May 24–Nearly 62 years ago, a North Island pilot saved the Hotel del Coronado from exploding into an inferno.
Or maybe not.
In early April, Dr. Vincent Flynn, an old Coronado acquaintance of mine, asked for a little help researching a proposed article for the Smithsonian's Air & Space Magazine.
The intriguing subject: A Navy jet crash-landing that occurred on July 26, 1954, when young Flynn and hundreds of others were enjoying themselves on Coronado's bright-white beach.
The crash was reported on the front pages of both San Diego metros, the Union and Tribune, but if the adult Flynn is to be believed, a plot twist right out of a Hollywood action thriller was for some inexplicable reason left out of news accounts.
If Flynn is accurate in his recollection, the real lead of the story may be buried in a classified Navy file.
On the sunny afternoon in question, Lt. Floyd Nugent was training in an armed F7U-3 Cutlass off the San Diego coast. During a catapult launch from the USS Hancock, the jet's landing gear was thrashed.
Nugent was ordered to ditch the Cutlass in the ocean. Planes and helicopters scrambled to rescue the pilot and track the plane as it hit the water.
Seaman Bob Schlocker witnessed the surreal sequence of events from his vantage point at North Island's landing strip.
In a corroborated oral history, Schlocker remembers seeing the "popcorn-like opening of Nugent's parachute a mile or so to the south.
"The next thing we did was to look and see where the jet was going. At first it looked like it was heading out to sea, but then we realized that it had banked and was heading back over the base. … It made five or so passes over our head and in the last pass it was so low we could see the hanging hydraulic lines. … We watched as as the jet went out of sight and waited for the explosion and smoke from the crash. A second later we heard the yelling and screaming coming from the tower that told us that it went into shallow water making a perfect water landing 100 yards from crashing into the Hotel del Coronado."
Incredibly, the pilotless Cutlass had flown around the coastline for up to 30 minutes.
The Del's tennis pro, Carmack Berryman, told the Union that "two planes were flying above the craft, two others were close in at each wing. It looked like they were trying to steer the plane out to sea."
To Flynn and his friends, the view from the beach was way too close for comfort.
"We were all very nervous and concerned," he writes, "because there was nowhere to hide, not knowing where (the plane) was going to come down. … The Cutlass was turning out toward Point Loma and coming in toward the beach in its relentless clockwise, descending rotation, but now at about 1,000 feet and very loud.
"Thinking back on it, now as a pilot myself, it was so very amazing that it didn't stall out and dive toward the beach or the ocean during that 30 minutes it was flying by itself in a continuous turn. On its final pass, a blue Navy prop plane, most likely a TBM Avenger from the North Island squadron, joined it in formation as it approached the beach. The Cutlass was headed right for (the hotel) on the final pass. The blue prop plane pulled right alongside the jet and used his right wing to lift the left wing of the Cutlass as it was settling into its dive toward the hotel. This caused the Cutlass to suddenly turn to the right, stall out and crash 200 yards from the hotel, about 100 yards off shore.
"The crash into the sea produced a huge splash and the Cutlass slowly sank. There was no explosion, but there was a huge roar and applause from the beach with all of us cheering. … I am convinced that pilot saved the Hotel del Coronado and the many lives inside on that day."
Given the newspaper reporting, which made no mention of a heroic nudge, I questioned Flynn's memory. Could he and others have mythologized a more random reality?
"I contacted five friends who were either lifeguards or students at the time," Flynn replied, "and they concur (the hotel) was saved by the second aircraft."
Notably, Air Classics, a military aviation magazine, reports as fact that the Cutlass, an underpowered and unreliable early Cold War fighter, was deflected into the ocean by an escort plane.
But if so, how could reporters have failed to mention that hair-raising moment of truth? How could there not be gushing sidebars about the brave major-medal-worthy pilot who saved the landmark hotel?
To review the official incident report, which I assumed would contain the answer, I contacted the Naval History and Heritage Command in Washington, D.C.
Going through channels was slow, but a junior Navy officer with ties to San Diego was intrigued by the story and helped me push to the front of the document request line.
Then the door suddenly shut. The contents of the incident file were — wait for it — classified. The 62-year-old file's content could not be released without a formal review, a process that could take up to a year to resolve.
I submitted a written request by snail mail, but have no idea if or when the report will be released.
Was the Cutlass nudged off its disastrous course, as Flynn credibly recalls, or did it crash-land on its own hook after a scary thrill ride, as real-time news stories reported?
It's a Navy mystery for the ages.
And if it's ever solved, I'll make sure you'll be among the first to know.
