The view out of the cockpit windows of a Royal Air Force E-3D AWACS is beautiful enough. Any view from high up in the sky is stunning, with the curvature of the Earth barely perceptible, the sky deepening into a richer blue the higher you ascend, and the clouds far below, casting long shadows over the landscape. But seeing the snow-covered Olympic Mountains from the cockpit of an AWACS? That’s an experience that sticks with you in a way that not many views do. There’s something about the combination of the vast, rugged mountain range, the deep snow capping each peak, and the sense of being on a mission that makes it all the more memorable. I can still picture it clearly in my mind’s eye, as if it were just yesterday.
We were participating in joint exercises based out of Victoria, British Columbia. It was a routine operation on the surface—different nations coming together to train, sharpen skills, and ensure that our allied forces could work seamlessly in any real-world situation. Yet, for those of us involved, it was anything but routine. Each mission, each exercise, brings with it a mix of excitement and responsibility, knowing that you’re not just training for yourself but for something much larger.
Victoria, with its cool coastal air and vibrant evergreen trees, was a picturesque location for such operations. The runway we were using was shared with a few U.S. Air Force F-15s, sleek and powerful machines in their own right. I remember those F-15 pilots joking with us about the size of their tailhooks. There was always a bit of banter between the different services, a friendly rivalry that made those long days a little lighter. They’d swagger around the runway, confident in their aircraft, but when it came down to it, we all knew we were on the same team.
Then, there was the AWACS—a massive bird with a dish on its back that looked like something out of a science fiction movie, yet was crucial to everything we were doing. The AWACS had flown all the way from England, carrying out its long-range radar surveillance mission. It was an impressive piece of machinery, but it arrived without its equivalent of an avionics technician, which, as fate would have it, is how I ended up in the cockpit, flying over the Olympic Mountains.
The issue that brought us together was a minor one, or at least it seemed so at the time. The UK detachment’s Officer in Charge approached our skipper with a request for help. They were experiencing a problem with one of their data links—a system that, as luck would have it, we also had in our Hawkeye. The skipper didn’t hesitate. He sent me and another AT over to lend a hand. It was a straightforward assignment, just an opportunity to be of service to our allies.
As it turned out, they didn’t actually have a problem. By the time we boarded the AWACS and began troubleshooting, the issue had all but resolved itself. Everything was functioning as it should. But once airborne, we were there for the duration of the mission, and that’s where things took a turn for the memorable.
Flying in an AWACS is a unique experience. The aircraft is essentially a modified Boeing 707, and despite all the cutting-edge technology inside, it still has that classic, sturdy feel of a commercial airliner from decades past. The rumble of the engines, the faint smell of fuel, the hum of electronics—all of it combined to create an atmosphere that was both familiar and foreign at the same time. There’s a certain weight to flying in a military aircraft, even when you’re not directly responsible for its operation. You feel part of something larger, part of a mission that has real consequences, even if, in that moment, you’re just troubleshooting data links.
In true British fashion, the pilot—calm, composed, and with that characteristic dry humor—got up for a cup of tea in the middle of the flight. It was such a British thing to do that I almost laughed out loud. There we were, thousands of feet above the ground, on a mission, and he was casually sipping tea as if it were just another afternoon in the English countryside. But that was part of the charm of working with the British forces. They had a way of bringing a sense of normalcy and tradition into even the most extraordinary circumstances.
While he enjoyed his tea, the pilot offered my buddy and me his seat. For an enlisted avionics tech like myself, this was a rare opportunity. Sitting in the pilot’s seat of an AWACS, hands on the controls, with the co-pilot guiding me through a flat turn—it was exhilarating. The weight of the aircraft responded to every movement, and I could feel the power of those engines through the yoke, as if I were directly connected to the machine. It’s a feeling that’s hard to describe, that combination of awe and responsibility, knowing that you’re steering this massive piece of equipment through the sky, even if just for a moment.
From that seat, the view was even more breathtaking. The Olympic Mountains stretched out before us, their snow-covered peaks glowing in the sunlight. The clouds below created a soft blanket, broken only by the jagged edges of the mountain range that thrust upward toward the heavens. It was one of those moments that makes you appreciate the beauty of the world from a different perspective. Down on the ground, those mountains are imposing, almost overwhelming in their scale. But from up there, they looked peaceful, serene—a different kind of majesty.
After the flat turn, I returned to the jump seat behind the pilot to watch the rest of the flight. We did a few touch-and-go landings, and each time, I could feel the incredible power of the 707 as it descended, then roared back into the sky. There’s a distinct sensation when an aircraft as large as the AWACS makes contact with the runway—it’s a combination of weight and grace, of power and precision. Watching the pilots handle those touch-and-go landings with such skill made me respect their craft even more. Flying wasn’t just about controlling the aircraft; it was about mastering every aspect of it, from the smallest adjustments to the largest maneuvers.
By the time we landed for the final time, the mission was complete, and the experience had left a lasting impression on me. It wasn’t just the view or the chance to sit in the pilot’s seat that made it memorable. It was the whole experience—the teamwork, the shared mission, the camaraderie between different nations and services. There’s something about being up in the sky, working together with people from different backgrounds and experiences, that makes you realize how small the world can be, and yet how important those connections are.
Reflecting on that day, I can still feel the weight of the yoke in my hands, the hum of the engines, and the sense of awe as I gazed out over the Olympic Mountains. It’s a memory that stays with me, not just because of the beauty of the view, but because of what it represented—a moment of connection, of shared purpose, and of the simple joy of flight. The AWACS may have been a massive piece of military technology, but for that brief time, it was also a bridge between nations, a platform for cooperation, and, for me, a place where I felt truly alive.
As I look back, I can’t help but smile at the thought of that pilot sipping his tea, calmly navigating the skies as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In a way, that’s what it’s all about—finding those moments of peace and normalcy in the midst of extraordinary circumstances, and appreciating the beauty of the world from a different perspective, whether you’re on the ground or thousands of feet above it.
And even now, whenever I see a 707, or hear the distant rumble of jet engines, I’m reminded of that day, and the incredible privilege it was to be part of something larger, even if just for a brief moment, flying high above the Olympic Mountains in an RAF E-3D AWACS.
