Getting high in a Sydney park next to a military base was always going to be tricky.
Fortunately, the army turned up to help with our lunchtime buzz and we were floating within minutes.
In Black Hawk helicopters.
Buzzing through cool air in formation over Sydney's northern beaches after a quick and frighteningly candid safety briefing.
Excited grins drooped into disbelieving scowls as the crew ran us through the procedures for powered and non-powered water ditches.
Be ready, they warned, the helicopter would roll if we hit water.
The group then split and we queued to hop in the two Black Hawks, jotting our particulars on an official-looking manifest.
Probably what they'd use to identify us if we ended up as one of the horror stories in the next safety briefing.
Excitement built as we squeezed into life jackets and harnessed into the chopper.
Shoulder and waist straps clicked into dull metal buckles and we were right to go.
With rubber earbuds to muffle the rotor and no chance to chat, the mind began to dilate on those briefings.
But before I could work myself into a proper panic, the helicopter shuddered and we were airborne.
A few seconds later, were were hundreds of feet above the Middle Head Oval, nose swinging down towards the scrubby fringe of the coast.
Heavy gusts blew any remaining fear from the chopper as we punched over Sydney Heads and turned north, past the slick, wave-splashed rock platforms favoured by daring fishermen.
Bemused boat passengers and a pod of dolphins watched from 200 feet below as we pressed up to Harbord before turning back over the choppy, dark-blue ocean.
It was time for the army lads to spook the civilians with sharp banking manoeuvres.
Sharp for a first-timer, anyway.
Then, boom.
The salty breeze slapped my face, reefing back the pudgy parts that came from too many jugs and parmies.
It was hard not to smile, though.
Especially as we hovered off Bondi Beach, which was unsurprisingly busy.
Then it was the city run, back through the heads, up the guts of the harbour, down past the Opera House and Harbour Bridge.
We'd been in the air for 20 minutes and became disappointingly aware the tour was almost over. We spun back towards the base near Cockatoo Island.
And then we saw it.
A nudist beach with about 10 bloated seniors bobbing in its protected waters.
We were coming into land, with every spin of the rotor dropping closer to the fleshy nightmare lurking below.
But before the intimate details of the extroverted swimmers were revealed, we were back over the oval.
Verdant chunks of mown grass was swirling through the air and we had one more challenge to overcome: make it safely from the chopper, under the 15-metre rotors still spinning at full attack speed, to the edge of the field.
We made it, no worries.
We got to the helicopter and made it back.
And had a blast getting high with the Black Hawk crews.
