The engine continued to run but the vibration had increased significantly. He was amazed that the engine could function under these conditions, a tribute to its skilled makers. The young pilot knew the moving internal parts were being fried in the heat. He said another Hail Mary and took Phyllis’s picture off the instrument panel and stuffed it into a pocket. The airplane jolted severely as a vicious wind shear slammed the Skyraider and thrust it toward the sea. The instrument lights blinked off then came back on. He flashed his pen light on the DC breaker panel. None of the breakers had tripped. Outside the canopy was total blackness. The airplane jumped again in another slashing down draft. A quick glance at the altimeter, he was down to three thousand. The airspeed indicator read 160 knots.

“Three miles,” Mad Dog radioed. “No visual on the field.”
Bud looked outside hoping for a glimpse of the airfield. “Another minute, Cotter,” he said to himself out loud, “and we’ll make the field.”

At that instant the airplane shuddered and then there was silence. His heart jumped into his throat. He tried to speak but for a few seconds he couldn’t.

“Engine out,” he radioed, “maintaining this heading to one thousand.”
“Roger, Einstein, turn on your landing lights.”

The powerful landing lights illuminated the driving rain and mist creating blank opaqueness. It was almost as though things were happening in slow motion. He was amazed at how calm he was, scared yes, but calm. He concentrated on the altimeter. As the needles dropped below the one thousand mark, Bud began a turn to the left to align the airplane directly into the wind.”

“Turning left into the wind,” he transmitted calmly.
“Strawberry One, this is Coast Guard at Tern Island. Wind zero four five at six zero, altimeter 29.39.”

Turned into the wind, the airspeed indicator read ninety knots, but the airplane was making less than 30 knots forward ground speed. Like a giant glider it floated on the wind slightly nose down. Bud’s eyes were glued to the compass. He stopped the turn on the heading of zero four five. He should be directly into the wind now. A snap glance at the altimeter: six hundred feet. He slowly shook his head in frustration, “why me?” He said another Hail Mary while he watched the needles of the altimeter drop to one hundred feet. He looked out across the wing root. The landing lights revealed a world of spraying frothy white water not far below, all else was complete blackness.

The Skyraider struck the first wave hard and bounced back into the air. Bud pulled the stick all the way back and kicked the left rudder in an attempt to get across the waves at an angle. The heavy machine wallowed momentarily and dropped into a trough between two towering waves. It hit with a horrific impact that snapped Bud’s head forward into the gun sight. He saw stars and was dazed for several seconds, but luckily his helmet had absorbed most of the impact. He could feel the airplane floating and bobbing on the angry sea, but why was he was hanging in the straps? At that instant, the horror filled realization hit him, the airplane was inverted. He frantically ripped off his oxygen mask and radio connections. Still strapped into the seat, he reached for the emergency canopy release and desperately jerked it although it moved quite easily. The air pressure of inside the canopy created a wild hiss of air and bubbles. Water began to rapidly flood the cockpit, and at that moment Bud Cotter believed he was going to die.

In wet suffocating total blackness, he struggled not to panic. He felt for the seat harness release and freed himself. Stay calm, stay calm. He had to swim down and away like he had done so many times in the training tank at BP, but this was different, appallingly different. He swam downward several strokes burdened by the parachute seat pack and the PK-2 Pararaft raft package. Very quickly he hit the bottom of the sea floor. He swam a few strokes to clear the aircraft. He found the inflation lanyard on his life vest and jerked it. The vest inflated and began to carry him toward the surface. He had no idea how far under the sea he was but he had to breathe! He began to exhale a little at a time. “Don’t panic! Don’t panic! You’ll be on the surface in a few seconds.” He felt as though he was being tossed about in a colossal struggle between wind and waves.

Abruptly he bobbed on the surface. He gasped and took in desperate breaths of delicious air; then he was under water again as a massive wave crashed over him. He fought frantically against the force of the water. The Mae West brought him to the surface once again. Desperately he felt for the life raft pack and pulled the handle. The raft began to slowly inflate and unfold. Bud could not see it in the darkness, but he could feel the raft inflating. When it was nearly inflated, a gust of wind seized the raft and almost wrenched the safety cord off the raft. Another wave crashed over him, and once again he was submerged under the angry sea. When the wave had passed, he wasn’t sure if he had surfaced or if he were still submerged. Nothing could be better than a deep breath of wonderfully fresh air in his lungs. Another vicious wave tossed him high in air and then rolled him under tons of water.

The panic and terror gradually began to leave him. Illogically, he felt contented and very peaceful. His last conscious thoughts were of Phyllis and his family and the smell of fresh mowed grass, honeysuckle and Magnolia blooms, and finally he thought to himself, “This must be what it feels like to die.”