A Game of Inches: The Suit That Kept a Photographer Alive

It was not on the flight, but rather the day before, as I was sitting in a pressure chamber testing my spacesuit one last time, that I realized how absolute my reliance on it would be. I was well aware of the extreme risk to anyone who had the misfortune of being ejected from a U2. Yet, I took solace in knowing that because of this multi-layered suit, there would at least be a chance, although small, of survival should that situation become a reality.

The spacesuit, or full pressure suit as it is known within the squadrons, is the last line of defense for a U2 pilot against the absolutely hostile environment that exists at the cusp of the stratosphere. Its intricacies are just as impressive as the aircraft it has supported over the last 70 years. Yet limiting one’s attention to the suit itself would be a great loss, as it is the squadron surrounding this piece of life support that ensures its viability.

When I traveled to Beale Air Force Base for the first time, it was approximately eight months before my flight. I intended to familiarize myself with the base, the squadrons, the parameters for the future photo shoot, and above all, the spacesuit. Very few civilians have had the opportunity to do a high flight (going above the 70,000-foot altitude threshold), not just because of the physical requirements, but also the ability to withstand the claustrophobia that sets in once the space helmet is on and the visor locked down. This is why, on the third day of my initial trip, I was required to don the suit and sit for over an hour working through how to drink and eat, and what to do when I needed to go to the bathroom. I put on a brave face, but the truth is, I was scared shitless.

It isn’t having a glass fishbowl on your head that sets the alarm bells ringing; it is the idea that if my nose were to itch at altitude, I would not be able to scratch it, a scenario that has been known to lead to mental breakdowns for others. I remember watching James May as he was preparing to do his flight a number of years ago. All was going well until he was being fitted for his suit, and he started breaking down, kicking the camera team out of the room while he tried to get control of his mind. At my first fitting, a number of those strong emotions arose, and I masked them as much as I could by focusing on learning how to operate all of the cameras that also needed testing.

When I left the base after that first week, I formulated a mental plan for how I could control my emotions and create a sense of relaxation while on the flight. This included breathing exercises and mental meditations, where I would listen to recordings of breathing in a spacesuit and picture myself in that person’s place. It was an exercise that proved to be valuable and that I found significant comfort in while viewing the curvature of the Earth so far down below.

All of this was made possible by the squad known as the Physiological Support Division, or PSD (formerly PSPTS), at Beale Air Force Base. They handle everything from preparing the suit and all of the necessary food and drinks, to driving you to the plane and integrating you into it. An incredible group of men and women who embraced my nerves and did their utmost to reassure me of the high standards held to by the David Clark Company while making the suit. I can’t pretend to understand the schematics upon which the suit behaves, but their confidence and knowledge helped me sleep in peace the night before my flight.

Throughout the whole process, I had many candid conversations with those in the PSD squadron. While they were connecting my suit to the generators, adjusting the seal around my face, or checking the pressure readout on my gloves, we talked about everything from video games to watches to the photoshoot itself. During one of these conversations, I promised them that after I landed I would photograph their squadron in addition to the more extensive photoshoot planned for the U2 pilots. Unfortunately, one of the wild side effects of my high-altitude flight was a significant loss of short-term memory. Those around me were amused as I forgot whole conversations mere hours after having them, and still, to this day, I have no memory of talking to my parents or my daughter after landing. While it was a side effect I was woefully unprepared for, it was worth it to capture the incredible photos that I returned with.

A couple of weeks after completing the Photoshoot at the Edge of Space, I suddenly remembered my promise to the PSD squadron. I felt terrible as I hate letting people down, especially those who worked so hard to ensure my survival. I called my best friend Mike, the executive producer for the photoshoot, and asked him his thoughts on returning to the base to fulfill the promise that I had made. After some phone calls with the squadrons we got permission to return, and we started booking flights and planning out the shoot.

Six months later, Mike and I arrived back at Beale, camera in hand, to document the PSD squadron and the spacesuit. We chose to capture four of the most dynamic interactions that I had with them prior to my flight. The pressure checks in the chamber, the suit integration, the ride to the flight line, and stepping to the plane. Among the patchy memories I retained from that day, these were moments that stayed with me, albeit perhaps assisted by seeing the footage of them.

The imagery gives a glimpse of the process, but having experienced it myself, I would like to address the stages of one’s psyche during it.

The chamber is one of the first places that the gravity of the situation hits when preparing to fly in the U2. You are escorted down a maze of hallways, with media in front and behind. By your side is a member of the PSD squadron, carrying a yellow tank with dials on the top, and a cloud of fog pouring out the bottom. This is the oxygen you breathe while awaiting integration.

As for the chamber itself, it sits in a room the size of a house and is painted a daunting black, as if it needed to be any more intimidating. A door, nearly a foot in thickness, opens slowly, revealing the chair you will occupy during the tests. The chair, while not very comfortable, is still more comfortable than the one I would be occupying in the U2 for the three-hour journey the next day. Surrounding the chair are PSD squadron members with masks and helmets on. Shit is about to get real. There, you sit down and get integrated under the watchful eye of the control room shielded by a small, thick pane of glass. On your side of the window, there is a water bottle on a ledge. It is not one of the hamster feeding bottles that you will be practicing drinking from during the session. It is there solely as a reminder of the dangers of decompression if not in a fully sealed suit at the edge of space. If your suit failed, your blood and every liquid in your body would boil instantly.

The next image is from the day you actually fly. Much of this is left out of the video, as it was difficult to show everything going on while keeping the faces of the pilots and others off-camera. But I will walk you through it.

After a briefing at the squadron, my pilot and I left for the PSD building to suit up and begin the pre-breathing required for the flight. The first step is to put on your space underwear. Think of it as really soft, white, full-body underwear with a hole at the crotch for the catheter (or Urinary Collection Device) to go through. With only my underwear and UCD on, I stepped out of the locker room and was greeted by a crowd comprised of 20 people from the suit squadron, 10 media people, and various spectators from the base. I would have been embarrassed had I not been far too terrified of what lay ahead. There are seats arranged to assist my “dive” into the suit, folding forward and pushing my head into the main O-ring. While not visible from the outside, the feet are actually part of the suit and are then covered up by a secondary external boot.

At this point, the mood is casual and we cover the nerves with jokes. Once you are zipped up (from the crotch to the bottom of the neck), you are walked to a chair that looks like a motorized La-Z-Boy on a platform. Along the wall are gauges, tubes, and headphones. On the armrests lay thin white gloves that will serve as a barrier between your hands and the suit itself. One of the members asks if you want your air conditioning tube on the top or bottom of your wrist.

First they hand you your helmet, and supervise as you put it on and lock the o-ring to the suit. The visor is still up, but the hiss of oxygen with an open mask is deafening. Directions for the following steps pantomimed to you, you put your hands out as your gloves are slid on and attached to the suit. It looks like a scene out of a medical show as a doctor scrubs in and is prepped for surgery. Then they ask you to close the helmet.

Things move quickly. The chair is promptly reclined, and five or six squadron members dive in, pulling and tugging on straps, running through checklists, taking oxygen measurements, and adjusting the suit. The realization hits you that the operating room you just entered is your own, and these people are here to keep you alive. It is as equally terrifying as it is inspiring.

The next image is after an hour or so of pre-breathing in peace and quiet. The near slumber is disturbed by a man with a clipboard announcing, “It’s time to go high”. Members of the squad immediately come forward and help you out of your seat and walk you and your oxygen tank to a box truck, lovingly known as the bread van. It has two more La-Z-Boy-esque chairs in it, and my pilot and I sit quietly as we are chauffeured to our awaiting Dragon. For some reason, this was where the reality of my surreal situation hit me. Without a camera to distract myself with, I mulled over my game plan. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat.

The final shot is the moment where all the anxiety, excitement, and terror culminate.

The van crawls to a stop, and you know that just outside is a hanger alive and bustling with crew doing last-minute aircraft checks, media waiting to capture you in the spacesuit, and friends and supporters from the squadron. Two PSD members are taking my pilot out of the van; he and I punch up in one last show of unity. At that moment, my wife walks in, and I give her a hug, obstructed by the fishbowl on my head, and we tell each other ‘I love you’. After she left the van, I was given a moment as the camera teams prepared for me to step out. I allowed myself to be scared one last time and then promised myself that I would not let my thoughts go there again.

With that, I stood up, turned around, walked to the back of the van, grabbed the handle, and stepped out. The spurs on my boots clanked as I walked. I glanced around at the gathered crowd and then looked at the Dragon sitting in her lair. Motors and compressors around the plane began a slow roar as she came to life. My oxygen tank carpeting the ground next to me with fog, I was integrated one last time into the plane itself. The final squad member signed off. It was time to make history.

Editor’s Note: If you missed PetaPixel’s “Photoshoot at the Edge of Space” production from 2023, you can see how the whole incredible adventure took place here. Additionally, Blair Bunting says he will be getting to any questions about the shoot and the interview video published after, soon. He will also monitor the comments below.

About the author: Blair Bunting is a Phoenix commercial photographer. You can see more of his work on his website, blog, Facebook, and Instagram. This story was also published here.