Words Fail. Senses overload. Angels.

At 3:30 this afternoon, Notre Dame will play Navy again. Snore.

What’s not a snore is that the Blue Angels will make their first return to duty since the sequester.

Hallelujah. We’ve seen the Blue Angels. They’re magnificent.

We heard the takeoff. It sounded like the naval guns beginning the bombardment of Normandy on D-Day. But still no sign of those blue and yellow machines we had seen lined up on the tarmac. “They can’t do all their maneuvers ten feet off the runway,” I offered lamely. “Of course not,” said Mrs InstaPunk.

By now the sound was firing at us from, seemingly, all points of the compass. We, and a few others camped pathetically in the parking lot, craned our heads in every direction. Where were they? Where was the sound coming from?

Then I saw them. Four planes climbing straight up to the north. At our distance from them, there was no separation among the triangular shapes. Each wingpoint was welded to another, and the ascending formation was but a single unit through which you could see small triangles of sky. Behind us a shattering engine scream announced the arrival of a fifth plane, and a sixth, returning to the airfield from the south at very low altitude. They disappeared, and apparently parted company, behind the hangars that blocked our view west, but after their exhaust blasts diverged, I suddenly saw them through a wide gap between the two biggest hangars — passing each other in opposing directions nearly six inches apart just a couple hundred feet over the runway. “There!” I shouted. “Jesus.”

There were seven planes in all, but it seemed like more. We got the feeling of being at the epicenter of a vast virtual armillary sphere, around which various combinations of planes were orbiting in all possible directions, in impossibly tight formations, to the limit of the invisible tether that bound them, until the gravity of the center pulled them back together at the reckless velocity of a brand new universe. When they converged and flew past one another, the colliding onslaught of sound resembled Stephen Hawking’s version of the Big Bang, an incipient mega-explosion that doesn’t ever quite happen because you can never get closer than a trillionth of a second to the birth of physics.

“We can go now,” announced Mrs. InstaPunk. “I’ve seen the Blue Angels.”

So we started the car and began the drive back home.

That should be the end of it. But it isn’t. When you leave the ballgame or the concert, you’re almost immediately outside the action and whatever you hear of it is muted, diminished, and subsiding. When you leave the epicenter of a Blue Angels performance, you are merely plotting the direction of subsequent, incredibly immediate encounters.

We hadn’t thought of that. But the residents of Millville and the surrounding rural areas had. We reached the heavily wooded main road that would lead us back home, and the first clearing we came to was lined on both sides by cars, pickup trucks, motorcycles, lawn chairs, blankets and dozens of people. We followed the direction of their upturned faces, and here came the Blue Angels again, four planes locked together as one, slowly rotating as they shivered the pine trees en route.

“Should I pull over?” I asked. “They’ve obviously got the perfect spot here to watch from. I don’t want you to miss anything.”

“No. Keep going. It’s okay.”

We still hadn’t gotten it. Nobody had to go to the air show to experience the power and majesty of the Blue Angels. As we proceeded down what I’d always known as a back country road, every gap in the trees, every crossroad was jammed with cars, bikes, and people. Where there were houses, there were crowds, and the American flags flew, and the Blue Angels obliged by flying past and back again, showering us with waves of sound that rattled windows and rippled the wading pools.

Through one stretch of pure woods, we experienced a flyover so low that both of us ducked inside the car. The sound of the plane overhead was like a a yard of duct tape being ripped off your naked eardrums. Farther on, more people, more cars, more flags, the occasional, helplessly grinning state trooper guarding an intersection, and oddly unhurried traffic away from the show. I drove just under 50 and was astonished that an old biker who could have been Paul Teutle, Sr, made no effort to pass. When he finally turned off, I tossed him a wave, and he gave me a nod.

So I’m giving you a nod now. Watch the game and hope NBC has the wit to give us a glimpse at least of the angels in navy blue.