Francis Meyrick

A Blip on the Radar (42B)

Part 2: The Peacemaker who tried

Our net boat bumped against the hull of the purse seiner, and a sailor, alerted by the noise of our arrival, poked his head over the side. He recognized me. I had worked a three month vacation spell there, covering for the resident pilot going on vacation.
(see “He not want to eat with crew”)
His face cracked into a grin. “Moggy!” he seemed pleased to see me. I smiled back. Soon I was on the way to the pilot’s cabin, guided by the friendly sailor. I didn’t need his directions, as I knew exactly where the pilot’s cabin was. I had lived there. It was a lonely eyrie in some ways, away up there on its own, just beneath the helideck. I knocked on the door, the friendly sailor still with me, beaming.
The door opened. Don stood there, expressionless. If he was surprised, it was a hidden emotion.
“Peace Offering!”, I announced. Big -huge- smile from me. I proffered the box of chocolates. If you are mid Ocean, heaved to on a quiet evening, how often do you get somebody knocking on your door with a large box of chocolates? Don was unmoved. Ignoring the offering, he just stared at me, with a cold contempt in his eyes. I was meant to be uncomfortable. But I wasn’t. Because part of me had expected it, and another part of me had seen that trick before. The silent stare, delivered with the stinging coldness of an Arctic blast. I had even blogged about that stare. (see The Burning Soldier, Part 1).

So not was I only not taken aback, or intimidated, or shocked, I was kind of saddened, but resilient. Hell, I had tried. No more could be done. Twenty seconds went by. I stood there, motionless, the gift offering extended. He stood there, silent, only those contempt laden eyes burning, or trying to burn, into me.

“Hey-ho!”, I said at last. “I tried.”

I turned around, and saw the friendly sailor’s face. His jaw hung open. His English might have been limited, but the intensity of the emotions had not escaped him. I promptly handed him the box of chocolates. He accepted them in astonishment, but his pleasure was great. For a crew member making $100 a month, this was a treasure indeed. I turned to Don, with a faint smile.
“Okay”, I announced, “while I’m here, I’ll go say hello to my old bird…”
And I strode off purposefully towards the ladder up to the helideck. Amazingly, Don suddenly found his power of speech.
“Oh, no, you don’t! What do you mean, coming here, all over my ship, sightseeing?”
I ignored him. He followed me, steaming alongside, becoming very agitated. Don was the judge who had seriously condemned me for a triple postage stamp sized area of corrosion I had missed. I was just curious how the great Guru’s machine looked, after months on the salty sea. Herding fish. Ducking around waves. He seemed to imply impending physical violence (which I ignored), and then he tried to block access to the ladder. But I was too quick for him.
Up I shot, still smiling.
Well… there is only one word to describe what I saw:

filthy.

Lots of triple postage sized areas of surface corrosion. Times ten. There was no excuse for it. The position of the ship’s stacks were not conducive to keeping the bird clean. But I had previously waged that war, and done pretty well. Don, obviously, had quit even trying. I walked around and around the helicopter. He followed me, steaming furious. At length, my inspection complete, and my suspicions confirmed (Don had severely lambasted the splinter in MY eye) (But ignored the BEAM in his), I looked at him steadily. He returned my gaze, insanely furious. Several comments knocked at my locked lips. But they were petty. Pay-back.

“Good night, Don”, was all I said. Quietly. With dignity. And then I left.

We motored back to my boat. I had my thoughts to myself.
I was sad, in some ways, that my mission had failed. Content, in other ways, that I had made the effort. I thought that was the end of it all. A closed book. Amen. Finito la Musica.

However… I think in that belief, I was maybe mistaken.

* * * * *

Small wonder then that at times I suppose I’ve tried to play Peacemaker when the odds seemed hopelessly stacked against me. I’ve often appealed to Reason, Compassion, Intellect, History, and gotten absolutely nowhere. Except perhaps to be perceived by some as a Pussy, an obsessive scribbler, to be ignored, mocked, or bulldozered over.
One such occasion sticks out in my tiny mind, not because I was successful or not in my Peace Making attempts, but because… I never could figure out the end result of that particular peace making effort. I’ll tell you the story, and let you decide.

It must have been… a year later. We were onshore. A whole bunch of us Tuna Heads. Partying. Whooping it up. Laughing. Telling stories.
All of a sudden, guess who headed purposefully across the room towards me. Mister Don. A momentary alarm in my mind ceased, when I saw he wore an altogether different expression. Kind of normal. No contempt.

“Moggy! Can I ask you something?”

“Sure!” I tried hard to hide my surprise. Just two old buddies talkin’…

“Does HOW mean GOOD in Chinese?”

“Yes”, I answered.

“And does POOH HOW mean BAD?”

“Yes”, I answered. I warmed to my theme. I loved Chinese. “And sometimes they say “SAYTEE” which means BAD as well. “And there are lots of other useful words to know. Like “strong wind” is PHONG TAY-TAH, and “many fish” is “ENTO NIAOW”, and, and…” But I saw I had lost his interest. The glazed look said it all. He thanked me politely for my Chinese lesson, and ambled off.

And that was it. After a decade on the Tuna Fields, Don had finally learned his first two words of Chinese. I think I had my first fifty by the end of the first week.

To this day, I marvel. Two-fold.

1) How can you isolate yourself for ten years from your fellow shipmates? And not feel the pain? Dude… You can enter any country, face any foreign language, and armed with those two words, GOOD and BAD, mixed with a sense of humor and an array of facial expressions and arm waving, you too can commune with your fellow man. And share. To me, his sojourn in that lonely cabin under the helideck, seems unspeakably tragic.

2) Did my chocolate box offering finally register? Did my peace making mission, after a delay, still yield dividends?

I, the naïve one, not very bright, and simple at heart, would like to believe so…

Peace.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 7, 2014, 12:45 am

THE PEACEMAKER WHO TRIED – Part 1

Part 1: Three Little Words

I don’t like fighting.
It seems such a primitive, savage, somewhat crude pastime. Whether it be physical, emotional, psychological or the result of business competitiveness taken to the extremes of what Testosterone charged males are capable of, I find it unsatisfying. Politics increasingly sickens me. Hubris. Shallow. Desperately destructive of Liberty. The end of America as many of us loved it. If you have not yet done so, I strongly recommend you take some time out, and read “The Road to Serfdom”, by Hayek.
Vain, arrogant, narrow-minded, often poorly educated busy-body politicians, who think (know) they know better than anybody else, and are perfectly prepared to inflict their will by fiat on you and me. And even if, deep down, they are not actually totally sure of the beneficial effects of their radical policies, the fact that they can defy the opposition, and beat the hated Other Side,and force their will through… ah, such a delight! Short term.

Eventually… Tragedy.

Small wonder then that at times I suppose I’ve tried to play Peacemaker when the odds seemed hopelessly stacked against me. I’ve often appealed to Reason, Compassion, Intellect, History, and gotten absolutely nowhere. Except perhaps to be perceived by some as a Pussy, an obsessive scribbler, to be ignored, mocked, or bulldozered over.
One such occasion sticks out in my tiny mind, not because I was successful or not in my Peace Making attempts, but because… I never could figure out the end result of that particular peace making effort.
I’ll tell you the story, and let you decide.

Entwined around this, is the oddball discovery I have made that I annoy the hell out of some people. I never quite could fathom why some people have taken what can only be called a furious stance against “that idiot Irishman Moggy, and his stupid manual”. There are plenty of pilots out there who support the safety project, and have enjoyed the scribbles, but there are also those who furiously and sneeringly rubbish it. The loud ones, it seems, are against, and the quieter ones, more thoughtful perhaps, studied it all before they ever even went tuna flying, and are wiser and happier for it. This is witnessed by the many positive emails I get. They tend to let the loud ones rant, and are amused by them.
I can’t say I lie awake about it. It doesn’t worry me, and only features very marginally on my radar scope. It’s a free product. If it’s not your cup of tea, fine. I have always said I will happily add input or critique at the bottom of any chapter. I don’t get much. You know you are cordially invited to pipe up if you think I’m wrong. So what’s with the hostility? Why would you go onto a forum and claim that the information is mostly wrong, and outdated? Why dissuade more vulnerable new pilots from reading it? One such detractor occupies the position of hiring new tuna pilots for a major employer. You would think he would be concerned about their sky-high accident and fatality rates…

I have come to the conclusion that it’s mostly caused by the fact that I simply don’t share their values. That makes me, in their eyes, not just an irritant. It seems the way it works with little humans is that somebody who, however unwittingly, challenges your cherished beliefs, or your de facto assumptions, becomes, over time, a threat. A threat? Yes. A threat to what, you might reasonably ask. Ah… I hoped you wouldn’t ask that. The question is easier than the answer.

People strive for objectives, and their efforts are sometimes pretty clearly selfish, materialistic, greedy, or just plain silly. Thus, by way of example, it was with one of the most ignorant and boorish tuna helicopter pilots I ever encountered. I’ll call him Brandon. Brandon was a big boy. Very big. He could have lost a few pounds. Or eighty. Brandon worshipped 1) money. And 2) food. That’s all. Those were his twin Gods. He indulged in accumulating the former with a ferocious obsession, cutting every corner he could, legal or not, with a dedication bordering on religious fanaticism. If he told us once, he told us twenty million times, with passion and much arm waving, how he had passed though Australian Customs with twenty thousand dollars cash hidden in his boots. His eyes would shine each time he told that story, and it was clear that he was describing the ultimate orgasm of his personal Faith.
As regards eating, he simply pained us with his table habits. He would talk (constantly) (mostly about himself) with his mouth full, he would burp and fart, serve himself greedily before everybody else, wolf his food like he was coming off the Ramadan fast (not likely), and generally was a most unwelcome guest at any table. In terms of sensitivity, he possessed none. In his mind, he was a brilliant pilot, an excellent businessman, and a star with the Sheilahs. No contest. He was also a bit of a bully. Having caught a Korean in his cabin one day, he had beaten and kicked the small Asian black and blue. For many minutes. So much so that the little Asian had not emerged from his cabin for several days. Again, we got that story from Brandon re-told proudly over and over in glorious Technicolor, like the ultimate triumph of Right over Wrong. The poor match in size and strength between Brandon and a small little Korean did not seem to cross his dim mind. Nor did he ever pause to think that he was lucky to be alive. A tuna boat is a bad place to get into a fight. Many of the crew may be family, from the same little village. Lots of knives and stakes lying around…

Into this cocoon of Brandon’s comfortable (high) self esteem, stepped a renegade Irishman. I confess, I didn’t like Brandon. A lot of us didn’t. But that’s no excuse, I should have exercised more tolerance. I guess. Anyway, you can imagine the lead balloon. Take one busy restaurant. Lots of pilots and mechanics at the table, eating. And Brandon. Wolfing food, burping, farting, and telling us all how great he was. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Hey Brandon! Can I buy you a beer?”

He paused, a truly gargantuan mouthful of spaghetti and meatballs trailing down his amply stained chin. He was unable to talk, but he nodded in the affirmative, his little Wolf eyes studying me with minor puzzlement.
I wasn’t in the habit of buying him a beer.
I signaled the waiter, and in due course the offering arrived. The waiter gave the beer to me. I weighed it in my hand, reflecting on the wisdom of my intended course of action. I decided the intended course was unwise.
But, what the heck…

“Hey Brandon! YOU EAT LIKE A PIG!”

Boom. Shocked silence.
“Here’s your beer!”
And I passed him the grog.

* * *
*
Brandon, of course, never forgave me, and then some, and I’m sure he is still somewhere, amassing money, calories, and admirers. I also doubt if he will recommend “Moggy’s Tuna Manual” to you.
Too bad.
The point of this rambling anecdote is not to show how easy it is to get on somebody’s shit list, but more to figure out why other people could have said something similar, and gotten off with it. But once I had said what everybody knew, I was forever the villain of the piece. He hated me with a vengeance from then on.

My theory is that I somehow challenge some people’s self esteem. I rattle their little world. Amongst other hobbies, I was in the habit of poking fun at Brandon’s obsession with Money. I see it as a tool. Not and end in itself. To people like Brandon, Money is everything, and they will go to any lengths to amass it. Legal or illegal, moral or immoral, ethical or unethical. I see it as a means to an end, to be treated with caution and respect, but you are not going to take it with you, and it’s not worth compromising yourself to get the bloody stuff. There are more important considerations and questions in Life.

If those five little words (“YOU EAT LIKE A PIG”) got me into long lasting trouble, on another occasion, with another tuna pilot, I managed it with only three…

* * * *

What happened was that I was sailing into a famous scuba diving port, and there was also a ton of work due on my helicopter. My boss, very wisely, decided to send down an experienced mechanic to help me. I was glad of the assist, and in due course, up shows a chappie I’ll call Donald. Don was… a little different. Without a doubt, Don was a good pilot, and a good mechanic. He had many years in the Tuna Fields under his belt, and knew his way around a Hughes 500 helicopter. All of us have our quirks and short comings, and Don’s Dark Side was… well, shall we say his patience on a scale of one to ten was minus twenty. His ‘people skills’ with the Taiwanese (who he seemed to despise) was minus thirty-three-and-a-half,and his judgment on matters of other people’s property left something to be desired. It’s not good when you arrive on a strange boat, and Oriental people (who are usually very courteous) greet you in a friendly manner, and you reciprocate by flinging them a filthy scowl. I’d never worked with Don before, and I was astonished at the way he seemed to equate foreigners not understanding him, with the foreigners’ lack of intelligence and breeding. I got along real well with all our crew, and I had mastered some five hundred plus words of Chinese. (Well, mastered… there had been a few classic clangers in that department, which are described elsewhere). I was pained at the way he treated the crew. Abrasive. Condescending. Impatient. Sneering. We were off to a bad start before we climbed up to the helideck, on a blazing hot, windless, equatorial day. Then we started work on the helicopter, and I suffered inwardly through Don’s explosive temper tantrums. I bit my bottom lip. I bit my top lip. I bit my tongue. I heaved, and lifted, and pushed, and pulled. I did my best. Not good enough for Don. I copped it. For all sorts of things. Including a tiny triple postage stamp area of corrosion developing, that I had missed somehow. He gave me undiluted hell over that. The rest of the helicopter was gleaming, but never a kind word or compliment about that.
It was a miserable time. It got worse and worse. At one stage, something wasn’t going the way he wanted, and he flipped out. He literally threw a wrench (which he had borrowed from the ship’s engine room without asking the Chief Engineer) right over the top of a ship moored alongside us. It was actually a spectacular throw. Olympic gold medal winner. Awesome. It almost achieved L.O.E. (low earth orbit).
It sailed through the air, and just cleared the bridge of the neighboring Korean purse seiner. If we had broken one of their windows… international incident. I bet that would have taken some explaining. Then it clattered noisily onto the opposite stone quay side. Then, blow me down, he ordered ME to go and fetch it! That was enough, and I called for a time out. I said he could jolly well go and fetch it himself, and I was going down for a cool drink. Thank you. Bye. Back in fifteen minutes, When YOU have cooled down. And fetched that wrench. That we NEED to finish this job. Uh-huh.
(Sigh)
And so forth, and so on. What a day. When we needed some other tool, he disappeared for a while. What I didn’t know (until a few days later) was that he had gone down into the engine room, picked out a tool he fancied, collared some Taiwanese crew member who could weld, and CUT and CHOPPED the ship’s tool to his requirements (no permission asked!), thus rendering it unfit for the original purpose for which it was kept on board ship. I didn’t realize that until the day, dumbfounded, I was shown the mangellated, destroyed, now useless tool by a very, very irate Chief Engineer. Outstanding. How to make enemies and instantly totally piss orf everybody. Who needs friends, anyway? Bizarre behavior. I wasn’t aware of that modification-of-somebody-else’s property at the time, but the long, miserable, hot, sticky, humid day could not come to an end soon enough for me. Sure, Don was a good mechanic. Much more knowledgeable and skilled than I was. I had been to A+P school, and I was the proud owner of an A+P License, and I meant well. I just didn’t have anywhere near his experience.

Don was typical of many people who achieve proficiency in a particular field: he had forgotten where he came from. In his mind, he had bounced straight into brilliance. Never a trainee, never a raw recruit, never an acolyte. Instead, a Master from the git go. I have seen many people, in all walks of life, exhibit this same, rather odd trend. They hate being lectured, yelled at, talked down to, and generally humiliated for their lack of knowledge or skill. It rankles them. Frustrates them. So what do they do, once the years have passed, and they have gained knowledge from their teachers, and from their job experience? Why, what else do you think they do? They lecture their students, yell, talk down, and generally humiliate their charges.
Hmmm… What’s wrong with this picture?

It was towards the end of that truly horrible day, and towards the end of my tether, that I finally uttered the three words. For which I was to pay. Dearly. For years. All I said (after he had snarled at another Taiwanese, for the dumb Chink’s lack of English) (note the dumb Chink’s English was far better than Don’s Chinese)… All I said was:

“Don, I have to tell you something…”

He glared at me.

“…your ATTITUDE SUCKS.”

Three little words.

Boom. I felt better. Got it out of my system. His reaction floored me. He dropped his tools, jumped down, and confronted me. Livid. Red face. Beyond furious. Fists raised. Eyes blazing.

Are you KIDDING me?

We’re standing on a helideck, perched on top of the bridge, with no railing, and you want to go ten rounds with me? And crash us both twenty feet onto the steel deck below? I remember surprise mixed with dread. That would have been one helluva bad place to get into a fight. If there is such a thing as good place. Carefully, I kept my hands by my sides, and shook my head.

Nope. I ain’t fighting you, and I’m going for a walk. Bye.

The knife edge moment passed, and that was it. He departed, in really bad grace, and I heaved a sigh of relief. In fact, the whole ship heaved a collective sigh of relief. Everybody was truly sick of him. If only we can see ourselves as other see us. Before we express judgment, maybe try the mirror? I don’t know, the whole experience was downright weird.

Months went by.

I had some good friends out there, and it wasn’t long before I got a steady trickle of feedback.

“Hey, Moggy! What did you do to piss orf Don? He’s mad as hell with you!”
Me: “I guess I told him his attitude sucks, and he didn’t like it…”

I could (maybe should) have left it there, but the frustrated Peace Maker in me nibbled at my conscience. I resolved to at least try and make the Peace. I was advised by buddies to not even try. Deep down, I felt I was probably wasting my time. But, in my own gormless, kind of simple way, I regretted our falling out. Maybe I should have… Maybe I could have…

It all boiled down to being tired of fighting. I’d seen and experienced enough already in my tiny little life. I was willing to make the effort.

Then, unexpectedly, one night, we hove to, hunkering down for the night, and there, in the distance, I saw Don’s boat, similarly parked up for the night. Time for a peace mission. I got the Fishing Master’s permission, and borrowed a crew member and a net boat. I gathered up a peace offering (a large box of chocolates, if I remember right) , and we proceeded to chug across the middle of the restive Pacific Ocean. It was a half mile trip, quite a bit of spray, and I clung on grimly. What reception I would get, I didn’t know.

But, in my own naïve, simple hearted way, I had to try…

Francis Meyrick

(to be ctd)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 6, 2014, 11:51 pm

“I always do a good pre-flight. Always. Yep. I’m good…”

A Blip on the Radar

Part 41: Dropping a Missile

I soloed some forty four years ago. If there is one thing I (might) have learned by now, it’s that we always seem to do stupid sheeee stuff. No matter how hard we try, no matter how long you make the checklist, (which is often COUNTER-productive), no matter how many bells, whistles, caution lights, sirens, and bull whips you apply… somewhere, some pilot, is going to find a real neat and unique way of circumventing your handiwork, and f@#king it up.
Occasionally, YOU do it yourself. You kind of pull a stunt, and you look back at what you did, and you kind of scratch your head.
On both sides. Like…
How in hell? Did I manage THAT neat trick…?

* * * * *

I was changing out a turbine on a Hughes 500, mid Ocean.
On my little ownsome.
Not a small job. For me, being an inexperienced A&P mechanic, a BIG job. But I was getting there. Slow-ly but stead-ily. The old one came OUT. The new one was going IN… and I was busy hooking up all the peripheral crap that goes with it.
Fuel Control. Governor. Starter-Generator. It took me a while.
I must have walked around and around the helicopter a couple of hundred times. Then I got to ground run it. It fired up immediately. All the gauges were in the green. After a few minutes, I shut down. Walked back, leak check. Looking over everything. Very carefully. Good. It was time for lunch. After tsuh-wann, I would be going for a test flight.
Here’s two photos of my bird, one above and one here, and you can see the radio buoy in its cradle. Notice the “ring ” just ahead of Sunshine’s knee, through which the whip antenna goes.

In full view, as they say. In the other photos you can also see the ropes used to attach it at the front. Those are the ropes that the observer would pull, to drop the radio buoy, bottom first, across a promising log. The long aerial itself would then slide neatly out of the rear retaining loop. All under control. Voila. Job done.
After lunch, I climbed up to the helideck for a thorough preflight. Thorough. You know, looking for trouble. It all looked great. I fired up, ran her up, and pulled pitch. Beautiful. Nice take-off, all well. I flew around the place for a while, all pleased with myself. To be a pilot-mechanic gives you an even closer bond with your machine I think. I noticed a net boat being launched, and vaguely wondered why they were doing that.

I landed, big grin, thumbs up from the Fishing Master and the crew. Damn, I did good. Perfect job. What a feller.
It was the radio Operator who took me aside. And explained to me that I had dropped a bomb. A missile. What? What are you on about?
I had dropped the radio buoy… really dropped it… Big Splash… After take-off.
Slowly, my satisfaction, indeed exhilaration, faded.
And was replaced. With a quiet horror.

I climbed back up to the helideck, alone. And pondered the event.
The radio buoy, in flight, was always mounted with the heavy base (bottom) suspended beneath the front starboard undercarriage leg. Hanging as it were in mid air. The long (12 to 14 feet) whip of the aerial ran backwards, through a small locating ring. (This was different from my old Bell 47, where there the buoy was laid out along the top of the float)
Now this is where it gets tricky for me to describe to you the next step in this potentially lethal fiasco.
The observers were in the habit of always untying the front (heavy end), and resting the heavy bottom end of the radio buoy on the steel deck. This was to relieve the bending pressure on the whip aerial, from being suspended all night long from only two supporting points. I knew that. It was plain to see. The ropes would just be slackened off, immediately after landing, and the radio buoy would rest, in full view, top of the whip still through the narrow ring at the rear of the helicopter, and heavy front base on the deck, ropes loose. Get the picture? Standard procedure. In plain sight. Easy to see.
Now during the turbine change out, I had spent HOURS walking around the helicopter. Passing by the plain-as-daylight-to-see radio buoy in its resting position. Half in its flying position, half not.
Well…
You get the picture maybe? Test flight coming up. All excited. Careful pre-flight. Blade tie-downs removed. Aircraft tie-downs removed, and strapped horizontally to the deck, where I can see them. And avoid the terrible dangers described elsewhere of the short-lived attempted take-off with the right rear tie-down still attached.

Good boy, Moggy. Take a bow. Damn, you are good.

Hum-hum. Fire it up. Gauges all green. Sounds good. Pull in power slowly and steadily. She picks up on her gear, the way the Hughes 500 does. All frisky and ready to fly. Another collective nudge…
Way-hay! Here we go…!
Over the edge, and off into the sky. Wholly unaware of the missile departing the helicopter, and bombing from some height neatly into the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

Wheeeee…. Splash!

Hence the net boat sent to retrieve it.
Now work out the cold, hard geometry of this…

1) There is a six inch lip on the edge of the helideck. How did the heavy base, being pushed forward across the deck like a wheel barrow, clear that lip? I have no idea. What would have happened if it had not done so?

2) What angle did the whole whip antenna go to, relative to the horizontal? How close did the upward pivoting tip come to the main rotor disc? Before gravity caused it to start slipping down and out of the ring? Hell, I have no idea.

3) In how many different ways could this have been simply catastrophic? The radio buoy catching off something, somewhere, somehow, and causing me to imitate a short-lived take-off with the right rear tiedown still attached? Pirouetting around maybe, and going through the tail rotor? I have no idea.

The more I pondered the different ugly possibilities, the more I saw how I had been fastidious on my pre-flight inspections, always, and had fallen into a tight and disciplined (inflexible) routine. Good and bad.
Bad, because normally I was responsible for everything, EXCEPT securing the radio buoy before flight. The observers always did that. Ah, wrong, I was actually RESPONSIBLE, but I abdicated the physical action to another.
What had happened to my oft repeated self admonishment:
“It’s either ALL ON, or ALL OFF “.
I had mixed up the two. Routinely.

In this way it was possible to fall victim to a tiny change in routine. This time, I was going alone, without my usual observer, and I was pre-occupied with the new turbine installation I had just performed.
I therefore failed to see the obvious, that I had walked and stepped around a million times.
Now stop there. All of a sudden, think of all the judgmental helicopter forum types, who make snooty and condescending comments about “dumb-asses” who do stupid shit? Firing up with blades tied down, straps on, cowlings unlatched, engine plugs still inserted? That awful sucking sound? Rolling over, crashing, spoiling careers and hurting egos? That awful (Oh, F#@K!) moment…? There’s always some self appointed blithering Sky God on hand to pooh-pooh the fallibility of humanity. Because after all, HE is so F#@K’n perfect.

The REAL old pro’s do NOT make those nasty comments. Unless they are total retards. Or in so-called Management. They are -mostly- a whole lot more sympathetic. Because they know damn well that you can rack up twenty years of accident free flying, and then BLOT IT in a terrible three seconds of “Oops”…

So, I had F%#ked up again. Older, uglier, perhaps a tad wiser. Maybe.
I had a quiet beer by myself.

Resolving, like I often resolved, to be more humble in the future.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 27, 2014, 10:49 am

A Blip on the Radar

Part 40: The Duel

Of all the duels I have fought, including a strange, oddball jousting session with another helicopter, and sundry other Testosterone indulgence events, the one that comes to mind tonight is one I lost. My opponent, more resourceful than I, although knocked backed against the ropes, recovered quite artistically. And made a monkey out of me. He won. He survived. I, forced to admit defeat, to this day remain awed by an intelligence that I had not expected.

It all started on a Taiwanese tuna boat, somewhere, lost in the middle of that great puddle they call the Pacific. After a feverish day’s fishing and flying, the crew would be in their cabins, sleeping or watching dubious or sadistic videos. Violence and brutality somehow elevated to popular entertainment. I struggle with that concept.
Only one man, unable to sleep, would pace the decks, and ponder.
I walked, restlessly, for hundreds of miles. It was my exercise, as well as a soliloquy within my thoughts, and a nightly pilgrimage, rambunctious, but feeling, through the Universe. I would walk the entire length of the ship. And the entire length of the Milky Way galaxy. Climb up to the helideck. Back down again. Or pace the lower working deck. For miles and miles. The stars would come out, the odd satellite would whizz across, and my tiny thoughts would ricochet off the cliffs of the Great Mysteries. Tiny thoughts. Puny. But, in their own way, indefatigable. I was always at it. Asking questions. Reading. Scribbling. Probing. Pushing the limits of my awareness. Passing dust clouds and quasars, nebulae and dwarf suns. Asking questions, ceaselessly. Like:

Hello up there… Yoo-hoo!…. hey! what the blazes… is going on out there? Anybody home?

Occasionally, I would practice my football skills. It was good exercise. Improved my foot to eye coordination. Lacking a football, and a suitable enclosure, I turned the game on its head. I just watched for a suitable monster cockroach, slithering out after dark. A deft little dribble, careful aim, and a graceful kick was usually all it took. And one Jumbo cockroach would be totally surprised, and sail gracefully through the air. Over the side, out across the waiting waves.

Wheee-eeeee-eeeeee…
Splash!
GOAL!

And I would continue my soiree. The eternal perambulation. The never ending soul searching.
Mostly, the cockroaches sank. I noticed that occasionally they tried manfully to swim. But usually they just went around in feeble, diminishing circles. Sometimes too, the tiny splash attracted the attention of a predator. And a dark shadow would flit across to investigate…
The cockroaches were relentless in their procreation. Randy little buggers. I would kick hundreds off the deck every week, and I became very proficient at the stealth approach. My opponents were wary, and if they saw you coming, they would move off to hide at Chinese warp speed. But despite my efforts, the overall population seemed quite unaffected. Thousands of them would foolishly make their home in the huge purse seiner nets, stowed on the stern. You could hear a cacophony of strange clicking noises if you walked past. I guess they were dining luxuriously on fish scraps. And procreating merrily, oblivious of their imminent watery fate when next the Fishing Master screamed “Let Go!” It was then that the hydraulics would release the net boat, which would slide down the ramp into the water. The nets would play out furiously, unwinding and unfolding in a rapid blur. Cockroach Armageddon…
But even the net denizens’ sudden and spectacular parting made no difference. The cockroaches were always there, at night, accustomed to having the decks to themselves. Only I disturbed their routine, preying incessantly on the unwary roach. Usually, I won the game. Occasionally, I wasn’t quick enough, or I simply missed. Then the roach got the last laugh. But, mostly, I controlled the playing field. Proudly, as an emperor, I surveyed my lands, and kicked any rebellion overboard. Homage to the Great One!
Until that night…

That was the night I became aware of another Intelligence. A degree of knowing, and cunning adaptation, that I had totally underestimated.
It started out as routine. A nocturnal rambling, and a sudden sight of a large roach in my path. I dribbled up, he twisted, I feinted, he dashed, I cut him off… a swift kick… and there he went, in a smooth, sailing arc, off the side, plummeting towards the waters below.

Wheee-eeeee-eeeeee…
Splash!
GOAL!

I paused at the rail, and watched my victim struggle to the surface. I confess I felt no compassion. That was another living creature, doubtless alarmed and considerably upset at the unexpected turn of events, but I cared not.
Drown, you little bugger. Croak. Hell if I care…
He struggled to swim. The ship was not moving. We were drifting, with small waves lapping against the hull. He started out swimming in a circle. But then, it was as if he figured something out. The ship… lay that-a-way. He struck out, purposefully. But it was a long swim. I watched, coldly. It seemed impossible he should make it. I settled down and watched. After ten minutes, he was half way. Pretty impressive. At one stage, a dark shadow, swift and deadly, fleeted right up to him. Observed. And decided against. Roachie-baby was lucky. The shadow of Death passed on.
After fifteen minutes, he had reached within touching distance of the ship’s hull. But now the gentle swaying of the ship worked against him. Every time he tried to get a pincer hold on the cold, uncaring steel, the motion of the ship, coupled to the splash of wavelets, conspired to defeat him. He would be knocked off and away again, struggling roachfully to overcome each setback. If I was a betting man, I would have bet against him. But he overcame. Remarkable. After what seemed an eternity, he had a firm leg hold on the side of the ship, just above the splashing water line. He had made it. Awesome.
Now came the long climb up the side. He had to be tired, after his epic swim. He rested frequently. But up he came. Watched only by his callous tormentor, in the shadows. Tough little roach. Onwards he came. It seemed another eternity, before he swung his tired team of legs over the edge of the deck. There he paused, and you could sense his intense relief. Subliminally, spiritually, through some Universal language we speak but do not know, I sensed his exhaustion. It had been a bad day. But it was getting better. Here, he could relax for a second. Get his breath back…
Big mistake.
I had debated mercy. In recognition of his raw guts. His bravery. That was a plucky roach, if ever I had kicked one overboard. But, mercy… had lost the debate. Fukkit, he was just a roach, and he didn’t matter.
Erupting out of my hiding place amongst the dark shadows, I pounced, he twisted, I feinted, he dashed, I cut him off… a swift kick… and there he went, in a smooth, sailing arc, off the side, plummeting towards the waters below.

Wheee-eeeee-eeeeee…
Splash!
GOAL!

I paused at the rail, and watched my victim struggle to the surface a second time. I confess I felt no compassion. That was another living creature, doubtless alarmed and considerably upset, (and now really pissed off) at the unexpected turn of events, but I cared not.
Drown, you little bugger. Croak. Hell if I care…
But I watched. Same-same. Repeat performance. A truly epic struggle against overwhelming odds. And can you believe this: the little bugger made it all the way back to the ship again. Again. Despite the waves that threw him back, that thwarted him, that toyed with him. Despite the fleeting shadows, that encircled him several times, observed, decided against, and swam on. Despite every obstacle and danger, our plucky little roach swam on. And made it.
And there he paused. Eight feet or so above the waterline. Looking up. Measuring the long climb up the side. Observing me, keenly. I could see his twin antennas moving intently. I could sense the beady fixation of his gaze. Minutes went by. He had climbed no more than eight or ten of the twenty five feet. But he was paused. Unnaturally. Observing. Twin antennas going. Brain working. Mind calculating. Keenly aware…of me.
By now I had invested at least thirty minutes of my Life in tormenting this cockroach. I was unable to tear myself away. It was personal now. This was a duel to the finish.
I, the tormentor, the cruel Emperor, I waited. He, the lowly one, watched me.
It was as if I could sense the intensity of his stare. That he wasn’t pleased with me, surprised me not. That he hated me, with a furious intensity, I found unlikely. A roach making it personal? They aren’t smart enough for that, are they? Dirty, low cast creatures. Vermin. Useless.

Then he did something that amazed me. He turned around. A one-eighty. And headed purposefully back down. Towards the waves.
Huh!?
I wondered what he was up to. Suicide? Or had he fallen into madness?
Nope. There was a porthole down there. A window, onto one of the lower cabins. The crew had bunks down there. Carefully, my cockroach adversary circumnavigated the entire port hole. Looking for a way into the cabin, apparently. Defeated in this attempt, he then proceeded ten feet horizontally along the swaying hull, rocking back and forwards, and inspected a second port hole. Repeating the entire performance, unable to find an access, I could sense him reluctantly tearing himself away. And proceeding, unbelievably, another ten feet horizontally along the hull, to a third porthole. Here, his labors were rewarded. And he found his opening. His escape. From his cruel tormentor, lying in wait above him. He passed inside, but not before he paused, and gave me a long, searching look. Again, I could see his twin antennas moving thoughtfully, and I could sense the intensity of his beady eyes transfixed on the hated silhouette above him.
Long seconds passed, and I knew he was thinking. I sensed the intensity of his feelings. If he had enjoyed the luxury of fingers, I’m sure he would have solemnly flipped me the bird.
And then he was gone. Inside. The victor of a drawn out duel.
Awesome intelligence…

* * * * * *

They say… that the next World War will cause World War Four to be fought with sticks and stones. That the risks of wholesale human extinction by nuclear brinkmanship, possibly allied with religious extremism, is higher now than ever before. They say that only the (useless?) cockroaches may survive. Somehow, I can believe it.
They say… that all Life is part of a Great Universal Life Force. That there are no two things in this Universe. I wonder if that is true, as well.
They say… there are beings so much more enlightened than we are, so much more compassionate and pure, so much more advanced and harmonious, so much more peace loving and in tune with the Life Forces of the Universe, that, to them, we humans are mere (useless?) cockroaches. To be shunned, and avoided, and given a wide berth.

* * * * * *

I walked, restlessly, for hundreds of miles. It was my exercise, as well as a soliloquy within my thoughts, and a nightly pilgrimage, rambunctious, but feeling, through the Universe. I would walk the entire length of the ship. And the entire length of the Milky Way galaxy. Climb up to the helideck. Back down again. Or pace the lower working deck. For miles and miles. The stars would come out, the odd satellite would whizz across, and my tiny thoughts would ricochet off the tall cliffs of the Great Mysteries. Tiny thoughts. Puny. But, in their own way, indefatigable. I was always at it. Asking questions. Probing. Pushing the limits of my fragile awareness. Passing dust clouds and quasars, nebulae and dwarf suns. Asking questions, ceaselessly. Like:
Hello up there…. Yoo-hoo!…. hey! what the blazes… Is going on out there? Anybody home?

I shake my head. I know nothing.
But give me some credit, please, you Great Beings Above.

For I am the cockroach who just would not quit…

Francis Meyrick

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 19, 2016, 6:03 am