A flick of the switch and high-pressure air set the left engine whirring to life as a mix of fuel, air, and sparks ignited the spinning turbines. I closely monitored the RPM and temperature, ensuring no malfunctions were afoot. With both engines humming, I wrapped up my post-start checks, then calibrated my new JHMCS helmet to the jet’s internal magnetic system for precise head movement tracking.

Across the flight line, I spotted my good old friend Chris, callsign Winner, clambering into his VFA-213 Blacklion Super Hornet. It seemed like only yesterday that we were green recruits at Officer Candidate School, enduring the wrath of Marine drill instructors as sweat and snot blurred our faces. Spotting me, I greeted him with a good-natured one-finger salute, which he promptly returned.

Today’s flight lead was my commanding officer, Diego – a TOPGUN Weapons School grad and a tactical maestro, having clocked nearly two decades in naval aviation. To me, he was the embodiment of a superhero. I aspired to one day match his level of proficiency, to become a seasoned, combat-tested fighter pilot. But for now, my goals were more humble – to hold my position on his wing and avoid sounding dumb on the radio.

A brief radio check confirmed that everyone was primed and ready to roll. Diego radioed ground for our taxi clearance. Manipulating the dual throttles with my left hand and guiding the rudder pedals with my feet, I maneuvered into position for takeoff, aside from Diego’s jet. “Taproom three-one and flight cleared for takeoff runway one zero right.” As Diego’s jet shot ahead, I rammed the throttles into maximum afterburner. Forty-four thousand pounds of raw thrust came alive behind me, jet fuel spraying into the heated turbine exhaust and transforming my aircraft into a veritable rocket.

The afterburners punched me back into my seat as the jet hurtled towards rotation speed. With a gentle nudge on the control stick, the plane ascended gracefully into the clear blue sky. The distinct “clunk clunk” of the landing gear retracting prompted me to verify on the indicator lights that the wheels were safely stowed, after which I amped up my speed past two hundred and fifty knots to link up in close formation with Diego. Despite the unusually frigid temperatures, the weather was mostly clear, dotted with scattered clouds, providing a scenic backdrop for our sortie.

Upon reaching the W-72 Warning Area airspace, around fifty miles off Virginia Beach, we dove straight into our first task – testing an Aerial Refueling System (ARS) pod fresh from maintenance. The ARS pod was a large fuel reservoir equipped with a retractable basket, enabling aerial refueling from another Super Hornet. Hipster, ever the embodiment of cool-headed competence, piloted the tanker jet. At the same time, Diego and I assumed positions on his port side, ready to refuel. I extended my fuel probe and ensured my radar and arm switch were off to prevent inadvertently irradiating Hipster with the high-power attack radar housed in my jet’s nose. With that, Hipster extended the thick, black fuel hose and basket from his ARS pod, allowing the airflow to stabilize the basket just behind his aircraft.

Positioned right behind Hipster, I cautiously maneuvered my probe into the basket using the subtlest of adjustments to the control stick and throttles. Seeing a green light illuminating the ARS pod was a welcome confirmation of a solid seal. Hipster proceeded to pump fuel into my tanks without a hitch. After a couple more practice plugs to keep our skills sharp, we were ready to transition to high-aspect Basic Fighter Maneuvering (BFM).

Breaking formation with Hipster, Diego and I moved to our designated airspace to hone one of the most exhilarating skills in our repertoire. BFM entails steering a jet at its operational limits to take down another fighter within visual range. It’s often likened to a knife fight in a phone booth with an elephant perched on your lap – part physics, part art, part high-intensity interval training. Though it’s among the most challenging skills to master, BFM was my absolute favorite. Like any intricate skill, it called for constant practice to improve. This was my first opportunity to engage in BFM since receiving my JHMCS qualification. I could gain an edge in a dogfight by leveraging the helmet with an array of switches on the throttle and stick (collectively known as HOTAS). But it would take a fair amount of practice before it all became second nature.

Today, I was the proverbial beginner, a yellow belt stepping into the ring with a seasoned and formidable black belt. I knew I was in for a bruising. But this was par for the course in naval aviation – you’re thrown into the deep end and left to figure out how to stay afloat. Once correctly aligned, we announced speed and angels, signaling we were ready to engage. We veered away from each other, carving out a few miles of space before swooping back in like knights in a high-speed jousting match. The miles shrink into nothingness in a matter of seconds at these speeds. As we hurtled past each other at breakneck speed, we each called, “Fights On!” over the tactical radio frequency. From this point on, it was every pilot for himself, each attempting to maneuver his jet to gun down the other before falling prey himself.

BFM is akin to four-dimensional chess, demanding forward thinking at high speed. It’s like attempting to weave through heavy traffic at full speed, engage in conversation, and battle a heavyweight simultaneously. The strain on a rookie fighter pilot’s brain can be intense enough to induce a so-called “helmet fire.” The resultant G-forces make everything feel nearly eight times heavier when the aircraft is forced into a hard turn. My one-hundred and eighty-pound body plus roughly forty pounds of flight gear felt like it weighed a staggering sixteen hundred pounds under seven and a half G’s. The G-force is utterly crushing. Due to these intense forces, pilots have been known to suffer from broken necks, backs, or ribs. Despite the assistance of a G-suit, high G’s force blood away from the brain, potentially causing the pilot to black out in a state known as G-LOC. If not countered with proper breathing and squeezing, this can swiftly lead to a fatal crash.

In the thick of the dogfight, the jets rise, dive, twist, and flip upside-down as they dance and weave around each other. I manipulate the throttles and flight controls to gain positional advantage or, at the very least, avoid being shot down. The airframe vibrates as my sleek, gray jet cleaves through the high-speed air. Vapor trails spew from the flexing wingtips as the surrounding air is torn asunder. Diego’s vast experience and expertise soon shine through as he steadily secures a positional upper hand and lands a simulated shot on me. “Fox three.” Before long, we call “Knock it off” as it’s clear that Diego has decisively won this round with a valid simulated missile shot.

We readied ourselves for several more rounds. As expected, Diego repeatedly bested me. But with each loss, I learned a little more. My body and mind slowly began to work in tandem, transitioning from deliberate actions with the controls and systems to focusing more on tactical decision-making. Experienced pilots eventually become one with the jet, their minds primarily centered on preemptive tactical strategy. I still had a long way to go.

The relentless engagement in afterburners rapidly depleted our fuel reserves. I hit Joker Fuel and reset my bingo bug to bingo. We had just enough Jet-A left for one more short round of fighting. At the start of our final round, we were over two nautical miles straight up, 12,500 feet above the ocean. I didn’t consider the surface too much; I focused primarily on operating my radar with my new JHMCS helmet.

“Speed and angels. Three, two, one, fight on!” I engaged Max afterburner and pulled the stick into my lap as we charged toward each other. As I started descending, the G-force tugged at my strained face. In the split second it took me to think about the HOTAS to operate my new helmet consciously, I slipped out of my habit of scanning my airspeed and altitude. Our paths crossed quickly at the merge. Already thirty degrees nose low and partially inverted, I rolled the jet fully inverted and dove downward in a split-S maneuver.

As I descended rapidly toward the ocean, the jet accelerated. I forced my head up to keep sight of my adversary’s aircraft above. Lose sight, lose the fight. The Super Hornet vibrated at seven and a half Gs as the wings tore into the air, forcing the turn. The bulky JHMCS helmet and my head weigh about twenty pounds at one G. Now, at approximately eight times the force of gravity, it felt like my head weighed nearly one hundred and sixty pounds. I was pinned to the seat, struggling to breathe using the Anti-G Straining Maneuver, AGSM. Unexpectedly, I felt the jet ease up at the worst possible moment. Without looking, I knew something was off. The G force dropped from seven and a half Gs to just four and a half Gs. Despite my control stick being pulled back into my lap, the jet was no longer obeying my commands. I was hurtling towards the ocean in a steep dive.

Time seemed to slow down. The pucker factor radically elevated. I pulled the throttles to idle and extended the speed brake desperately to regain control. In mere seconds, I’d gone from two miles above the ocean to an altitude where I could clearly see the foaming white caps and ripples on the turbulent waters below. The Ground Proximity Warning System detected the impending collision, triggering a blaring aural alert to pull up. The unresponsive stick was still pinned into my lap. My heart sank.

Written by Kegan Gill

Follow him on Instagram at @kegansmurfgill