From Rock Star to Crash Landing: When Life Forces a Career Change
- Gary Toyn
- Jun 30
- 11 min read
Forty years ago this month, I was dangling out of a Chinook helicopter, wind whipping my hair as I watched the Honduran jungle rush by below.
I was riding high on adrenaline and applause...enjoying the excitement of another helicopter ride on another whirlwind USO tour. I was convinced I was living my dream as a musician. In retrospect, I was pretty clueless. About life, my responsibilities. Just about everything, frankly.
And little did I know that in just a few hours I'd be huddled in that same helicopter, damaged deep in the jungle and praying I'd see my kids again—wrestling with the realization that my life was about to change forever.
Sometimes, life slams you upside the head to get your attention. Mine came in the shape of a twin-rotor CH-47 Chinook, crash landing in the Honduran jungle and threatened by nearby Nicaraguan guerillas.
And it turned out to be the jolt I needed
Living the Dream on the USO Tour
In the summer of 1985, I was part of a six-member band traveling the Caribbean and Central America, performing for U.S. troops stationed far from home.
I was twenty-three years old, newly married with two young kids, and still chasing the dream I’d held since I was a teenager: to be a professional singer and musician. This was my sixth USO tour. I’d been around the world many times over. Visited over 40 countries and been to far flung places few people ever get to see, like Masirah, Oman, and Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. I’d been on countless trains, planes, and busses. Even launched off an aircraft carrier. I’d performed before thousands of screaming people, signed autographs and was living a charmed life. Touring was chaotic, exhausting, yet utterly exciting.
On this tour, we’d already visited Puerto Rico, Antigua, Cuba, and Panama. The last country on our thirty-day gig was Honduras. Our last performance in Panama went late into the night., and we had to catch an early morning flight to Honduras where we had a few shows before catching a long-awaited flight back home.
After our late-night show, we packed up our equipment and scrambled onto early morning flights from Panama City to Tegucigalpa, Honduras.
Sometimes, the chaos of touring veered into the downright absurd. Like our flight from Panama to Honduras.
We boarded the plane, only to turn back because of engine trouble. Two and a half hours later, we took off again—then hit a bird. Back to the airport we went, feathers in the engines. When we finally got airborne for the third time, sparks flew, and smoke billowed from behind the cabin.
For a few panicked moments, we thought we were going down. The crew even broke out the life rafts and life vests just in case. As it turned out, one of the flight crew was trying to fix a blown fuse… on the coffee pot.
We laughed it off, unloaded our equipment and pressed on.
The Show at Camp Bulldog
Honduras was rugged and remote. We arrived at Palmerola Air Base, surrounded by scenery that looked eerily like the Wasatch Front back home in Utah.
The soldiers were stationed in tents and wooden “hooches,” the base built for joint military exercises. Nothing was permanent—except the loneliness.
Most of our shows on this 30-day tour were well-received, but it was Camp Bulldog that stood out. Camp Bulldog consisted of an Army engineer battalion stationed way up in the nether regions of the Honduran mountains, near the Nicaraguan border. This was the time when the USA was involved in fighting the Nicaraguan Sandinistas. The US was building roads to improve military access to the border. The Army Corp of Engineers were building this road, and they were starved for any connection to home.
Our “stage” consisted of a flatbed trailer.
The sun blazed down, sweat poured, and shirtless soldiers waved beer cans and cheered like we were the Rolling Stones.
Halfway through, a tropical rainstorm rolled in. We had to stop the show, cover our electronics with plastic tarps and wait out the deluge.
Then, soaked and muddy, we started back up—and the soldiers roared their approval.
After we finished our show at Camp Bulldog and said our goodbyes, our gear was loaded and we climbed aboard a Chinook helicopter for the short helicopter trip back to Tegucigalpa where our flight back home awaited.
The timing was tight, we were already behind schedule, and we were at risk of missing our flight back home. We were also homesick. Exhausted and frankly beat up. My singing partner Wendy had been hospitalized in Cuba for appendicitis and she missed a few shows. She rejoined the show a few days later, but she was especially ready to get home.
Then our chopper flight changed everything.
The Chinook is a massive, twin-rotor beast. It was designed to haul big loads—light armored vehicles, artillery, even small bulldozers. In our case, it could easily haul all our speakers, drums, keyboards, guitars, and amps, along with our group of six, and an entourage consisting of fourteen other escorts and military "roadies." They strapped our equipment in the center aisle of the chopper, leaving us a small path on either side.
Once we were airborne, they invited me to get strapped into a “monkey harness.” It allowed me to be secured to the chopper while I leaned out over the open ramp at the rear of the chopper.
It was thrilling.
I dangled my feet out the back, worried the slipstream was going to rip my shoes off. Tightening my laces, I snapped pictures of the dense green jungle below. I felt on top of the world. I let one of my bandmates take my place in the monkey harness, and I was allowed to visit the pilots in the cockpit.
Then the rain came.
At first, just a mist. Then in an instant, sheets of water hammered the chopper. It was raining so hard we were losing elevation. Visibility dropped to near zero. Our pilots, Don and Mitch, tried maneuvering around oncoming thunderheads, but the clouds wrapped around us, concealing the nearby mountains that were a constant threat.
The Chinook continued to lose altitude, and the pilots desperately hunted for any kind of clearing where we could land.
I could see out their window just how close the treetops were to the rotors. I was terrified as the helicopter bucked and jerked, the pilots fighting to avoid disaster.
Somehow, the pilots spotted a patch of cleared jungle—probably burned and chopped by local villagers. With all the rain, the pilot couldn't see if the clearing was big enough for this huge aircraft and the swath of the rotors, but it was the only option.
As the chopper blades whirred, it was cutting down trees the size of baseball bats. Worried for the integrity of the chopper blades, the pilot hovered above the ground while two crewmen jumped out bearing machetes. They began to hack away at the underbrush to try to clear a path for the rotors, but it was hopeless. Once these two crewmen scrambled out of the reach of the chopper blades, the helicopter dropped hard to the ground. Metal screeched and people gasped as several hidden tree stumps—each one roughly three feet high—penetrated the belly of the chopper. One stump pierced the panel right under our band equipment. With a loud bang, our instruments were sent flying in all directions. Thankfully no one was hurt.
Once we finally settled to the ground, the pilots cut the engines and they whined to an eerie silence. The sound of the rain pounding on the roof of the chopper was all we could hear.
We were shaken but alive.
Once the adrenaline wore off, the reality hit: we were stranded in triple-canopy jungle.
Rain fell in torrents, then eased, then came back in waves.
Aside from the damage to the chopper, we were now faced with the threat of Nicaraguan guerillas. That’s because Camp Bulldog was routinely the target of Sandinista snipers. Just a day prior to our visit, a sniper had shot out the windows of two US military vehicles. We had just landed in an unknown location that was likely infested by enemy forces. The danger felt real. As the leader of our group, the officers took me aside and told me of the threats, we decided not to say anything to my other bandmates. The pilots had no idea how long we’d have to be there. We also didn't know whether guerillas, or even a local villager, might stumble upon us. Each scenario brought with it different threats.
Because of our unknown location and the threat of enemy forces, the pilots chose not to activate our emergency locator signal. Not only would it notify US forces of our location, but it would also tip off the guerillas. We had no choice but to sit and wait. We were told to keep our voices down, just in case.
As the minutes grew to an hour, then a few hours, we began to realize we may be trapped there for a while. To complicate matters, Honduras had laws: no flights after dark due to terrorism threats. All flight control towers closed at 6 p.m. sharp.
The pilots gathered us for a huddle.
We could attempt a vertical takeoff and hope to get above the clouds so we could see the mountains. But if that was unsuccessful, we would again have to land on these tree stumps, potentially damaging the aircraft further and making it unairworthy.
The other option was to stay overnight. The risk was being a sitting duck for any potential enemy.
We all agreed that staying overnight was our best option.
The aircraft had on board two M-16s, and two M-80s, both automatic machine guns. Our military escorts loaded the weapons and took turns keeping watch throughout the night. This was no easy assignment, as they were terrified of firing on a local villager who might stumble upon us.
Our escorts shared with each of us a small brown package with the word MRE printed on it. (Meals Ready to Eat). The crew had packed plenty of water on board, so with the meals and the water, we were able to stave off hunger.
Toilet facilities were primitive, yet plentiful. Not surprisingly, when nature called, the women were eager to be escorted away from the chopper, as privacy was a lesser concern. My wife became the hero as she had packed enough toilet paper to meet everyone’s needs.
The Chinook’s jump seats are not designed for comfort as the nylon webbing was meant to support paratroopers for short-term trips, not exhausted musicians trying to get some sleep. Whispered conversations continued throughout the night, making sleep next to impossible.
Around 2 a.m., our bandmate Sherry walked past the hole in the floor, slipped, and disappeared halfway into the opening.
Screams echoed throughout the cabin.
As she crawled out, apologizing for the disruption, we laughed—because what else were we to do?
Morning Breaks—and Perspective Hits Hard
At dawn, the rain had stopped. The sky glowed soft pink through the jungle canopy.
Before we could fly out, the crew had to carefully inspect the helicopter’s rotor system. A Chinook has two massive rotors that overlap slightly in flight, and they rely on precise synchronization to avoid striking each other. During our rough landing, the blades had hacked through small trees and brush, which might have damaged the mechanisms that keep the rotors perfectly timed.
If the rotors got out of sync, the blades could collide mid-spin, shattering into deadly fragments that might tear into the helicopter’s fuel tanks and cause an explosion. It was a terrifying possibility.
To be safe, we all climbed out of the chopper and moved several hundred feet away while the crew started the engines and slowly spun up the rotors to check their alignment. Only after they were sure everything was operating normally did they wave us back on board. We climbed in and buckled our harnesses for the flight out.
By 6:05, we lifted off and thirty minutes later, we landed back at Palmerola Air Base. News photographers were snapping pictures, and the base commanding officer greeted us warmly and expressed his relief that we were well. As we staggered off the chopper, we were whisked away in ambulances—not because we were injured, but because that was protocol for such an incident.
Then we went to breakfast, took our final group photo as we waited for our flight home, and just like that, it was over.
When I finally got home a few days later, I learned something that impacted me even more than crashing in Honduras.
While we were stranded in the jungle, unable to communicate or notify anyone as to our whereabouts or our safety, the State Department had called my mother to tell her our helicopter was missing. My mother was caring for our two young kids ages three and two. The kids were clueless about our helicopter incident, but my parents were terrified that night, fearing my kids might be orphans.
We also learned that the Defense Department had placed Air Force One on standby, in case they needed to retrieve our bodies.
For reasons we never learned, it appears my mom was the only parent the State Department called that night. I can’t imagine the horror that must have been for my mother. It served as another good reason to change the trajectory of my life, as I finally realized that I was no longer the only one affected by following this dream.
Lessons from a Helicopter and a Life Reimagined
It’s been forty years since that fateful incident.
But these lessons still echo in my mind:
1- Life can change in an instant.
One moment, I was living the dream—singing for cheering audiences. My feet dangling from a Chinook. The next moment, I was praying I’d see my kids again. I could no longer take unnecessary risks that could put my kids, and my family, at risk.
2- Dreams evolve—and that’s okay.
I’d spent my early adult years chasing my dream of making it big in music. It was my passion, my identity. I learned a lot. Saw a lot. Experienced a lot. I don’t regret a minute of it.
But life shifted. Marriage. Children. An eye-opening experience in the jungle.
My priorities changed.
I didn’t “give up” on my dream—But this helicopter mishap allowed it to evolve.
Not long after this incident, I went back to college and finished my degree. I built a career in higher education, eventually became a writer and author. I learned new skills and developed new talents. I discovered new ways to connect with people, sharing meaningful stories that help inspire, uplift, and educate.
Music didn’t disappear from my life—it simply took on a secondary role. I continue to sing for audiences in varied contexts and circumstances, albeit without drums, guitars and amps.
3- Sometimes, we need a jolt to realign our path.
I’d love to say I figured all this out on my own. But the truth is, sometimes it takes a helicopter crash—or at least a terrifying wake-up call—to force us to look at where we’re headed.
I don’t think pursuing big dreams is childish. Quite the opposite. I believe in dreaming big.
But I also believe it’s okay—and sometimes necessary—to let your dreams evolve. It’s okay to focus on developing new skills and passions. Just be patient with yourself.
I’m grateful to have lived to tell the story. I’m grateful for my family, my faith, and for all those who serve our country and allowed me the chance to bring a bit of home into the jungle. It was a defining period of my life.
And I’m grateful that my feet are planted firmly on solid ground these days—even if a part of me still remembers the thrill of dangling them over the Honduran jungle.
Are you facing a pivotal decision?
If you’re facing your own crossroads, wondering whether to keep chasing a dream or take a different path—remember: it’s okay for dreams to evolve.
Sometimes, the scariest detours can lead you exactly where you’re meant to go.
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