Francis Meyrick

Of Helicopters and Humans (35)

Do you see any wires?

“Do you see any wires?”, I asked the cop on the ground.
“No”, he said, positively. His firm voice inspired confidence.

We had been on a drawn out Night Law Enforcement Mission, chasing a crazy guy on PCP. It’s another story. He had bounced around, in and out of my search light, and finally ended up locking and barricading himself in a storage shed. Cool. The helicopter, patiently going around and around, using the excellent Starburst system, had continued to pin point the perp’s location. Reinforcements pouring in. The bad guy was now totally surrounded. We were not sure if he was armed or not. He sure was violent. He had already punched out several cops.

It was time to land. I had picked a spot, and I had already carefully reconnoitered it, using the light. This was pre-Anvis 9 days. I was pretty confident that all was well, and the cop on the ground, waving his flash light, was adamant.

“No wires”.

I had a lot of respect for wires. A LOT OF A LOT. Mucho. A whole gross of Mucho. So many accidents have been caused by helicopters hitting wires, that it’s impossible to stay in Aviation for any period of time, and not come across mangled helicopters, or dead friends. We had talked about it. Many a time. Discussed night approaches and take-offs. The general consensus was always: “Do it way more slowly, and way more steeply. And KNOW THEY ARE THERE. SOMEWHERE. Waiting for you…”

True words, that I knew and always took to heart. I treated my night landings with the greatest of caution. I knew where to look for the little darlings. And, heck, I looked. And looked. And looked again.

There had already been the time the time I had been called out on a desert SAR. And landed, eventually, softly, beside the missing helicopter. Or what was left of it. Even from the air, the sheer scale of the debris field had awed me. The sheer violence of the impact spoke of a high speed collision, with the remnants of the helicopter mangled and distorted almost beyond recognition. Many of us, in quiet moments, have marveled at just how destructive the impact forces are. If you study photos, it will give you an idea, but nothing, nothing, rivals the education of standing forlornly in a debris field. One look tells you that the pilot, your brother, is stone dead. His skull is mushed. The last look of astonishment still sculpted indelibly on his face. You shake your heads silently. What a mess. The A&P in me, the lover of helicopters, finds himself awed. At how the mighty works of mice and men, in an instant, can be reduced to shards and crushed tin cans, destroyed couplings and twisted shafts. But above all else, what you take away from that, what you remember, what, somehow, elevates your understanding, is…

…the deep sound of silence.

Where once turbine blades spun at 30,000 RPM, and couplings revolved, and hot gases obediently flowed, following their assigned routes. Where once a man operated the radios, and chatted with his passenger, and kept his sandwiches. Now, only the Silence. A deep, deep silence.
And you think of the mechanics, and the component manufacturers, and the design engineers, and all those myriad professionals, that made it possible for this aircraft to slip the surly bonds of the Red Dust, and venture, bravely, into the Eternal Sky. Only to be brought down, prematurely, at the peak of Life, in to this scrap heap. This mangled, pitiful, pointless mess.

There had already been the time I had been called out to “intercept” a helicopter flying crazily and flat out down the hard shoulder of a major Freeway at twenty feet. Facing oncoming traffic. Scattering surprised cars and trucks in all directions. He was being chased by multiple agencies in the far lane, with blue lights and sirens going, but he held his course and his altitude. I had raced frantically to the scene, wondering about what I was going to do when I actually got there. Too late… I had arrived in time only for the wreckage, and the Great Sound of Silence. An impact with wires had terminated two lives. It could have been many more.
So I was respectful of wires. Wary. Super cautious. And always looking really, really hard. I landed, uneventfully, and picked up two Deputies. Took off, slowly, steeply, cautiously.

No wires.

* * * * *

The next day was my day off. No more chasing PCP crazies for a whole day. By chance, I was driving with my wife along that exact same road. I told her, laughingly, that this where I had landed the previous night. Oh, she said. How interesting.
Then, abruptly, I stopped the car. “What’s wrong?”, she asked. “Nothing”, I lied. “I just want to look at something.” I got out and stared.
For a very, very long time.

At the wires.

That I had missed.

Stretched across the road.

I had missed them on my (steep) take-off run by maybe twenty yards.

Holy Smokes…

Friend Reader, Brother Pilot, Watch the Wires. Wires. Wires.

And again. Brother.

Watch the Wires, wires, wires…

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 20, 2014, 4:59 pm

Of Helicopters and Humans (34)

“Are you a Bobble Head? “

It’s a serious question – Are You?

If you fly helicopters for a living, you ought to be. Believe me. I am.

If you don’t remember Bobble Heads, they were all the rage in the seventies’. Bobble Head Dogs, for some reason, were really popular. You had to have one in every car, or else your kids thought you were a total embarrassment to them. It’s called being “square”, and I guess parents were supposed to be round. So you would dutifully park one in the rear window. And there the Bobble Head dog, lying peacefully, would Bobble away, body at rest, head bobbling up and down. The kids would love it, for at least half a day, and then the Bobble head dog would just be left to Bobble away. Recently, an enterprising firm in California brought back the rage, with a Bobble Head doll that looked just like a certain prominent fund raiser. On the base of the Bobble head was inscribed a question:

Am I a very silly person?

And, you guessed, yes!-(bobble)-yes!-(bobble)-yes!
Boyed by their success, this enterprising Free Enterprise company brought out another one that looked just like a certain former Cheerleader, and a person famous uttering the words “I mis-spoke”. Spitting image. On the base of the Cheerleader-cum-Miss-Speaker, the inscription read:

Do I have a frickin’ CLUE?

And, you guessed it, NO!-(bobble)-NO!-(bobble)-NO!
These two products were wildly popular with the Public, but some very important lady in the Government called Lois wasn’t amused, and she sent some emails, which she has since lost. The result was that the Tax Dogs were sent to bite the manufacturer very hard on the shins. It’s not called “biting” actually, it’s called “auditing”, but it still involves lots of teeth, and snarling. And whimpering. These dogs “audited” the manufacturer, and then stuck them for a truly Bobble-heading Tax assessment. And that was the end of the Bobble Heads. Which was a pity really, because now they are collector’s items, and nobody is going to leave them in the hot rear window of an automobile.

Anyway, Moggy you moron, you may ask, and what has that got to do with helicopters? Everything! Of course! Don’t you see?
No…!
You see, a lot of Helicopter Pilots are Bobble Heads. Especially the older ones, like me. Just watch them, at certain times. Like starting up. As opposed to other helicopter pilots, mostly the newer ones, who don’t bobble much at all. Here, let me explain the background to this unique rotary bobble head phenomenon.

A lot of what we do is based on learning by Rote. You are told what not to do. And, hopefully, why. And to a degree, this works. To a degree. If you tell a child not to touch the stove top (“Minnie! Don’t TOUCH! It’s HOT!”), then the chances are that Minnie won’t touch the stove top. But if instead of Minnie, who is an obedient, sensible child, we take a youngster version of Moggy, who is an anti-authoritarian mischief maker, with pronounced (non-violent) Anarchist tendencies, then the chances are 101.3 % that he won’t learn squat until he burns himself. Painfully. Tisk, tisk.

Burning yourself in the helicopter world is frowned upon. It’s very expensive, and leads to all sorts of career embarrassing paperwork. So we take a hard look at the learning mechanism. Sure, we learn from our teachers. Sure, we learn from text books. But you know what we REALLY learn from?

When our good buddy screws up.

And when he does something awesomely spectacular that we realize (quietly) (in the privacy of our conscience) (Shhhh….!) that WE could easily have done ourselves, then we often enough sit up with a jolt. Take note. Wipe away mental beads of perspiration. Add to our growing reservoir of mental images of disastrous scenes in the middle of which we just do NOT want to be. Ever.

You will find that some older pilots are arrogant and judgmental. Haughty. Exclusive. Snobbish. MY sh… don’t stink. They are a small -loud- minority, believe me. (and they get laughed at a lot, behind their backs, believe me again) Most of us old farts are way more cautious. We KNOW how easy it is to screw up. It’s not that we are paranoid, living in minute-to-minute fear of failure, but we can draw on a vivid collection of mental scenes of bent metal, smashed couplings, mangellated cockpits and other non-scheduled metallurgical anomalies, that most every situation is approached with a suspicious caution based 23 % on our Teacher’s Input, and 25% on studied Textual Information. Yep. That leaves us Dinosaurs with a whopping 52% of our caution based on an entirely different input. Which, you may ask, is the source of this intense learning? Bordering sometimes on the edge of paranoia? From where do we acquire this super cautious, defensive mindset? Easy. From one source, close, personal, vivid, impressive. From where?

From when our good buddy screws up.

Sure, there are fine flight schools who boast of their prowess. There are serious Training Departments with deluded, sometimes pompous individuals, who sincerely believe they (and they alone) are the makers and breakers of all that is upright and virtuous. If their company has a Good Safety Record, it is these serious Gods who modestly-but-publicly (constantly) take all the credit. Otherwise, it’s all down to those damn chopper jockeys.

Nonsense, says this Anti-Authoritarian Rebel from the Twilight World. The best Instructors, the best training manuals, the most fancy training departments, equipped with the most snazzy simulators, are merely temporary learning stations. It’s a place to humbly change out dirty nappies. Pay homage to check pilots. Laugh politely at their infrequent (bad) jokes.
Much like the Catholic Stations of the Cross, the neophyte meekly trudges his dusty (and often expensive) way around this circus, bowing and bobbing and maybe sacrificing and praying, but in the end, the BIG LEARNING starts out in the field. What he sees, for real, what he learns, for real, what he savors, for real. What shocks him, for real. Like when…

His good buddy screws up.

* * * * *

Many years ago, a lifetime ago it seems, I was working for a large helicopter company, and they had lots going on. I was off duty, at home, relaxing. I was bidding on ebay. For this magnificent, moronic Bobble Head. Here, let me show you that picture again.

The phone rang. Would I be willing & able to come in to the “Head Shed” the next day? Me? Now what have I done? Who have I gone and pissed orf now? For what? That feminist joke? The Nigger story?
They wanted me in as a “pilot-peer”. A what?
They explained to me that they were having a “Board of Inquiry”, to deal with a severe case of unscheduled metallurgical anomalies. Oh, I said. I remembered the case well. It had happened to one of my good buddies. I was being asked if I would mind coming in, and attend the Board of Inquiry. I would be there to make sure that the offending pilot was given a fair hearing. Oh. Well, sure, I said.

In due course, I found myself sitting nervously in a room with all the top bosses of my employer. All kinds of people who could get me fired in a heart beat. (best behavior, Moggy…) Everybody sitting around a long table, with lots of paperwork, and binders, and pens, and writing pads, and even a Bobble Head. A nervous Bobble Head. Me. Well, hell, I didn’t have a clue what I was really supposed to be doing. Luckily, the Director of Operations, (BIG boss, Heavy Honcho, don’t-mess-with-Cassius-Honcho) asked me, very nicely, if I had any questions before we started.

Well, I’m famously undiplomatic, it’s not pre-meditated, it’s just gormless. Soft brain tissue. It just flops right out. I’m thinking it, and (BOOM!) out-it-flops. Afterwards, I wish I could put a sock in it. Life would be SO much simpler. But, no, Moggy rushes in where Angels fear to tread. Well meaning. Just dumb.

“Errr… Well, thank you for asking. What I’d like to ask is: why am I here? Am I window dressing? Should I just shut up and pretend I’m indispensable? Or can I participate, and ask questions…?”

I kind of flinched after I had spoken. Oops. Maybe that didn’t sound kind of right. “Window dressing”? Like a Ranch Salad? Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe they might take offense. Please don’t fire me.
But no, nobody seemed to take offense at all. Maybe my reputation for being gormless (soft brain tissue) had already preceded me. The Director of Operations (super nicely) explained to me that they would welcome my input very much, especially as I was working the same helicopter type out of the same base, and I was intimately familiar with all the protagonists involved in the unscheduled metallurgical anomalies. Okay, I said, (dubiously), wondering if perhaps “Silence was golden” and maybe they already just wished I would shut up.

The proceedings got going, and, frankly, I was (hugely) impressed with my employers. There was no rancor, sarcasm, belittling condescension, or sneering. It was just a bunch of helicopter pros trying to establish the facts of what had occurred, why it had occurred, and what might conceivably prevent such an expensive re-occurrence. The more I listened I was truly impressed with the brisk business like tone, and the attention to detail. The research had been meticulous. There were photos, drawings, sketches, a time line, engineering reports, and even coffee. No chocolate biscuits, though.
What had happened was that a Big Old Two Blade light ship helicopter had needed a maintenance run. But the regular pilot assigned to that aircraft had apparently disappeared, although he had allegedly been asked to stay behind at the end of the day to perform the run. Now my buddy entered the scene. He was not current on the Big Old Two Blade Whopper. He flew a two crew medium ship, and he hadn’t touched that light ship type for many YEARS. Nonetheless, he got asked to do the engine run. (Hmmmm…?) It was late. Dark. Raining slightly. My buddy, being an obliging sort, said he would do the run. Even though he had already flown a full day, and he was tired, and he wasn’t familiar on type, but he had been once. Many years before. (Hmmmmm…?)
He climbed into the cockpit, and he knew the mechanic was standing on a stand, left engine cowling open. The mechanic’s head was inside, pre-occupied with inspecting work that had been done earlier that day.
(There would be a lot more work coming their way soon, but nobody knew that just yet…)
The mechanic was an old pro, and he knew the pilot was an old pro. Mutual trust. Maintenance had told the pilot the bird was ready for the engine run. Maintenance knew the pilot was good. The pilot knew maintenance was good. Everybody knew everybody else was good. Life is good. Maybe a little late in the day, a little dark, a little dreary, but it’s all okay. And maybe we are a little tired, but we appreciate our employer, and the source of our mortgage payments, and we aim to please.
Ready? Sure. Let’s go do it.
Very carefully, my buddy performed the start up. He did not want to over temp the engine. Finicky start up technique. You gotta pay attention. Pilot modulated. You get it wrong, just a fraction, and you toast that there engine, and you just blew $100,000. Turbines are not cheap. So my buddy, being a conscientious sort, was watching the gages like a (tired) hawk. The N1 speed got up to 60 per cent, all is well. The gages were nicely in the green. Ah. Relief. Good start…

WHAM! BANG!!! CRASH! BANGETY-BANG-BANG-BANG-WHALLOP…!!!!

All hell broken loose. Some jackass pissed orf Giant with a sledgehammer is beating merry hell out of your helicopter…

The windscreen just caved in…
You are rocking and rolling, and dust is flying through the air…
You are slamming around in your seat like a rag doll…
Horrible, ungodly, tearing, smashing, screeching noises…
The decibel volume of unfolding events stuns your mind…

Instinctively you are trying to shut down, but that’s not easy, because your arm is flailing around. You manage, with great difficulty, to release the throttle, and roll it back to shut off.
Then you throw yourself down over the collective lever, crouching as low as you possibly can, trying to get away from that giant sledgehammer smashing up the cockpit. You’d grovel on the floor, you’d hug the mat if you could, anything, just anything to get away from Hercules with the Hammer.

Fu-fu-fu… What the HELL…?????

Silence, eventually, returns. A sanity, of a sort, returns. You look up, through the smashed windscreen, and the Angry Giant is gone. Slowly, your mind reeling in shock, you sit up. You process information. Assess.
1) I am alive.
2) The engine is shut down
3) The Giant is gone.
4) I am alive.
5) The engine is shut down.
6) The Giant is gone…
7) The blade! The blade! The blade was still tied down…!!!

8) CHRIST!@!!!…. The MECHANIC… STANDING ON THE STAND++++???????

And still in severe shock, your mind still reeling from unimaginable horror, you flail and stagger, and climb out of the cockpit, and survey the carnage. Nothing in your multi (multi) thousand hour flying career has prepared you for this. Nothing CAN prepare you for this. The smashed helicopter is the least of the disaster. For there, lying on the indifferent, cold concrete, lies…

the mechanic…

* * * * *

The Board of Inquiry probed all these facts, meticulously and dispassionately. Notes were taken, questions asked, questions answered. I was asked questions. I answered questions. I made sure the mitigating factors that in some way might help my buddy were highlighted. My input was respectfully dealt with.

Time for my buddy to be brought in. If he was glad to see me there, as his pilot peer, or not, he showed no expression. My admiration for the professionalism of my Bosses now had to make room for my admiration of the way my buddy handled it all. No bluster, no arguing, no excuses. Just a polite, deeply apologetic, perfectly sincere answering of questions. It takes a man to face up to the ugly truth, admit guilt, and helpfully clear up any grey areas. Superb attitude. At one stage, he said, very calmly, with 100 per cent sincerity, words along the lines of:

“I am truly sorry this happened. I make no excuses. All I can tell you, is that if I still have a job with you after this, I can promise you this will NEVER happen again…”

Heads nodded. No sarcasm, no anger, no belittling, no finger pointing.
He was escorted out of the room.
The Director of Operations turned to the Head of Maintenance.
“So, how much did this little adventure cost us…?”
The Head of Maintenance consulted an itemized statement. It was mind boggling six figure number.
Silence around the table. The Director of Operations shrugged.

“Oh, well…”

I was dismissed, and thanked for my participation. I left with the strong impression that somebody was going to get wrapped on the knuckles, told to “never do that again”, and sent back to work.
I was right…

My good buddy STILL works for that company, and is an older, wiser, more humble Aviation Veteran. We meet up once in a while, and we joke about old times. He knows he has my total respect for his outstanding deportment, and he also knows (because I have told him) that I learned a TON about this helicopter life from his “adventure” and my humble role on the Board of Inquiry.
There but for the grace of God, go I…

So maybe now you will understand why old geezers like me are “Bobble Heads”. Watch me start up a helicopter. Any helicopter. Watch my head bobbing and twisting and craning and leaning until I know…

DAMN SURE AND WELL…
that BLOODY BLADE…
…IS TURNING FREELY.

The Director of Operations mentioned above has long since retired, and he probably wouldn’t remember my name if you told him. But I was the junior Bobblehead employee in the corner who was HUGELY impressed by his candid, brisk, fairness, objectivity, and professionalism, that permeated the whole meeting. And who built up a whole new admiration for the company he was working for. A pride, even. A resolve, to try, ever so hard, to NOT (EVER) have to attend a Board of Inquiry sitting on the OTHER side of the table.

So THAT is why you become Director of Operations, I remember thinking. Because you know your stuff, and you’re cool with the ugly facts of this fascinating and colorful helicopter life…
Awesome.

Anybody got a Bobble Head for sale??

Francis Meyrick

PS: Okay… Questions in your mind?

1) WHAT HAPPENED TO THE MECHANIC?
Glad you asked. Such a nice old fellow. He survived, actually. Lucky boy. With very, very severe concussion. He was off work for many months. How was that even possible? There were no outside eye witnesses, so there was some debate over the exact sequence of events. It should be noted that the helicopter WAS TIED DOWN. Had it NOT been tied down, it would almost certainly have (violently) rolled over on its side. That’s what usually happens. (it has happened many, many times) The torque effect, when the blade finally gets going, will see to that.

With the blade tied down, and the helicopter tied down, in this case N1 reached 60 per cent. Blade unable to rotate. That’s a HUMONGOUS torque building up. Remember Newton’s Third Law? Eventually, it’s too much. Something HAS to break. In this case, the tied down blade broke, just inboard of the inboard trim tab. (That’s really close in towards the mast) It did not sever completely, but “hung down”. The tie-down slipped off, the broken blade (hanging down) took off like Hillary Clinton (asked to testify about Bhengazi) and that is where the Crazy Giant-with-the-sledgehammer made his appearance. Banging merry hell out of the poor little chopper.
So how come it didn’t kill the mechanic, on a stand, head peering into engine?
That’s what we all wondered. The only explanation that makes sense to me is that the helicopter “jumped” violently against the steps. In doing so, it knocked the unfortunate mechanic clean off the stand, head first onto the concrete. Severe concussion. Breathing difficulties. Poor fellow, you might say. Sure. But that tumble must have happened a split-ass nano second prior to that broken (hanging) blade coming around at Clinton Warp speed to VISIT. Which would you rather argue with? Cold concrete, using your favorite head? Or a really pissed orf rotor blade?

2) HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT THE PILOT MISSED THE FACT THAT HIS BLADE WAS STILL TIED DOWN?
Combination of circumstances. EASY TO DO. Hell, I nearly did it, and I honestly describe that unfortunate Schmorgasbord Klutz-up elsewhere. Pilots do it -all-the-time. And it’s about time we STOPPED doing that stuff. In this case… fatigue, dark, non-familiarity with type, pre-occupation with light off, and over reliance on the knowledge that the mechanic was present, standing on a stand, a mere handful of feet from where the blade was tied down. Human error. If you feel judgmental, scornful, I caution you: YOU are a prime candidate to pull this exact same little trick. Why? Because you’re not humble. You don’t realize how FRICKIN’ easy it is to FRICKIN’ actually DO.

3) HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT THE MECHANIC MISSED THE FACT THAT THE BLADE WAS STILL TIED DOWN??
Flip sake. He was standing up on a work stand, a mere eight or ten feet away from where the blade was tied down to the tail boom. How could he not see the blade was still tied down? Answer: it’s SO easily done. Fatigue, dark, light rain, pre-occupation with task in hand. Maintenance tunnel vision. Awesome career experience tunnel focused very narrowly and intensively on one specific area. Undoing the rotor blade is primarily a pilot’s thing. Sure, working around a helicopter is a shared responsibility, but you can’t expect a life long mechanic not to focus his attention narrowly on his particular work detail.

4) WHAT CAN WE ALL LEARN FROM THIS?
Hopefully, nothing that we haven’t already learned. Again. And again. And again. It’s the simple, routine, hum-drum, mundane, mind stultifying tasks, that we perform every day, that have this unique, inbuilt, bugger factor. Ignore the check list at your peril. One day, you will pay the price. Humility is good. Elsewhere, if you want to waste more of your valuable time, in “Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual” I go on, and on, and on, about removing ALL your tie-downs before trying to depart your tuna boat. I’m not the only old Tuna Head who goes On ,a nd ON, and ON about that. You think people listen to us? Well, maybe they LISTEN, but they sure don’t HEAR. Wanna see a pretty picture? Unnecessary stupid? Here you go..

5) WATCH THE WRINKLIES
Watch ’em ALWAYS turn a single blade rotor system ninety degrees, to the nine o’clock and the three o’clock position, prior to any start. I would no more dream of firing up with a single blade parked fore-and-aft, than I would EVER vote for any of the Democrat Clowns scrabbling for short term votes, any votes, regardless of long term, devastating consequences for the whole Nation.
Watch the old farts ALWAYS do a careful walk around, prior to start, and after shut down. They are not doing that for fun. Because they need the exercise. (well, some do, admittedly) They are not doing it because the Ops Manual says so. They are doing it because they have had their buddies screw up, and they do NOT want to do the same.
Watch the pot-bellies starting up. They are not just calmly looking inside at the gages. All relaxed. Wondering where to eat lunch. Yummy. Hey-hum. Just another, routine start.

Nope. Old geezers like me are “Bobble Heads”. Watch me start up a helicopter. Any helicopter. Watch my head bobbing and twisting and craning and leaning until I know…

DAMN SURE AND WELL…
that BLOODY BLADE…
…IS TURNING FREELY.

(Phew…!)

Now, did somebody mention “Lunch”…?

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 6, 2014, 7:30 am

Of Helicopters and Humans (33)

A Mental Midget (4) – “Moggy and the Goose”

Sooner or later, if you pursue a career in aviation, especially if you venture into the rotary world, with lots and lots of off-site landings, I can guarantee you will encounter all sorts of critters. I urge you to exercise extreme caution. These encounters can have all kinds of slithery consequences.
Ask any actor, however struggling and hungry. The word around the theatrical world is to be very careful fooling around with animals, especially on live television. Ignoring this sage advice, all sorts of so-called prominent TV personalities (i.e. Yakking Heads) have come to sticky ends. They have unexpectedly had their hair pulled, they have been spat at, peed on, barfed at, and one poor fellow got bitten (on live TV) by the biggest Copperhead rattlesnake these two fully baked rednecks had ever caught.
So what do you do when you catch a record Copperhead rattlesnake? Why, you drag him into a Television Studio in a box. And when the host says: “Can we see him?” You open the box. And when the really, really pissed orf Copperhead peeps out and sees the Host, well, he sees things differently. Dammit, HE is a snake. A mean snake. He was just out and about, minding his own business, thinking about lunch (a tasty rodent would do nicely, thank you) and along come these two sadists and chucked him in a box! DO NOT point at that Copperhead and laugh: “That’s the biggest rattle snake I’ve ever seen, HA-HA!!” ‘Cos if you DO, he is gonna take UMBRAGE. And… (sirens & white coats)… off to the E.R. you jolly well go. Duh…

Some mothers do have ’em…

Never, ever, underestimate the intelligence of an animal. Here, let me explain to you the origins of my honorary induction into the “Untouchables ” cast. I was once drinking in a bar in Calcutta I think it was, India anyway, and I don’t quite remember how I got there. I know I’d gotten in trouble again, terminated from flying this rattletrap Bell 222, all over nothing. I’d been staying at this hotel, flying four days on and three days off, and one night, I’d gone down to Reception, and asked this funny dressed Bell Boy (in fancy dress) down in the Lobby to order me a Pepperoni Pizza. I then gave him ten dollars, and patted him on the turban. Hell, I even complimented on how cute he looked. Only he wasn’t the Bell Boy. He was the local Maha… Maha… Mahajaradja something, and apparently they don’t do pizzas. And he was all offended, and the Hotel asked me to leave. And then I got fired. For laughing my ass off when I found out about my mistake. I swear. But there you go. So I was in this bar, drowning my guilt, and in comes this little Untouchable guy. Now the Untouchables, note, are the lowest caste in India. Everybody looks down on them, and they look up at everybody else. All day long. It’s got to be hard work. Anyway, he looked like he was down on his luck. He was trying to count out enough Rupees for a beer, so, what the heck, I bought him one. I tend to feel sorry for people, and that’s only fair, because, after all, a lot of people feel sorry for me. His face lit up, and soon we were chat-chatting away. I learned a whole lot about India and being Untouchable from this guy. Anyway, by and by, he gets this crafty look in his eyes, and he whispers in my ear: “My crazy Irish Untouchable friend, I like you! You bet with me, I make us both many money!”

With that, he addresses the whole bar. And he says: “My good people! I offer every man here a wager! One thousand Rupees! Double or nothink! I can make an elephant jump off the ground with all four feet!”
Everybody looked at him. “Nay-nay-nay-nay.” Lots of wise Indian head shaking. Apparently, you can’t make an elephant jump off the ground with all four feet. It can’t be done. A thousand Rupees? That seemed like a crazy bet. Still… Everybody bet against the little Untouchable. On a hunch, I bet two thousand on his side. The Irish Untouchable backing the Indian one. Then we all got up, and followed him out to a large rice paddy. We walked over to this humongous, big grey elephant. I noticed that, on the way, my little Untouchable buddy had picked up this vicious looking big stick. I wondered what it was for. Odd. Well, with all the wise Indians standing around, who had all betted a thousand rupees each against him, he walks right behind the elephant, and picks up the elephant’s tail, and ties it out of the way. Then he swings that big stick a hard as he possibly can, and simply NAILS that dog gun elephant right in the NUTS. There was this fantastic sound, a real blaring, high pitched, quavering elephant expression of extreme surprise and unhappiness, and, sure enough, the elephant came off the ground with all four feet! Out-standing! I had just won two thousand Rupees! Cool.

So back to the bar we went . Well, a month later, I was still sitting at that bar, on account of another fact. I couldn’t find a new helicopter flying job. I guess word had gotten around I couldn’t tell a Bell Boy from the local Maha Radjhi. I was politically incorrect. Again. It seems that made them nervous. But I had gotten to know the bar regulars real well. And one day, in walks my little Untouchable Buddy again.
I guess he was down on his luck again. I saw him fumbling for loose change for a beer anyway. I bought him one, and he agreed just a little too easily. I started to wonder suspiciously if I had been taken for a (rickshaw) ride, but before that sneaking suspicion could morph into a greater ugliness, he smiled his winning smile, and said: “My crazy Irish Untouchable friend, I like you! You bet with me, I make us both many money!”

With that, he addresses the whole bar. And he says: “My good people! I offer every man here a wager! One thousand Rupees! Double or nothink! I can make an elephant shake his head from side-to-side!”
Everybody looked at him. “Nay-nay-nay-nay.” Lots of wise Indian head shaking. Apparently, you can’t make an elephant shake his head from side-to-side. It can’t be done. A thousand Rupees? That seemed like a crazy bet. Still… Everybody bet against the little Untouchable. On a hunch, I bet my last three thousand on his side. The Irish Untouchable backing the Indian one. Then we all got up, and followed him out to the same large rice paddy. We walked over to the very same, humongous, big grey elephant. I noticed that, on the way, my little Untouchable buddy had picked up the same vicious looking big stick. I wondered what it was for. Odd. Well, with all the wise Indians standing around, who had all betted a thousand rupees each against him, he walks right in front of the elephant, and gets right in the elephant’s face. Then he twirls that big stick around in an ominous manner, and says to the elephant:
“YOU REMEMBER ME…? “
The elephant nodded, sadly. Elephants are smart.
“YOU WANT ANOTHER WHACK ON THE NUTS WITH THIS HERE STICK…??”
And the elephant… firmly shook his head. Left-right-left. NO, Sir. No, thank you.
Absolutely not.

All the other Indians were dumbfounded. Jaws hanging open. Eyes out on sticks. A miracle.
Out-standing! I had just won three thousand Rupees! Cool.
And back to bar we went. I was to remember that elephant, many years later. The levitation part. As you shall see in another story.

* * * * *

But first, I must now make mention of the famous Goose from Sabine Pass. And the other famous, unforgettable goose that belonged to… my wife.
The Sabine Pass Goose has gone in History. If you have ever worked in the Gulf, or if you have a buddy who has worked in the Gulf, if you haven’t heard of the Sabine Pass goose, you must be tea-total. Many a bar has heard the story of the Sabine Pass goose. His name was Brutus. I don’t know who named him Brutus. It doesn’t seem awfully flattering for a goose. But then again, he was a really BIG goose. The first time I met Brutus, I was kind of awed. It was just before dawn, all misty and wet, and I was walking (or rather, limply staggering) out to do my pre-flight. I was three quarters asleep. Well, out of the darkness, out of the shadows, silently, fluidly, without warning, this gigantic muddy white creature hove into sight. And firmly barred my way. Instantly awake (eyes bulging) I hurriedly stepped back. Brutus advanced. I retreated. Brutus advanced some more. Head down. Quickly I stepped to one side. I was in HIS way. Brutus, with a sideways look at me (in which I detected supreme condescension) (“what an UGLY goose that sleepy creature is…”) swept magnificently by. Having rendered due obeisance to the Goose, having deferentially made way as it were, I think my existence was graciously tolerated. I had no further trouble with Brutus. You never knew when his Lordship would put in an appearance. It was as if the pre-dawn row of silent helicopters was a favorite haunt, because he was never far away. As long as you didn’t piss orf the Goose, you were okay. Show some respect, and he remembered you. (Cowering…)

Well…

Along comes… I’ll call him Bill. Most of us… we didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the Goose. Call us cowards if you like. We just passed the word along. Don’t screw with the Goose. Make way for the Goose. Show some respect. It’s HIS back yard. Ostensibly, he belonged to the farmer next door, where he got lots of respect from a dozen (exhausted) Lady Geese. But Brutus… didn’t differentiate. I think that was the problem. He expected ALL creatures to show him mucho respect, or else…
And then there was Bill. Older gentleman. Laid-back Bill. Bill, “don’t-tread-on-me” and “I don’t-give-a-rat’s ass” Bill. Texan. Long-horrrrrrn. Confederate Flag flying Bill. You know the type. Upon being informed of the real life pecking order out on the ramp at Sabine Pass, Bill said a word which is not polite, and unprintable in such a clean, unblemished scribe as this. The word implied that the status quo, as we saw it, was for the birds. Or the geese, depending on your point of view. But it wasn’t for Bill. Basically, he wasn’t going to have no bleeding, ‘effing mere GOOSE tell HIM where HE would respectfully tread in the misty early morning twilight, before the Sabine dawn.

History records that the first meeting between Brutus and Bill was unobserved by any independent parties. So nobody knows how Brutus saw the whole thing. I have a sneaking suspicion laid back Bill tried to kick the Goose. But we know exactly how Bill saw it, from his point of view. The door to the crew room explosively burst open, and laid-back Bill positively ERUPTED through it. Slamming the door shut, and locking it, he turned to the rest of us, white as a ghost, and blurted out: “Christ! There’s a HUMONGOUS GOOSE LOOSE out there!” The rest of us, unruffled, reclining comfortably, slurping coffee, and/or slowly waking up, replied politely, that he must have just met Brutus. Bill, at the opposite end of ‘unruffled’, proceeded to give his estimate of the size of ‘that Goose’. Wing tip to wing tip. Six feet, I think Bill said. And four foot high. And very, very ANGRY.
“You must have pissed him orf”, we said.
“NO, HE JUST ATTACKED ME!”, complained laid-back Bill. He was very unhappy about the loose Goose.
“All you have to do is show him some respect”, we said.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT BEAK IS A FOOT LONG! THOSE EYES! THAT GOOSE IS TOTALLY PSYCHOTIC!”
The stage was set up. The rest of us would go about our business in peace, and mentally doff our caps to Brutus. We would politely step out of his way, and refrain from staring. Brutus would stride majestically by, not deigning these (really ugly) two-legged geese with so much as a curt look. Not his type.
But Bill and Brutus… World War Three in Sabine Pass. Unlimited mutual hate and loathing. Unrestricted warfare. It developed into a game of low cunning. Who could outsmart who. Brutus would hide in the most far out places, unseen, and ignore all comers. Until Laid-back Bill passed by. Then the Goose, six foot from wing tip to wing tip, with his foot long beak, (and the psychotic eyes), would burst out of his hiding place, hissing and flapping, and frontally attack poor Bill. And Bill would run like hell, burst into the pilots’ crew room, slam the door, gasping, and say:
“THAT DAMN GOOSE JUST ATTACKED ME!”
And we would say: “You must have upset him!” But Bill would get all huffy, and deny all wrong doing.
Time went by, and there was no sign of improvement in the Brutus & Bill duet. It only got worse. Bill took to sneaking around only if he was armed with a golf putter. He would peer cautiously around doors and buildings, and advance warily, holding the putter at the ready over his head. The Goose, having received a few whacks, far from retiring, only took to upping the ante, and made it a life mission and purpose to attack laid back Bill at the most inconvenient moments. Bill would lay down his putter, maybe to re-fuel his aircraft, and at that precise moment, Brutus would catapult out of the Darkness, his one foot beak aimed square at Bill’s nuts. Apparently you don’t want to get violently stabbed in the nuts by a Goose. Because there was Bill, on more than one occasion, rolling on the ground, screaming
“GET HIM OFF ME!!! GET HIM OFF ME!!”
…with Brutus the Goose on top, pecking and hissing and stomping, wings flapping, and generally executing a sustained and mighty assault.

We all kind of got used to seeing laid back Bill cautiously imitating a Red Indian, and furtively sneaking around the various buildings and hangars. Unaware of the Goose, in unmistakable Red Indian Goose stealth mode, behind him, encircling the same building, taking care to just stay out of sight. Until the right moment.

Oh! There’s Bill….! Peering around the corner. Putter strike ready above his head….
Oh! There’s Brutus…! Peering around the rearward corner. Foot long beak at the ready, and mean little psychotic eyes burning hellfire into Bill’s back…

Cool. Situation normal.

(It’s gonna be a great day…)

The rumors you will hear about this, handed down to young pilots to this very day, will include lurid tales of the creative cruelty of Bill’s fellow pilots. These stories are totally fabricated. I was there. We never laughed at Bill. Much. And although it is true that we hung a few framed Goose pictures around the place, we didn’t mean anything by it. Much. Okay, I did put plastic goose soap dispensers in all the toilets. And admittedly, there was that occasion when Bill put his hand in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a fluffy, cuddly Goose. And went ape shit. (I can’t really say ‘Goose shit’, can I?)

But this was just minor mischief. It is also mostly totally untrue that we would wind up Bill’s customers. Why would we do that? You will hear (true!) stories that the customers were alarmed to see their pilot come slinking out of the building, with a haunted-crazed expression, totally ignoring them, with a golf putter held high above his head. Peering intently into the darkness. With saliva trickling nervously down his chin. For some reason, the passengers didn’t quite understand that. It is said (untrue) (well…) that some crazy Irish pilot told them that Bill was a diagnosed schizophrenic, with uncontrollable Transvestite impulses, and that the best thing was just to ignore him. Especially if he started working the lipstick or babbling in Hindu. Or chanting deliriously in Urdu.

I don’t think I said that. Oh, maybe I did. I didn’t mean any harm, though. We were all very upset when we heard that babbling Bill had been rushed off for psychiatric evaluation. Something to do with him refusing to leave his putter behind on the ground. He insisted on having it immediately ready and available in the cockpit. And apparently he talked incessantly during every flight about smiting Brutus, the Goose. It upset the passengers.

The end of the story was that the Head Shed sent down some very important people. And they asked lots of questions. And they gave me lots of funny looks. And then they went to the farmer. And the farmer erected a wire fence. And that was the end of the love story of Brutus and Bill. It was a sad day for all of us. Especially Brutus. He could often be seen, in the early pre-dawn hours, pacing mournfully along the wrong side of the fence, peering through, searching for his buddy with the putter. Oh, to be separated so cruelly from the true Love-Hate of his Life…

Now you might think I’m making this up. Truthfully, I’m not. 99% of it is TRUE. Honestly. Can you make this stuff up? Ask the wrinkled old-timers. They’ll tell you. Ask T.C. He was there. He’ll tell you…

…all about the Sabine Pass Goose named Brutus.

* * * * *

So, then, years later, Karma being Karma, (dammit), there came a strange visitation upon me. My (two) esteemed regular readers (Dotty went on the drink – again) will be familiar with the details of my 87th reincarnation. The Penguin affair. Just in case you missed it, here’s the link.

The point I’m trying to make is that we little Humans, gifted with only the smallest of minds, and pitifully brief Life Spans, must meditate frequently on the dire implications of our Actions. Actions have consequences. However hard I try, with my very limited intelligence, I have trouble absorbing this knowledge. I’m not very humble. I’m also kind of mischievous. Subversive. I confess: I’m not above stirring the pot, and challenging sacred cows head on. I like to do it MY way. If you’ve read my Nigger Story (here’s the link) I’m sure you know what I mean. Thus, perhaps, my actions involving Brutus the Goose, and babbling Bill, (not to mention the plastic goose soap dispensers, and the fluffy goose toy in Bill’s jacket pocket), brought down upon me the following events…

* * * * *

My wife likes to rescue extremely sick animals. And nurse them lovingly and patiently back to health. In fact, in a candid moment, some twenty years into our marriage, she once calmly stated that her propensity to hurry to the rescue of sick animals was the prime reason why she married me in the first place. And as I stared at her, slightly dumbfounded (a state I often find myself in with this Scottish lady) she added, perfectly sincerely, that the task had not quite gone to plan, and that the venture, was, in truth, still very much “a work in progress”. (???)
I could be sensitive, you know…
(but I’m not. Not after twenty years of marriage)

Because of this Mother-Theresa-for-critters propensity on her part, I never know what pathetic new creature-arrival will greet me when I return home from work. I have been joyously (or not) barked at, miaowed at, growled at, hissed at, bleated at, neighed at, honked at, and spat at. It’s not easy. I once put my motorcycle helmet on (I needed a ride, so bad) and this water unexpectedly poured down my face. What!? Funny smelling water…?? Oh, just Grrrrreat. Outstanding. The latest rescued puppy has just gone and… peed in my crash hat. I live in terror that she’ll rescue an Alpaca. Or a bloody big heavy shitter woolly Lama.
Stay AWAY from my motorcycle helmet!
The feed bill…

Thus the day came, that I called home dutifully from a remote helicopter base somewhere on planet Earth, and I detected a kind of sigh in her voice. Sure enough, the following words hit me like a sledge hammer.
“Errr… We have a new arrival.”
Me: “WHAT!?”
Her: “Yes… some people knocked on the door with him… and I really couldn’t refuse.”
Me: “WHAT-IS-IT…???”
My (tiny) mind reeled.
(WHERE did I leave my helmet…?)
Whatever it was, it had better not be huge, hungry, aggressive, mean, or prone to spitting. Because I had been through this routine so many times before. 1. They all love Mama. 2. They all hate interloper Papa. 3. Papa gets to pay the feed and vet’s bills. 4. Mama tells Papa to get over it, and that “they are all God’s creatures, you know…” and, finally, 5) Papa meekly gives in.
So: “WHAT-IS-IT…??”
Her: “it’s a GOOSE…”
Me: (sigh of relief) “Oh, that’s okay then. “
We had lots of chickens. And Guinea Fowl. Little Bantam chickens. And even a love sick pigeon. Called Paloma. With a crush on a coldly indifferent Bantam named Spangle. Paloma & Spangle – a Love Story.
There was a silence on the phone. Something in the silence alarmed me.
Me: “IS THERE MORE TO THIS STORY…??”
Her: “Well…”
Me: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH…!!! WHAT-IS-THE-MATTER-WITH-THE-GOOSE…???”
Her: “Well…”
Me: “WELL WHAT…??”
Her: “He’s psychotic…”
Me: “YOU JUST RESCUED A PSYCHOTIC GOOSE…???”
It emerged that some people had knocked on our front door with this sad Goose-in-a-box. He had been taken as a baby Goose, separated cruelly from his fellow geese siblings, and plopped into a suburban back garden. As somebody’s warped idea of a pet. A walking, honking version of a grass eating garden gnome. In this sad and lonely manner, the goose had grown up, accustomed only to seeing the occasional human being. No other geese. Indeed, I think later events were to show how he had even forgotten what other geese looked like. A sad goose, indeed. Then he discovered hormones. The urge to procreate. So he took to ferociously, wings flapping, attacking the occasional human being. ‘Cos he wanted to fu-fu-ffff… procreate. Think about it. He’d been on his own so long. He was a very confused goose. But the objects of his passion didn’t understand that. So they said he was a psychotic goose. Only he wasn’t. Mama said so. Mama knows about these things. He was just confused. Like me.

In this manner… Kenya the Goose came into our lives. Karma at work, no doubt. I bow my head. I suspect Kenya arrived so I could learn more about the Harmony of Life. So I, ignoble, mischief making wretch, could appreciate things from the point of view of… a confused Goose. The Great Cosmic Kindness, that surrounds all us creatures, bestowed upon me the opportunity to ripen in perhaps a small modicum of elementary wisdom. Compassion, even. Me and the Goose. Pay-back for stirring the sh… manure, between Brutus and Bill.

I came home after a week’s flying, causing mischief and sowing confusion in the Gulf of Mexico, (ten years plus so far), and I was told that Kenya was in the back garden, seemingly getting on well with the chickens, the Bantams, the lone lover Pigeon, the Guinea Fowl, the dogs, the cats, the donkeys, the goats, and the squirrels. And how, I enquired anxiously, was he getting on with Mama? Oh, just fine, she said. “He seems to like me”, she added. I wasn’t surprised. Everybody liked Mama. It was ME they had their doubts about.

“You should go meet him”, she said, encouragingly. I had my misgivings. Vaguely, I had this feeling of foreboding. Mama was always way ahead of me in the arena of Personal Harmony with Nature & Critters. I lagged (far) behind. I was never quite sure why. I wonder often if animals are much more intuitively in tune with the Forces of Nature. Maybe they just know. Maybe they sense our auras. That of my wife, bright and golden, that of me, dark and red-tinged? I don’t know (much), but I’m willing to… Learn? Step out, go meet the psychotic Goose?

It didn’t take long. About forty-five seconds or so. Papa was already flying back in through the back door, in a hurried, flustered manner, quickly shutting the door, bolting it, and announcing, breathlessly:

“THAT DAMN GOOSE JUST ATTACKED ME!”

And (Karma) (shit!) SHE said, quietly and wisely: “You must have upset him!” (where did I hear that before?) But I got all huffy, and denied all wrong doing. It’s ALL the goose’s fault.

What to do? Calmly, my wife bade me accompany her out the door, and stay, demurely, non-threateningly, by her side. I felt like a penitent. Head bowed. Karma was watching. Was I learning? Did I remember Brutus & Bill? Sure. I’m sorry, Brutus. I’m sorry, Bill. I’ll never -ever- stir the pot with a dumb critter again. Not even with you, Bill.

We were now ten feet away from this ferocious looking, evil, psychotic beast. Wings extended (six foot, wing tip to wing tip), this gargantuan, wicked looking beak (foot long, at least) and these horrible, rolling eyes. Indubitably, a psychotic goose on the loose. Aboot our hoose.
It happened in an instant. He rolled his eyes at Mama. Mama good. He loved Mama. He rolled his eyes at me. Papa no good. He hated Papa. ATTACK PAPA! Goose head down!

CHAAAARRRRRGE…!

(Papa was already flying back in through the back door, in a hurried, flustered manner, quickly shutting the door, bolting it, and announcing, breathlessly, from within those sheltered walls:

“I HATE THAT DAMN GOOSE… !”

(Sigh)

We let a few days go by, and, at the urging of Mama, this penitent sinner agreed, reluctantly, to try once more to discover Inner Peace and Harmony, and Communion with the Great Cosmic Kindness. Hold hands and hum Kum-Ba-Ya. And friendship (heck, some tolerance, even) between him and the loose goose. I’d do anything for that little woman. Being the sick animal I am, nursed along for twenty years by this extraordinarily warm hearted little lady, I know I can never repay her all the kindnesses. So I try not to kick the proverbial goose loose. I try, vainly, to love even the psychotic goose. Heck, that could be ME, in my next reincarnation.
With my luck…

“Talk to him, nicely…!”.

She said it easily, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to strike up a bonhomie with this GOOSE rolling his eyes at you.

“Hello, Kenya…” I said, feebly. Feeling for all the world like a gibbering idiot.

Talking to a goose. (If Bill could see this…) But Kenya was having none of it. Palm leaf be damned. The gentle melody of Kum-Ba-Ya be damned. The goose head was going down. And down. The neck was stretching out. The eyes were taking on that Tyrannosaurus -Rex-with-a- sore-tooth ugly glint. He rolled his eyes at Mama. Mama good. He loved Mama. He rolled his eyes at me. Papa no good. He hated Papa.

ATTACK PAPA! Goose head down! CHAAAARRRRRGE…!

(Papa was already flying back in through the back door, in a hurried, flustered manner, quickly shutting the door, bolting it, and announcing, breathlessly, from within those sheltered walls:

“I HATE THAT DAMN GOOSE… !”

And so on, and so forth. Karma sighed. The Great Cosmic Kindness shook his (her? It’s?) head, and I took to firmly avoiding the loose goose. The irony was not lost on me. I couldn’t make up for my past misdeeds. Here was a needy goose sent by Fate to me, to act as my guide and teacher to greater Compassion, and all I wanted to do was KILL THE BLOODY THING. I was a lost cause.

I would watch Mama and Kenya through the kitchen windows. Going for a walk together, across the fields. He, loyally, like a puppy dog, waddling along behind the love of his life. I knew just how he felt. If he got tired, he would start lagging behind. And Mama would turn around, and say: “Kenya? Are you getting tired?” And Kenya would make a sad sort of honking noise. And Mama would say: “Come on, then!” And Kenya the goose would jump into Mama’s arms. And they would finish the walk, with a Scottish lassy lost in Lousiana, and a psychotic goose, happily tucked under Mama’s right arm, enjoying his new home. Very strange. He would follow her to the mail box. He would follow her to feed the horses. He was, for all the world to see, totally devoted to Mama.

Months went by. I had not entirely given up. I had noticed Kenya trying to get off with the chickens. It was a step forwards. At least he wasn’t trying to hump ME all the time. Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at it. The chickens were much quicker, and they easily circumnavigated the randy goose. Initially they would run a mile, squawking blue murder. After a while, however, once the chickens figured how easy it was to dodge Fat Boy Romeo, they merely retreated three or four feet. Then, just to show their contempt, they would go straight back to pecking the ground. Waddle Ass with the limp dick did not merit more of a berth than that.

Of course, I ended up feeling sorry for Kenya. Maybe I felt I still owed Karma some dutiful obeisance. Or so it seemed to me. Maybe it was just a male-to-male thing. I wondered if he would enjoy the company of some Lady Geese. After some contemplation, I decided it was a brilliant idea. I put it to Mama. For some reason (girls can be so slow) she looked kind of dubious. But I was in full flow of enthusiasm. At some level, I had these idealistic vision of Kenya with two lovely Goose ladies, whooping it up, and enjoying a blissful life. And maybe, just maybe, in my next reincarnation, I could be allowed to skip the educational step of coming back as an unloved, loose goose. Maybe. So, I ignored Mama’s hesitation. She seemed to think Kenya might not be able to handle two demanding women. “Nonsense”, spoke I, the knowledgeable male. “Of course he can handle it!” Well, maybe I should have listened to Mama.

Off I went, in the full flow of a warm male hormonal idealism, and obtained TWO lady Geese. I could only carry them one at a time in a cage, so I arrived home with the first one, and I couldn’t wait to unite the happy couple. I walked over to the gate, and Kenya immediately spotted his new bride. His reaction was strange. Far from being deliriously happy, (and grateful) he raced into his cage, and cowered in the furthest corner. He would have slammed and bolted the door, I’m sure, if his house had been so equipped. Very odd. Still, with my confidence still flourishing, I opened the cage and let Madam Number One out. We were soon to name her “Kubota” on account of her bright orange bill. That perfectly matched our new Kubota tractor. That she later learned to voluptuously shit all over. Kubota at least had the right idea. Upset no doubt by her recent journey, and the ordeal of having been plucked away from her friends, she spied a fine Gander, and raced over to his protective embrace. Kenya seemed horrified. As Kubota flew in his door, Kenya departed, OVER THE TOP of his bewildered bride. Then he ran and hid behind some bushes. Peeking out, nervously, for the rest of the day at Kubota, who was nervously peeking out of the dubious protection of Kenya’s house. Not good. Bad start.

I was rather thoughtful when I returned with the second lady goose, soon to be named “Honda”. For some entirely logical reason. Soon we had two frantic incomer geese chasing an even more frantic resident Gander, round and round the house and garden. Kenya, raised alone in a suburban back garden, was clearly a very confused goose.

The weeks went by. Kenya had been (unsuccessfully) pursuing the chickens again, but at least seemed to be sidling up now and then behind the heavenly duo, Kubota & Honda. He was thinking about it.
Well… when he finally tried, the girls were very cooperative. They stood or crouched perfectly still, but Kenya still just could NOT hack it. He would fall off over their left shoulder. He would fall off over their right shoulder. He would fall off over the heads. He would fall off backwards. Hopeless. All my fine match making plans were for naught. Kenya, without a doubt, was the clumsiest creature in the whole yard. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get his end away, and do his thing, it was just that he kept missing by a mile.

In the end, the girls just gave up, and started doing it by themselves. So now we still had a loner psycho gander-goose, and two lesbian lover geese. Who went at it all day long. Noisily.
Heck, I told my wife. And Karma. Dammit, I tried.

Where or how I shall be reincarnated next, I have no idea. It won’t be good. I shall probably be a randy cockroach with permanent erectile dysfunction, born on a Taiwanese tuna boat. With a new weekend home in those nice nets on the stern. The ones with all the tasty bits of fish in them. Until one day…

“LET GO…!!”
(Clang! Wheee-eeee-eeeeeeee—-SPLASH!)
(Huh!?)

But if I’m brought back as a goose, I just hope I can find a decent NOOSE.

I just don’t fancy being a psychotic goose, loose, around the hoose.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 17, 2014, 9:27 am

Of Helicopters and Humans- A Mental Midget

Part 3: Moggy on Parade

If you remember, when we were bratty kids, like, last week or so, we at some stage discovered a funny drawing. Every healthy kid does it at some stage. Kind of a rite of passage. If you never drew something like this, you were either raised in a convent, whooped soundly (for your own good) all your young years by the Brothers of Mercy, or you simply were already into dolls. Most of us little bastards proudly painted something like this on at least a half dozen toilet doors. Here you go.

I found that on Photobucket.com, by the way. You find all sorts of enlightening, mind broadening stuff there. How about this? I’m just saying…

Now I wouldn’t have thought it, but Life was dead set on many occasions to make me feel just like the dude peering over that wall. Hiding, mostly, with bulging eyes, horrified, wondering what in heck’s name… I’d just gone and done NOW. Like my wife asks: “How do you MANAGE it??” I always shrug my shoulders, helplessly. Why me? I-don’t-know.
It just… kind of happens.

Thus we were flying along quite happily, on a beautiful -windless- Arizona early morning, me and two Patrol Sergeants. In an OH58 helicopter. We had successfully completed a Law Enforcement Mission, and we were on our way home. One of the Sergeants, well respected, big tough cop, remarked that we were not far from his parents’ house, and could we take a detour? Sure… no problem. A few minutes later, as we banked overhead the remote homestead, he was busy extolling Mama’s Apple Pies. Apparently there was nothing in the world that compared to Mama’s home baked Apple Pies with whipped cream. We all started licking our lips, and feeling this terrible hankering for Apple Pie. From that state of digestive juices flowing, it was a small step to the suggestion that we should actually go land, and say “Hi!” to Mama, and maybe, just maybe, coincidentally, a minor issue, not the motivating factor at all, we MIGHT just… get some Apple Pie.
Soon we were on final approach. I noticed Mama had her washing out on the line. “Look!”, I said, wisely, “we’d better land away a bit so we don’t blow dust over her washing!” Everybody agreed that this was a very fine observation, denoted great Moggy Airmanship and skill, and was most definitely the right and proper thing to do. So… I landed quite a bit away. Really, quite a bit.

Unfortunately…

The sand there was really, really fine. And really, really dry. Underneath. And I have this theory that the overnight moisture kind of forms a very thin cake layer on top. Kind of holds it together. You won’t believe me, I swear, until you go through this experience yourself one day. But then you’ll think back to this story, and you’ll say: “Damn! That old bugger was right…!” What happens is that all is fine and dandy, never a worry, Murray, as you descend down through four feet or so. Barely a dust particle bothers to rise to meet you. Then, all of a sudden… I think your downwash finally busts through that thin cake topping, and suddenly these rolling waves of brown dust spread out in low, concentric circles, faster and faster. With no wind at all, it was truly awesome to see the waves stay LOW, and just race… straight for Mama’s clean washing, hanging out to dry.
I wish I’d had a tape recorder. The Intercom was… well, total terror would be a fair description.
“No!”
“Oh! NO-NO-NO…!”
“Oh, SHIT! Oh. FUKKKKK…!”
We were that low it seemed better just to set her down, flat pitch, roll throttle off, and just hope…
Nope…
Mama’s gonna have to re-do her washing. Kind of a nice, soft brown color though? Maybe she might like it? Nope. Guess what, who is that, striding out the door, fit to be tied, BROOM in hand? Marching straight for the helicopter, mad as hell, waving the broom ominously!!??
What, you’re gonna beat us with that thing…!?
No, we didn’t get any apple pie. WE DID NOT GET ANY APPLE PIE. Zip. Nada. I got a coffee I think. And one hell of a longggg lecture from Mama. Three grown men, all sitting sheepish as hell, naughty schoolboy style, staring awkwardly at the floor, whilst Mama… expressed her feelings. I’d never quite seen that expression on the tough old Sergeant’s face. Kind of… juvenile guilt. Caught peeing on the rose bush. Wishing SO MUCH it was over. Sorry. Very, very, very sorry. We’ll NEVER, ever do it again. HONEST.
Not quite… the triumphant arrival at Mama’s house we had planned on…

* * * * *

But the Colorful Carrousel of Life keeps spinning around, faster and faster. Older and wiser, and highly professional, and upholding the image of the Sherriff’s Office, I soon put this total Apple Pie Schmorgasbord behind me, and moved on to better things and greater Glory. The day of the Great Annual Parade was drawing near. Ah-hah! Big deal. Gargantuan. Century old Arizona Tradition. Floats, marching bands, speeches, bicyles, men on horses, women on horses, kids on horses, even a Cocker Spaniel (all dressed up) riding a pony, people waving, people cheering, drums beating, all good. Goodwill to all men. Proud parents. Press. Photographers. Clap-clap-clap. CHEERS. All good.
The Sheriff called me. Ever the elected politician and Showman, he told me he wanted the helicopter in the parade, of course, but he wanted it done in a special manner. On a pre-arranged signal, just as the main body of the Parade was about to pass the steps of the reviewing stand, and all the dignitaries there were standing to attention, and at the very peak of the entire Parade, he wanted the helicopter to zoom in low, “nice and low and fast” is actually what he ordered. Oh, and be sure to “set off the siren as you pass us”.
Sure…
I loved my siren. Better even than that black rubber ball squeeze claxon on my little red tricycle I drove the neighbors crazy with. Loud and impressive. Any excuse. Can do. Will do. Yes, Sir.

Well…

I shiver at the memory. Even now. All these years later. Remember the dude peering furtively over the wall? Well, dammit, I was just obeying orders. Sure, here comes the helicopter. Low and fast as ordered. Along the main body of the parade. Perfect timing. Just as they are all passing the review stand. I see everybody looking up. The Sheriff, the Mayor, the local dignitaries, the Press, the good townsfolk, Uncle Billy, Aunt Susie, cousin Henrietta…
And I set off the siren.
WEEEEE-WAAAAAA-WEEEEEEE-WAAAAAAAA-WEEEEEEEEEE…

Have you ANY idea… what that sudden siren BLARING DOWN from the sky does to an orderly parade of sixteen dozen perfectly behaved horses? No? WELL I DO! I know EXACTLY. I can describe it you in glorious, three-D TECHNICOLOR. Bird’s eye view. Fukme, I do. Holy cow… Talk about bucking broncos. Adults and kids (and one Cocker Spaniel, wearing a Cowboy hat) landing unexpectedly on their butts. Parents mad. Organizers mad. Absolute pandemonium. Chaos. A million cop radios blasting into my headsets:
“TURN THAT SIREN OFF!” (YOU IDIOT…)
How in heck do I always MANAGE this shit!?
So… that dude peering over the wall? That was me, hiding behind the instrument panel, peering down in horror at what I’d just achieved. Me, and nobody else. Eyes bulging.

Just like the doodle we wrote as kids on all those toilet doors.

Francis Meyrick

The Mind of a Midget

Part 2: Moggy, the Comforter

I have tried hard in my little life to understand things. People, Belief Systems, the Meaning of Life. You know, trivial stuff like that. I’ve discovered long ago that I’m not real good at it. At all. I am often and intensely non-plussed by what goes on in the world, and I am often left perplexed by events in my immediate surroundings. You may wonder what I’m doing as a life long flying addict. Airplanes, Helicopters, aerobatics, night, NVG, mountains, jungle, North Sea, Tuna Boats, multi, Instruction fixed and rotary, Tail-Draggers, Biplanes, Tours, EMS… even Con-Air Prisoner Transport and SWAT Team support. With barely a scratch. A couple of bruises. On my forehead. From walking dozily into horizontal stabilizers and the like. I can look back on a varied and fun career, rarely dull, occasionally hair raising, with a host of bar-worthy anecdotes, and some truly spectacular stumbles on the Clumsy Side. If you wonder, heck, I wonder too. What else could I have been? I have often been told I should have been a Missionary, or a Preacher. Are you kidding me? And miss out on all those beautiful women? Or a Politician. A what? Is that a dig at my tendency to enjoy chattering? You saying I preach-talk too much? Frequent Answer: Yes. (but we do kind of derive some amusement from it)

Oh. I guess that’s alright then. (suspicious look from me) Hmmm…

Of my many areas in which I confess utter -pitiful- lack of understanding, it is in the area of woman I have often struggled to comprehend even the basic ideology. The Ground Rules. Women baffle me. They are somehow very different. Well, they used to be. These days, it gets even more confusing. It’s like femininity is under assault. In the old days, it was easy to tell ’em apart. One lot wore skirts, and the other lot wore baggy trousers. One lot wore facial hair, and the other lot wore lip stick, eye shadow and ear rings. One lot had big bulging biceps, scars and tattoos, and did Man’s Work. The other lot was petite, slim and slender, and did Woman’s Work. Well, you know where I’m going with this. Those distinctions have fallen away. In some parts, faster than elsewhere…

Thus I was in San Francisco, spending a night, flying Law Enforcement fixed wing, picking up prisoners who had been arrested under fugitive warrants. Lots of long range, single pilot IFR flying, all over the great and somewhat awesome US of A. Lots of happy sliding down Airways, and flying Instrument Approaches. From twenty-two thousand feet on Oxygen over the Rockies, to touching down in San Diego beside the Pacific, I sure saw America.

I had two customers to pick up at the local clink the following morning. I decided I would go and have a beer and explore the local wildlife. So, having changed out of my uniform, I ambled down to the reception in Motel 6 (we flew on a tight budget) and approached the night clerk.
He was a sour faced fellow, thin and lanky, chewing tobacco, stubble on his chin, cowboy boots and a weathered face. Whatever he had been doing in prior career, it had been outside a lot in the fresh air. I asked him, in my usual polite, soft spoken voice, if he knew if there was a good bar nearby. He looked up from some intense Cowboy Novel he was reading, and studied me coldly. Chewing thoughtfully, he inspected the goods, and then gave me some directions. He closed with the parting comment:

“I think you’ll enjoy that one…”

…and went back to his literary engagement. With the Cowboys and Indians.

I followed his directions, and duly ended up in this noisy beer hall, full of whoopee and music and chattering and laughter. Seemed just fine to me. I quietly slid up to the bar, smiled politely at the bar tender, and ordered myself a beer. Pretty soon, I was chatting away, the way I do, with the guy next to me. I enjoy chattering. Hell, I was born that way. I really believe everybody has a story to tell, and I know if I shut up long enough, I’ll get to hear it too. So time passed by, and he was joined by two of his buddies, and they joined in the conversation, and they insisted in buying me some drinks. Cool, I’m easy. They sure were interesting. The one guy wore make up, eye shadow, and false eye lashes. I couldn’t quite get over that. False eye lashes? A guy? Oh, well. He was very pleasant. The other guy wore studs all over the place. And safety pins. Why in heck’s name would you dangle a safety pin from your top lip? Wouldn’t that get in the way of your spare rib? Imagine trying to stuff Spaghetti Bolognaise down your throat, and this pin keeps catching-dangling on every mouthful? Yoo-hoo! Here comes a meat-ball…! (Oops…)

Sounds unhygienic. Imagine him trying to play the Harmonica!? I’m just saying. Could be ugly. I was dying to ask him about how he coped with metal detectors, but it seemed perhaps too personal. And the third guy had his top five buttons casually undone, on a very loose fitting embroidered T-shirt type thing, and his left tit was accidentally showing. Also with a safety pin through it, with a chain dangling from it. Weird. Oh, well. I guessed that must be the way they did things in San Francisco? But where were all the women? Oh, there’s a few over in the corner. Huh!? Something strange about them…? But before I could really rove my eye around the bar talent, somebody had bought me another drink, and I was drawn back into a conversation about living in San Francisco. And some music festival. Uh-huh. Did they have music festivals in Ireland? Sure! There’s a great one in Lisdoonvarna, and all the rich lonely heart past-their-peak females (Mutton masquerading as Lamb) from all over the world fly in there, to enjoy the live music, and see if they can perchance snare a young, good looking, text book, loving Old Country Irishman, fresh from communing with Rainbows, Pots of Gold, Leprechauns and Fairies. And all the lazy, good-for-nothing Irish young males, who have developed a grave distaste for getting up in the morning and joining the Plebs going to work, turn out with their hair just-so, and their fingers manicured, and the right after-shave, wearing just the right expression of naivety and innocence. It’s all a Grand game, I told them, but the music was fabulous.

Around about this time, it was getting on, and with a long flight in the morning, and an early start, I made noises announcing my departure. They seemed quite upset. Two of them hurriedly passed me their names and phone numbers, with supplications to please call anytime I was back in San Fran. Sure, I said, absently, stuffing their numbers in my wallet. I turned to leave, and with that this big bruiser two bar stools down, walked up and casually wrapped his arms around the dude with the loose fitting embroidered T-shirt ( and the tit showing), and then proceeded to ram his tongue right down matey-boy’s throat! Un-be-liev-able. I’d never seen that up close. Far-OUT. I thought the object of the bruiser’s affections would smack him in the face, and scream Holy Blue Murder, but no, he seemed to actually quite like it. Strewth. Next thing, the two of them were going at it like the clappers. It didn’t know you could have that much sex with your cloths still (mostly) on. NO inhibitions about being in public. Hell, no. Holy Smokes. At least now I figured out what the chain on the end of the safety pin was for. Fancy that. It must have taken some coordination, but in between the passionate exchange of oral fluids, going on noisily, the big bruiser was also yanking on the chain. Wow. I was trying to so hard keep my face straight, like I was used to this, no big deal, just another night down at the watering hole, but of course, I wasn’t. I had never seen that before in my life. A long way from boarding school in Holy Catholic Ireland, I’ll say. It seemed an opportune moment to cast a closer look around the bar. Maybe it was that time of the night, or a pre-arranged signal I (the uninitiated one) had missed, but all of a sudden, EVERYBODY was at it. All MEN. Holy Jemimah Puddleduck! I was in a MALE GAY BAR!

Sum-bitch…

I beat a polite (and hasty) retreat, (Warp Speed), and strode quickly back to the Motel 6, determined to address the Motel Receptionist firmly. What do you mean, you think I’ll enjoy that one?? What kind of statement was that!? You could at least have frickin’ WARNED ME! Is that how I strike you? Is that how I come across??
But him of the Western Novel had been relieved, so I never did get to vent my feelings, and I retired grumpily to bed, worrying about my image. Maybe I would just have to change my soft spoken style. Get some tattoos on my face, and learn to swear. Give up on shaving. No, that wouldn’t work. They all did that. What else? Stumble around in cowboy boots and bang some stupid wide brimmed hat off every narrow doorway? Feel like an idiot wearing it on my bicycle? Chew tobacco and go bull riding? Nah, I’d probably bust my butt the first time I tried. Nope, that didn’t seem appealing either.

Little did I know that some film makers were working on a blockbuster movie, that would go into History as the first and only movie to be instantly released all over the People’s Republic of China. No delay. No year long censorship. Just get it out there. Show ’em what stuff these Americans are made of. I never saw it, but it was called… let me think… Um. Hump the… Hump the… No. Oh, yes, Humped Back Mountain? Something like that.
* * * * *

But getting back to women, I mean, REAL WOMEN, you know, despite the occasional apparition down in Southern Louisiana’s coastal ports (scary man; facial hair, tattoos, weight lifter biceps, full set of teeth -maybe- in their pocket) (if you meet ’em in a dark alley, and they smile at you, all funny, RUN LIKE HELL) I really, really enjoy the company of women. I admire and respect them, and I think it was one of the Creator’s better ideas. A lot better than the day he dreamed up blood sucking mosquitoes. (I think He was mad at Eve that day) I know, the bit about Adam’s rib ticks the feminists off, so I shall head off any charge of sexism which is bound to be made about the perfectly true story that follows below, by saying that I unequivocally regard women as equal to men. Except. Brains. Definitely. No contest. No, no, you can stifle that roar of protest. It’s true. No contest. Women ARE SMARTER THAN MEN. After all, Michelle Obama says so. And we all know how brilliant SHE is. Right? Case closed by power of her Executive Opinion.

Anyway, it was a hot summer’s day in Africa. Turning and burning on an Oil and Gas platform. Even the steel deck was roasting hot, radiating heat up in waves of energy. I was sweaty. My back ached. My butt itched. I was living the Life. I had landed to pick up ONE passenger. The black Angolan HLO had already passed me the load manifest, but I hadn’t looked at it yet. I was still totting up the total of the previous flights. Five hours and… twenty three minutes already. Sixteen take-offs. Sixteen… landings. (Always good when # of landings = # of take-offs). The HLO came up to the cockpit again, and pointed questioningly: Front seat or back seat? Absently, I motioned to the seat beside me. Dozy bastard. He should know by now. ONE passenger ALWAYS goes in the front of a Bell 206. Casually, I looked at the manifest. One passenger. Weight. 425 pounds.

Huh!? How much?!?

A shadow blotted out the sun. A big shadow. A very, very (large), very nice lady was climbing with difficulty into the front passenger seat. Trying to. The insertion movement ceased. Half way in, half way out. She was paused. I smiled, nervously. That kind of “Welcome on board, Ma’am” smile. Only she wasn’t. On board. She was slowly turning a distinct color of red.

“I’m STUCK…”

Now, gimme a break here. Fuxsake. Stuck pedals? Oh, yes, reams of information. Nothing, nothing in our company Training Manual ever mentions how to deal with a stuck lady in the front passenger door of a Bell 206. There are no published Emergency Procedures. We never practice it. There is no three axis Simulator for it. Just go figure it all out yourself. But here I was, with a real live customer, the bread-and-butter of our daily grind, WEDGED by the (…) In my front left door. I confess. I panicked. I had no CLUE what the hell I was going to do.
Out of her sight, the black Angolan HLO hove into my view. As embarrassed as I was, he was laughing his sneakers off. He could afford to. It wasn’t HIS problem. It was mine. I motioned him. It was a futile kind of hand gesture. A kind of “Please Do SOMETHING…!” kind of futile gesture. Unruffled, he walked up, and carried out a close personal inspection. The Africans are different in some regards. Kind of much more down-to-earth in many ways. They don’t suffer from all the hang ups we Westerners do. Beckoning over two of his buddies, soon there were three of them inspecting the problem close up, laughing. I had no clue what they were going to do. I had no clue what could even be done, in a respectful and ethical and sensitive manner. And delicate.
No problemo to the Africans. I guess they just each chose one ginormous (…) for themselves, and simply…

SHOVED.

Can you imagine a couple of Pale Faces doing that? Happily? No worries? You grab this one, Jack, and I’ll grab t’other? Well, can you?
Well, it worked… Sorta, kinda. Only it worked too well. When she finally unstuck, like a cork out of a bottle, she erupted across the cabin, and her head, firmly, no exaggeration,(I SWEAR), no blogger’s dubious and remarkably tasteless imagination, no kidding, honestly, went straight down -deep- between my legs and the cyclic stick. Talk about being blown away. I was flabbergasted. Again, there is nothing in our company Training Manual about that. Other than hold tighly onto the cyclic and collective, eyes bulging, heart pounding, I didn’t know what to do. No, I wasn’t enjoying it. You can’t exactly grab a handful of hair and tug her head out. You have to wait. Until the nice lady, with much effort and panting, recovered her dignity. It took her a while. She was down there for some time.

Poor thing…

She was SO upset. SO apologetic. Almost in tears. My little Moggy heart totally went out to her. All I wanted to do was to comfort her, and relax her. I tend to feel desperately sorry for people, and I mean well, and then I get into more trouble. Lots more. As a landlord, it has cost me a fortune, but I still have to go and exercise some well meaning, but intensely blundering, gormless, streak of compassionate humanity that insists in making me feel sorry for people. My janitor, a tough old, Confederate Flag flying, rusty nail chewing, formidable Texas Madam in her sixties’, tries hard to keep me straight. Invariably, she is right, and they DO take advantage…

She was so upset, I would have given her a cuddle if I could have. Hard to do strapped in. People might get the wrong idea. Anything, just to take away the tearful voice, and the sad, mortally humiliated expression. Thus there followed, honestly, one of Moggy’s perfectly well meant, pure as the driven snow, gentle, but exceedingly clumsy attempts at comfort. Attempt at soothing.

It’s all right. Don’t cry. Don’t be sad. It’s all right.

Me (in a kindly tone of voice):
“Oh, don’t worry Ma’am. Happens to me all the time. I get it a lot. I kind of enjoy it.”

?????

The moment it was irrevocably OUT, I realized -Ohmigosh- that sounded ALL WRONG. And in fact, could be SERIOUSLY MISINTERPRETED. Talk about double-entendre. Oh, sh…

And in this manner, I spent a whole week losing sleep, worrying myself sick about my job. I was a relative new hire, and I wasn’t sure if she complained about me, that my (innocent, honestly) side of the story would be believed… What mental midget accidentally blurts out such STUPID? What if they decided I had just made a tasteless, smart Alec, deviant comment? I’d get FIRED. Why does this pudding-and-Yoghurt stuff always happen to ME? Now I’m in trouble. Again…

I never heard a thing more about it.

Phew… I guess she just blew it off.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 17, 2014, 10:46 am