Francis Meyrick

Hitting the Vertical

I love(d) aerobatic flying.
Give me an aerobatic fixed winger, preferably a biplane, a full tank of gas, a quiet sky, and I’m in Heaven.
Mind, it won’t be quiet much longer. The propeller tips, reaching almost supersonic speeds in a screaming, balls out dive, combined with the vibrant hum of wind rushing past and strumming the flying wires, will soon fix Quiet. Not to mention two hundred foaming ponies giving it their all, hoofs on the gallop, manes flying, and eager heads straining forward.
Faster… faster.

I slowly learned. I did some really, really stupid stuff. A mixture of naivety, inexperience, youthful exuberance. I flew competitions, and I flew air shows. It’s easy to start thinking you are pretty good. Pretty damn good. The (healthy) cure for this is to go fly at a seriously competitive level. I don’t mean the local get together at Jo Blop’s Friendly Farm, where the Cessna 150’s mix it with the Citabria doing funky loops. I mean a well run aerobatic competition, with experienced, trained judges. Often highly experienced pilots themselves.

In my first ever competition, I flew a Stolp Starduster, with a fixed pitch prop. I thought, modestly, that I did pretty damn brilliant. Oddly, I finished dead last. One of the judges was a retired Airline Pilot. He was super nice, positive, and encouraging. An Old Boy, big old handlebar mustache, warm, ruddy smile. He sat down afterwards with me, and taught me how they judge. What they watch for. The loops. Are they round? Really round? It’s harder than you think. Your airspeed is changing all the time. So you can’t just haul back on the stick…

Wheeeeee…

…and around you go. Perfect loop…

It just doesn’t work that way. I asked him about my loops. He drew them for me. What I thought was a (ahem!) brilliant loop, certainly felt like a (brilliant) loop from my perspective. Going up, over, and down. But it actually demonstrated some serious technical errors and imperfections. He drew it for me. I found myself looking at this weird shape. It was like a circle, with the vertical middle portion missing. Meaning, I flew it up, lost my airspeed, kind of flopped over backwards over the top, and then accelerated down again. More like a symmetrical egg shape.
A rugby football, standing vertical.

Oh! Now that’s interesting…!

My friendly tutor had now opened up a whole new world for me. Little did I know how much flight time I would be spending pursuing my new obsession in the years to come. Round… loops. Perfectly flown. I never knew there was such a thing. I thought a loop was a loop, was a loop. And if I could fly a loop, I was right up there with the best of them. Not so…
Hm…
Then Old Mustache Face taught me about “drawing the vertical line”.
He was one of those aerobatic judge/teachers who loved his field. He positively enjoyed drawing vertical lines on a piece of paper, more or less vertical lines, and vertical lines with the top bit all funky, and explaining to me what they watched for, and how to increase your score as a competition pilot. It was all about hitting the vertical just right. From straight and level flight, balls out, pulling back smoothly, straight up into the vertical. The real vertical. The true vertical. Not the slightly off, lop sided vertical, with the funky bit near the top….
Oh, no, the REAL McCoy.
Hmmm…
Now that was interesting. I remember walking off with a new found bounce in my step, the happiest pilot who ever came in dead last in an aerobatic competition. A whole new world had been opened up to me, courtesy of my friend the Judge. There are a lot of good people like that in Airplanes…
So now, I was off to practice. And I practiced. And I practiced. And I got nowhere. I knew it wasn’t quite right, because when I tried rolling around the vertical (performing a slow aileron roll whilst keeping to the vertical) the trailing edges of my wings were all lopsided and cock-eyed relative to the horizon. (I was sitting behind the trailing edge). I knew I was just not hitting the vertical perfectly. So I practiced more. And more. No good. Frustrating.
Then I did something I should have done way sooner. I enlisted the help of some flying buddies, as ground observers. Pilots all, they obligingly parked themselves in the control tower, as I zoomed down the runway, and lofted up on my first attempt.

Zooooommmmm…

The radio crackled. There was laughter in the background.
“Not even close!”
?????
Really?
“Nah, you are a good fifteen degrees off the vertical!”
??????
Wow. No wonder it was all a mess.

With the guys talking me through it, I soon closed the gap. I learned that you are on the vertical, when you feel like you are actually leaning over backwards. Weird, but true. Of course, now progress was fast. I took a break for coffee and bullshit, gassed up, and roared back up again. After several near perfect vertical lines, as judged by my buddies, I went around for the Ultimate Test:

A vertical slow roll. A 360 degree aileron roll, same constant rotational speed, without losing that precious vertical line.

Down the runway… build the speed… hit the vertical…
ROLL LIKE BUGGERY….
Amazing. For the first time I had that neat sense of my wing trailing edges neatly flying in formation with the horizon. The nice, parallel arrangement of my trailing edges with the flat horizon no longer wandered and spilled over into a confusing visual mess. Perfect symmetry. The perfect vertical slow roll. Real cool.
I did a few more, and landed for more coffee, ecstatic with myself. I might not be an ace, but (Hey!) I’m getting better!

It was while we stood chatting, hangar talk, that I remembered my friendly Judge talking about something else. Another important point they scored on. The positioning of the roll. The judges wanted to see the roll neatly executed in the middle of the vertical line. For maximum points.
I had to ask: “Oh, errr… did I place the roll correctly in the middle of the vertical line?”
I would have put money on it that I had done so. Quite a bit of money.
“Nah!”, said a chorus of voices. “No, it was always about one third of the way up or so…”.

Sheez…Rats!

Back to more practice…

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 4, 2013, 11:55 am

One Midnight in the Departure Hall

Luanda Airport, Angola

Some stories are better left untold.
I’ve been telling myself that about this story for years. However, it’s like a bed bug. It keeps reminding you that it’s around. You can pretend all you like, but it’s there, and it likes biting you.
So I wrote it up, with the intention of exorcising it. Letting it molder away on some old hard drive. Like the porn stories, and the Anti- Big Government rants. Oh, and my how-to-build-a pocket-nuclear-bomb manual. None of that can ever see the light of day. People might lock me up. So this story, this better left untold story, is firmly destined for the same moldy old hard disc.

It all started with my better half, who is a kind, sentimental lady, with a big heart, and who worries a lot about her Irishman, who gets himself into all sorts of troubles, usually by the simple methodology of opening his mouth. When silence would have been golden. So, at some stage, this caring lady, with the warm heart, bought me a Teddy Bear. Called, after some mind blowing flash of creative originality, “Teddy”. So, I owned a Teddy Bear. I was a grown man, but it’s okay, I’m sure. To own a Teddy Bear. Lots of people own Teddy Bears, right? I mean, it’s not the take them to bed and cuddle yourself to sleep type Teddy Bear, now is it? It’s just a symbol of affection between two partners. Often accompanied with a box of chocolates, right? No big deal. Really.
Until… she decides that you need to take Teddy with you on your globe trotting expeditions.

Your face falls a little at the thought of Teddy accompanying you to Man only male preserves like Taiwanese tuna boats and rough old hotels in far off, rugged places. But she says that she wants you to take Teddy to “remind you of her”. Oh. There’s no wiggle room there. She, a truly remarkable lady, of whom you think the world, has A) bought you a Teddy Bear, and B) has told you to take him with you on your travels, so that you think of her every time you look at Teddy. No, there is no way out of that one. Believe me, you smile (whilst wincing internally) and agree of course to the lady’s request.
Years went by. Teddy accompanied me everywhere. Africa, Japan, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Philippines, Hong Kong… Teddy came along in my suit case, and was always duly propped up in whatever flea bitten hotel room I got to stay in. I can’t say I always thought of Brenda every time I looked at Teddy, but I often did. And who owns a bear that has traveled all around the world, for years? Not many people. In this manner, normality set in. I carried a Teddy Bear in my suitcase. A cuddly, furry, honest-to-goodness, Teddy. Bear.
Well…

I was working in Africa. Flying helicopters. Angola. Four weeks on and four weeks off. The actual commute was a pain. The local flight (terrifying) on an ancient, beaten up Boeing 727. Up to Luanda. (Capital of Angola). Then the connecting flight to Paris. Then connecting from there to Houston. Then on to Lafayette, Louisiana. A long, boring, tedious journey. Relieved once in a while by something weird. Like the blind drunk Scotsman who threw up all over me, shortly after take-off to Paris. He did apologize. I think so, anyway. It was so slurred, I could hardly make it out. I think he said “suh-suh-sorry”. Then again, he might have said “Suh-suh-serves you right”. Because he could have been one of the many Scot Oil and Gas workers, who flew on my helicopter all the time. Maybe he was just getting his own back, who knows. Amazing how the smell of vomit wafting from you causes a neat empty circle to form around you in any crowd. If I could market a perfume with that odor, it could be useful in certain circumstances. In a queue at the cinema, perhaps. Or if Buggerlips behind you at the Opera was loudly consuming popcorn and pickles. You know, you could market it with catchy slogans:
“make your own empty circle around you?”
” Guaranteed results or your vomit smell refunded?”
I’m just saying… Anyway, there I was, late at night, tired as hell, desperate to go home. In the departure hall at Luanda Airport. Darkest Africa. No picnic, let me tell you. It’s a rough old building. Poor or non-existent air conditioning, Charles Dickensian toilets, rough floors, and jam packed solid with heaving, sweating, impatient humanity. We wanna go HOME…. People everywhere. I’m in another interminable queue. At the end of this particular queue is an Angolan gentleman, in some kind of uniform. They just love their uniforms. And they love their Authority. They can ask the White Man for his Passport. Anytime they like. And everybody asks for it. I have a feeling it makes them feel important. Pointless, but satisfying. A bit like mastur…, oh, never mind. I once was asked for my passport five times in the space of four minutes. I shuffled no more than thirty yards in this slow moving snake of pissed orf humanity, than I ran into yet another stocky little Angolan, who got right in my face and barked out the usual, loud:
PASSPORT!
There’s no: “Please may I see your passport, Sir?”
(Which, translated, actually means: “Gimme your fuk’n passport or you are gonna be here for HOURS, schmuckface!”) (but at least in America they dress it up, nicely). Nope, in Angola all you get is the barked command:
PASSPORT!
It gets wearying. Like “What the FFFFF are you guys looking for!!???” And, “What do YOU think YOU are gonna find in my passport that your FOUR buddies back there did NOT???” But you’re tired, and you just want to get to your destination, so you meekly and obediently hand over your passport, and the Angolan thumbs through it like he knows exactly how to spot a dangerous, international gun and dope running fiend wanted by Interpol and the Holy Pope in Rome. Sheez… This one day I deliberately handed my passport to him upside down. Upside – down. And you know what? He just leafed through it like they all did. Page after page. Until he came to my photo. Then he studied it, carefully. You could tell he was on to me. “Ha! I’ve got YOU figured out, Mister Dangerous International Gun Running and Sex Trafficking Mastermind! ” He fixed me with a stare that said it all:
“I…am ON to you…!”
I for my part carefully set my features to innocent, neutral and expressionless. I’m pretty good at that, after all the practice I’ve had. (Twenty plus years of marriage and hiding the Whiskey teaches you a lot.) The Angolan’s gaze went from me to the upside down photo. Back to me. Back to the photo. Then, very slowly, he turned my passport right side up. There. And gave it back to me. The Mastermind. He had me all figured out.

Of course, some Angolan attitudes towards other people’s passports could be problematic. Thus, they would collect ALL passports when we arrived at our work station at Cabinda. Nobody liked it. But that was the system. You arrive at the Gulag, you are surrounded by barbed wire and mine fields (seriously, yes) and vestiges of a nasty recent civil war, and then they impound everybody’s passports. You -hopefully- get yours back the day before you are supposed to travel. Except my buddy. They couldn’t find his. Initially they said they had never got it. He got pretty excited. It was the system. It had been that way for years. They take your passport. Nobody gets to keep theirs. Not if you want to work in Angola. Now his return date home was put back a week (he was hopping) because of no passport. With two days to go for his delayed departure date, they had STILL not found his passport. My buddy was constantly hanging out at the camp office responsible for returning our passports. His sense of humor had long since evaporated. He was heated. The Angolans were heated. The bosses were involved. Then… he happened to lean over the counter. And notice that one of the desks had obviously been at an angle on the crude floor. Some genius had propped a support under one of the desk corners. The crumpled wedge was the same color as an American passport. He looked harder. It WAS an American passport. He kicked up a fuss. The wedge was retrieved and examined. Yep, it sure was an American passport. What was more, it was HIS passport…

So when I finally got to the head of this particular queue at Luanda Airport that midnight, I was tired, bone weary, home sick, fed up with officialdom, and aching to feel the wheels lift off the War scarred Angolan runway. Now I was faced with yet another Angolan. In uniform. With Authority. That power gleam in their eye.
PASSPORT!
I gave it to him, right side up. I meekly put my suitcase on the table in front of him. It had already been examined and poked through two thousand seven hundred and thirteen times. But you never know, I could be hiding a landmine in there. As it turned out, I was.
I passed the Passport inspection. One step closer to HOME. Next he opened my suitcase. And rifled through my stuff the way they do. Behind me, a long queue of my regular passengers. Scots, Americans, Dutch, English…. All crammed on top of me, in that cramped, hot, stuff, smelly hell-hole.
He was very thorough. Then… BOOM! Landmine.
It happened in a nano second. I saw the calamity unfolding. I remember I thought:
“No! NO! Not the frickin’ TEDDY BEAR!??”
He had retrieved Teddy. Holding Mama’s sentimental effigy gingerly by the paws, he raised it high up in the air, so he was studying it at arm’s length, looking up at it. The whole hall could see it. Half a million ex-pats, a zillion Angolans, and the airport cat could see it. The blood drained from my face.
“WHAT IS THIS?”
He posed the questions with no trace of amusement. He was dead serious. What was it? Errr…..
Behind me, guffaws and snickers. People tapping buddies on the shoulders. (Hey! Check out the Pilot’s Teddy! Is that Francis? Yep! You like his Teddy? SURE… We LOVE it…)
My mind was grappling with the question. What was it? Errrr…
(as softly as possible) “It’s a Teddy Bear…”
Conversations were dying away. We were the undisputed center of attention for twenty three million people. I felt this shrinking feeling, kind of a disappearing act into my boots. This couldn’t get any worse.
Yes, it could. He had to ask, in a booming voice.
“IS IT YOURS….?”
(laughter, cat calls, cheers, foot stamping)
(Oh, FFFFFFFFFF) (What do I say to that????) (If I say “No”, I open myself up to more questions…)
(as softly as possible) (squeaking) “Errrr… yes…”
(laughter, cat calls, cheers, foot stomping, camera flashes going off…)

* * * * *

Teddy, I can tell you, officially went into retirement after that journey. It was his last Intercontinental globe trotting deal. He occupies a fine place of honor in the house, and his wise, furry face has seen a lot that other ordinary Teddy Bears will never see.
Or experience. Or hear.
Including the entire, crowded, departure hall at Luanda Airport, Angola, wildly clapping-cheering-whistling, one horrible midnight, many years ago.

* * * * *

Some stories… are better left untold.
I’ve been telling myself that about this story for years. However, it’s like a bed bug. It keeps reminding you that it’s around. You can pretend all you like, but it’s there, and it likes biting you.
So I wrote it up, with the intention of exorcising it. Letting it molder away on some old hard drive. Like the porn stories, and the Anti- Big Government rants. Oh, and my how-to-build-a pocket-nuclear-bomb manual. None of that can ever see the light of day. People might lock me up. So this story, this better left untold story, is firmly destined for the same moldy old hard disc.

Francis Meyrick

PS: so there I was, one day, flying along, happily, over the Gulf of Mexico, many years after this story first appeared on the InterPlague. A voice called me on the FM. “Hey Francis! ” I could hear laughter in the background. We want to ask you somewhat! “Sure! “, I replied, “What’s up! ” Something was going on. That I could sense…
“We wanted to ask you, did you bring Teddy along…? “

(Sumbitches…)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 18, 2014, 1:01 pm

On the Back of the Drag Curve

Up in the mountains. Colorado. Summer. High and hot.

I was doing my Con-Air Air Taxi thing. Cessna Turbo 210. Retractable, fast, three bladed constant speed prop. Serious tool. Sheriff’s Office. Picking up two prisoners. Along with the Corrections Officer flying along, that made four of us returning to the narrow air strip. I had landed there that morning, when it was cooler, and noted the altitude (6,000 feet plus) and the probable density altitude that would pertain a few hours later.
I was hoping to get out promptly, before the full heat of the day.
In the event, it was not to be. By the time we had stood waiting, in the crowded prison central hall, for hours, with prisoners being marched every which way, and by the time our prisoner pick up had been processed, stamped, signed in, signed out, looked at, examined… it was past midday.
And hot… I had some three thousand five hundred plus fixed wing flight hours, plus plenty of high altitude experience, to immediately recognize the Ugly in what I was facing. I pulled out the Flight Manual, and ran some serious numbers. My density altitude was about eleven thousand feet. I had enough runway, with my cautiously reduced fuel load. Plus I had about eight to ten knots blowing straight down the rough surface. The only windsock I could see was located close to one end. It seemed to occasionally go limp, and then fill up again. Strange. I ran the take off numbers allowing for zero headwind. Then I factored in the rough surface. It still came out as feasible, albeit with less margin for error than I was used to. A little voice in my mind was expressing unhappiness. I know that voice. I don’t like him. He makes me nervous. I re-ran the numbers again, while the three waiting passengers stared at me dully. It was scorching, uncomfortable, and we had no shade. They wanted to get going. Anything was better than just standing there. The two prisoners, with their heavy chains and leg irons, looked miserable. It can’t be much fun being herded around like dumb cattle. Do this. Do that. Sit here. Shut up. Yes, Sir. No, Sir.

I remember running the numbers multiple times. It should have told me something. I obviously wasn’t over happy. Some nagging doubt was prodding at my mind.
Francis… are you sure you know what you’re doing?
We taxied out. I made sure to go all the way to the end. I was going to use more runway than I normally did. I didn’t want to waste an inch. In the distance, I could see the windsock, inflated again with a precious eight to ten knots of breeze. Straight down the runway. Good. I wound up the RPM with brakes set. Only when she was hollering at full take-off horsepower, did I start the actual take off roll.
Faster we went. Faster. Nose wheel coming up. Main wheels feel light. Good. Feels… good.
To abort a take-off at the penultimate moment, a pilot may only have a split second window. A Decision Time that comes… and is gone. Forever. I remember we were committed, over the end of the runway, trying to claw our way into the air. And I knew… it wasn’t good. At the same moment as I seemed to start a slight sink, at the same moment that I realized I wasn’t climbing, at the same moment I was unhappy about my air speed, at the same moment as my mouth went dry, I saw…
Out of the corner of my eye…
The windsock. Fully inflated. Pointing. Like an accusing finger. Coldly. In the exact direction of my lumbering take-off. Oh, hell…
Tail-wind. One-eighty degree Wind Reversal.
And all of a sudden, the penny dropped. We were in a narrow valley, and the air strip was located not far below the pass. The col, if you like. It happens. That was why the windsock appeared to go limp, and then inflate again. The wind direction was unstable. And now…
At the worst possible moment, it had flipped on me. Now I had a totally unexpected tail wind. With take-off flaps selected, gear down, and going way, way slower than I would have liked. And I HAD to climb. I was just horribly way too close to the back of the drag curve. That region of airspeed, where drag is such, that acceleration and climb is almost impossible. Unless you reduce drag, by reducing your angle of attack. But you can’t reduce your angle of attack. Not when you are barely shushing ten to fifteen feet above large boulders. The same ones you thought you would be clearing by a hundred and fifty feet.
Now I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble. At the back of my mind, I saw us crashing. The attempted turn. The stall/spin. The impact. The violent explosion. The flaming wreckage. The accident inquiry. The full attribution of blame to the Pilot in Command. Taking off at a weight in excess of what was prudent…
It was a tense, fearful, cockpit. I said nothing. I was flying to the absolute best of my limited abilities. It’s kind of a desperate balancing act. A very delicate balancing act. Keeping the machine in the air. Not turning. Trying to accelerate. Listening to the intermittent, plaintive wail coming from the stall warning horn. It would come on… Go off…. Come back on again. Teeth clenched, concentrating furiously, forcing myself to fly, fly, like I had never flown before.

Slowly, slowly, we accelerated. It wasn’t until a full minute had gone by, that I remembered to breath. Climbing up into the sky never felt better, like a sweet wine after a forty day water only fast.
Of all the events in my flying I look back on, where I was simply way too close to the Edge, this is one such.
I learned from it. I was to become a better, more cautious pilot.

Up in the mountains. Colorado. Summer. High and hot.
And the day I tasted fear.

Raw. Fear.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 31, 2013, 1:48 pm

Sinner, 13 years later, on the right. Recent arrival Madame ‘Lucy’ on the left.

OUR NEW DOG

Brenda and I were living in Guam back in the nineties’ when a new dog came unexpectedly into our lives. As it turned out, he was kind of “the price of peace”. The alternative… wasn’t good. War. Mama against… never mind.

He was born in a neighbor’s house. We would see him, his brother and his sister, wobbling around in that new-born puppy way. Blinking their eyes, following Mum wherever she went, and tumbling around in a confused melee. Everything was interesting, everything was new, and just about everything had to be sniffed, tasted, barked at, or, if all else failed, liberally peed on.
His mother had a lot of Labrador in her, but she was small, poorly fed, and unfriendly. Doubtless she had suffered a hard life. The many animals at that house survived from scraps and left overs. There were several cats, and another bitch named Keeka. She was also very thin, desperately grateful for any hand-outs, and pathetically eager to be petted. Her tail had been chewed off at some stage. The owner, a moody 300 pound pot bellied pensioner, with a chronic taste for drink, used to regularly curse the animals, occasionally kicking them. We would hear him, staggering around shirtless, throwing the odd missile at some unseen target. Why he kept the animals, we never really understood. One day, his daughter took some pups from a previous litter to the pound. When her father returned, he had been furious, and ordered the animals to be retrieved. So they were brought back, only to die a slow and miserable death. Untreated, they suffered hugely from ticks, mange, hookworm and other parasites. Left to roam free, death by cars was common. If that fate was avoided, premature death by neglect was highly probable.

We had already inherited one dog. A loveable Australian Shepherd bitch named Saint by previous (Catholic) owners. Saint was gentle as a lamb. She had been casually left behind by the owners of the house we were now renting. I had wanted to re-name her, but I had been over ruled.
“That’s her name”, the Great Mistress said, “and you’ll confuse her if you call her something else.”
“But you can’t call a dog ‘Saint’ for goodness’ sake”, I had protested feebly.

We felt that one dog was enough, especially as our stay in Guam was thought to be probably temporary. But the grumpy old pensioner had a habit of locking all the animals up in a small cage. The cage measured about three feet by two and a half feet square. It was open to the (tropical) elements. We would frequently be astonished to see no less than three pups, three kittens, and an adult cat squashed inside, for hours or even days on end. They seemed to get very little food, and even less exercise. The cage was never cleaned. One day I sneaked over for a visit, and it was sad to see the kittens huddled together, filthy, in a state of shock, the cat looking traumatized, and the puppies uttering heart rending pleas for food, freedom, and attention.
I was told by friends that the Guamanians have not got the best reputation when it comes to the treatment of animals. And for sure, I could see similar scenes being played out all over the island. Driving home meant regularly dodging feral dogs and cats, that exist in large numbers. I was also told that the various agencies were so underfunded and overworked, that I was wasting my time even putting in a call. Meanwhile however, I was getting seriously worried about my better half, the Supreme Commander, Miss Brenda. She was uttering dark threats, was quite furious with the pensioner, and was also mumbling dangerously about ‘going over there and punching his lights out’. Ouch. One morning I caught her wrist just in time, as she was heading out the back door, chin wobbling, eyes red rimmed, clearly intent on making good on her threat. Promise. When I asked her where she was going (as if I didn’t know) she told me, through tears, that she was going to “smack him in the mush”. I saw an international diplomatic incident in the make here. “Scottish immigrant punches Native Retiree in the mouth…” Something had to be done. I managed to convince her that there was no way we could adopt three kittens, an adult cat, and three puppies. How about if we adopted one animal. I asked her if she wanted a puppy or a kitten.
“A puppy”.
She sounded like a little girl. Her worry was what we would do if and when we left the island. On the basis that we would cross that bridge when we came to it, I went and spoke to the old pensioner. Before I left on my mission of mercy, I made her promise that I would be the one to choose New Dog’s name.
She readily agreed.

“Hello! Nice puppies you have there! Could I buy one?”
I felt like an idiot.
His bloodshot eyes studied me.
“Are you nuts?”, was his curt reply.
I could see his point.
“You can have them all for free!”
He told me to help myself. He opened the cage door, and the scabby denizens of that smelly prison cowered in terror in the far corner. I held my hand out. One of the pups, fearfully, tremulously, cautiously, made a half hearted approach. I encouraged him with my voice. Scared, but brave, he licked my hand. It was good enough for me. If after all that abuse, he was still willing to trust, then he was my hero. I picked him up, and in that fashion, our New Dog came into our lives.

When I showed him to Brenda, she became tearful again. He was small, unutterably filthy, beginning to get serious mange, had ticks all over, especially between his toe nails, and stank quite strongly of excrement and puppy vomit. We decided first order would be to introduce him to Saint, then we would feed him, and then bath him. Saint happened to be eating when we slid open the glass door to the extension. She was a little surprised when this small furry stink bomb ambled nonchalantly up. New Dog didn’t take the slightest notice of her, not even when she growled. His head disappeared into Saint’s feed bowl, and did not re-appear for ten minutes. We made a big fuss of Saint, to make sure she would not be jealous. She took it surprisingly well, all told.

After His Lordship had dined -sumptuously, by his standards, on proper dog food, Brenda got involved. In short order, New Dog got bathed, powdered, de-ticked, and fussed over. He seemed quite bewildered. It was for sure the first bath of his life, and he was most unenthusiastic about it. He struggled and kicked, but he never tried to snap or bite. Mama was now totally into mother mode, and already very protective of New Dog.
“What do you want to call him?”, she asked.
“Sinner!”, I answered promptly.
Her eyes opened wide.
“You can’t call a dog ‘Sinner’!”, she protested.
I was ready for that.
“You can’t call a dog ‘Saint’ either”, I replied. “But we do have a ‘Saint’. So this will balance it up.”
She looked dubious, but I would not be budged. In the end, She relented. So now we had our New Dog with a New Name.
Sinner.

Within a week, Sinner was deadly ill, and I took him to the vet. The vet examined Sinner carefully, and then turned to me sadly. “Do you really want to save this dog?”. I sighed.
“Well, Mama has fallen in love with him. So…”
The vet launched into an advanced veterinary dissertation concerning all the worst parasites and infections a dog could possibly have, and it seemed Sinner had contracted all of them. The vet’s last comments were to the effect that they would have to keep him in for at least a week, it would be touch and go if he lived or not, and it would cost XXXX pirate buckets of gold doubloons. I remember sighing wearily, and signing on the dotted line.

A week later, I went to collect Sinner. I had been required to phone a few times during his stay, and he was said to be seriously ill. But after seven days or so I was told he was very weak, but able to go home. The orders were to keep him warm, as he did not have much physical stamina left. Brenda stayed sitting in the back of the car. She hates to see animals suffering, and a veterinary clinic is not always the cheeriest place. I got Sinner handed to me, and his little face lit up. He was pathetically weak, and could barely lift his head. I opened the back door, and slid him gingerly onto the back seat. The moment he saw Brenda, there was a feeble yelp of recognition. It was a pitiful little puppy that desperately scrabbled across to Brenda. He put his head on her knee, accepted the warm hand stroking him, and sighed. For such a small, emaciated, tired little guy, he managed a remarkably audible and feeling sigh. It was more than a sigh. It was something that welled up from deep within. A statement perhaps, From the soul. If I was to paraphrase that little sound, I would describe it thus:

Oh! Oh! Brenda…! Oh, I’m so glad to see you. I’m so glad. Oh, it’s going to be alright now. Oh!

And then he fell asleep.

* * * * *

His strength returned steadily, and he was funny to watch. He now sported a doggie jacket, specially bought. It was meant to keep him warm, as per the vet’s instructions. For some reason, it was a flaming scarlet red. It was kind of funky seeing this tatty brown puppy, in the scarlet red costume, exploring our new house. We had moved away from our old rental, beside the garden where he had been born. And the small, old, smelly cage in which he had spent his early puppyhood. Sinner was a keen explorer, albeit still weak and easily tired. Then, one day, tragedy. Sinner was missing. Brenda was beside herself. We searched everywhere, inside, outside, the garden, the road, the cliff our house stood on, and all to no avail. Brenda was now frantic. Then I had an idea. We got in the car, and drove to the old house. Down our lane. Down the main road, busy with traffic, with no sidewalks. And down the next street. We pulled up beside our former neighbor’s house, and… sure enough. There was our tiny Marathon Walker, front paws propped up against the cage, greeting his sisters and brothers, tail wagging dementedly. Brenda and I just looked at each other. It was touching, and pitiful, all at the same time. After all the suffering and the neglect, the beatings with the pensioner’s stick, the poor little guy missed his brothers and sisters… How much could animals teach us humans about simple affection, not to mention “loyalty” if only we opened our… minds?

There came the day I finally got my long planned revenge for being over ruled by the Supreme Commander, on the subject of Saint’s name change. I had wanted to change it, but Mama had over ruled me.

We had already inherited one dog. A loveable Australian Shepherd bitch named Saint by previous (Catholic) owners. Saint was gentle as a lamb. She had been casually left behind by the owners of the house we were now renting. I had wanted to re-name her, but I had been over ruled.
“That’s her name”, the Great Mistress said, “and you’ll confuse her if you call her something else.”
“But you can’t call a dog ‘Saint’ for goodness’ sake”, I had protested feebly.

Sinner was now strong enough that he could play wild doggie chase ’em games with Saint in the back garden. Surrounded by deeply Catholic neighbors. Inevitably, on a sunny Sunday, when half the island’s devout Catholics were all enjoying Sunday barbecue within easy earshot, Brenda was forced to call our reprobate doggies back to the house for din-dins. You guessed it:

SIN-NER! SAINT! SIN-NER…! SAINT…!

She walked back in to the kitchen, and threw me an accusing look. “I feel like an idiot!”, she complained. I tried not to giggle. To this day, I have this mischievous mental image of the devout Guamanian Catholics all looking at each other, tapping foreheads, and making sympathetic comments.

“That new foreign lady… I think she’s totally off her head….”

* * * * * *

The day came that it was time to leave Guam. I had spent five years and way enough flight hours hanging precariously above the Pacific Ocean. I had taken a job with an Arizona Sheriff’s Office, and we were preparing to move. I had to ask. “What about the dogs…? Just so you know it’s gonna cost a fortune flying them to Arizona…”

My waste of breath. She who defends all dumb creatures (even the one she married), sat down abruptly, folded her arms, and with a “I shall NOT be moved” pose, proceeded to sum up the entire discussion in nine firm words.

“If the dogs don’t go, then I don’t go…”

Duh. The meeting is now open. Errr… Correction. The meeting is now CLOSED. END of discussion.

Saint and Sinner were going to fly xxxx thousand miles to Arizona. They didn’t know it yet, but they were in for a.. an experience. And of course, little did I know,

So was I…

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 17, 2016, 9:50 am

Of Helicopters and Humans

Part 12: African Near-Miss

Flying in Africa, in my case, in Angola and the Congo, was… interesting. Of the many experiences, several spring back vividly to mind. One of these, involved my imperturbable Buddhist friend Phuk. Known as Phuky-baby to most of us. Phuk hailed from Vietnam originally, and is long since retired from active flying now. He would forgive me with a shrug and a smile, I believe, for the narrative about to follow…

Phuk was kind of… unflappable. What mattered to us, big things, worth getting excited about, were sources of minor amusement to the decidedly Buddhist Phuk. It wasn’t too surprising, really. Here was a guy who had been through the whole hell of the Vietnam War. He had been shot down, several times, and sent right back up again in a new helicopter. He had seen the chaos of defeat and American withdrawal. He had walked around, alive and un-scarred (physically),listening to agonized screams of dying men. He had seen friends suddenly butchered into unrecognizable hunks of bloody, pulsating meat. All for the sake of the Grand Visions of great politicians, far removed from the battlefield. He was one of the many who had landed on an American aircraft carrier, only to see his machine unceremoniously pushed over the side, in those last, panic and fear filled days of the collapse of South Vietnam. Another Great Victory in Man’s Eternal Fratricidal War. He had come to America, with no knowledge of the fate of his wife and daughter. In the first years, there had not even been mail. He had worked for a long time as a janitor, lonely and lost in America, missing his family, before finally getting his US FAA Flying Licenses. In those years of confusion, and separation from his family, he had remained faithful to his wife. He had also observed -with awe- a once feared, former South Vietnam general (previously in absolute charge of tens of thousands of souls, and making life and death decisions) sweeping carpets and dusting shelves. How the Mighty had fallen. Phuk would relate that story to me, and his voice would still drop into a hushed tone, as if the formidable General somehow might yet overhear our conversation. After many years, an emotional, unspeakably joyous reunification with his wife and daughter in the US. But his adventures were not over. His engine quit over the Gulf one day, while he was on his own. His machine floated briefly, rolled over, and sank. Now Phuk was floating in the Gulf, alone. He had managed to send out a hurried Mayday, and it had been acknowledged. They knew he was down. Time went by. Nobody came. He became dehydrated and maybe delirious. The intensive search, based on erroneous information, was taking place too far South. Phuk, with no way of knowing this, spent hours in the water. “Small sharks” (his words) came and nibbled experimentally on him, and he kicked at them, and threw them away with his hands. He thought he had been abandoned perhaps, just another useless Vietnamese, and would be dying on that day. He saw his whole Life. His manner of describing the ordeal was quiet, matter of fact, accepting, with perhaps a slight wonder. Eventually, one of the search pilots, without orders, on his own initiative, retraced Phuk’s route of flight back to the beach. Wonder above wonders, he managed the unique feat of spotting a head and shoulders bobbing forlornly above the waves. Surrounded by “small” (hungry) “sharks”. Phuk was rescued, and very grateful. He went back to flying. Years later, he would be flying in Angola, Africa, and meet up with a half crazy Irishman. We became firm friends, and we spent hours talking about Life, Death, and The Universe. I enjoyed his company. What I remember most about him was his forgiveness. He seemed to harbor no bitterness. No hate, no angry memories. Despite all the violence of War. Phuk was, strangely, at peace. I could never figure that out. I was not like that. We were opposites in many ways.

The day it happened, we were all flying into nearby Cabinda Airport. A whole gaggle of helicopters. A flock. A shower. Seven or eight of us. The radio was choc a bloc with chatter. The stressed Angolan tower operator, whose English was passable but heavily accented, was doing his best. Some fixed wingers were taxying around the apron. With African and Russian pilots. Into that hot curry mix, a decrepit old Boeing 727 announced its hulking presence on a long final. You have to imagine a totally congested frequency, with a wide variety of English being spoken. Reasonable English, basic English, and hopeless Pigeon English. English-Angolan. English-American. English-Russian. English-Nigerian. English-Irish. Into this mess of rotating blades and propellers and turbines, comes the vintage African 727 on long finals. Gear down, flaps down, lights on, and the African crew rigidly settled into “landing mode”.
Enter… one more helicopter. La-di-dah. Ho-hum. Phuk. Leisurely, down on short finals. Seemingly blissfully unaware of the African Boeing 727 coming barreling down after him. Now you have to add Vietnamese English into the cacophony. Phuk was doing a model approach, clearly unhurried. Several of us could see the debacle developing.

African 727 (sharply): Cabinda Tower! Helicopter!
Cabinda Tower: One-four-Victor! Side step to Apron!
Phuk: Alpha or Bravo?

Groan… I knew what he meant. He wanted to know which exit to take off the runway. Normally the Tower was real picky that you obeyed his instructions, and that you used only the indicated exit. Now however, such details were unimportant. Phuk, cross the frickin’ grass if you want to, but GET OFF THE RUNWAY.

African 727 (beginning to panic) (still continuing approach):
Cabinda Tower! Helicopter!
Cabinda Tower: One four Victor! Side step to Apron!
Phuk (unruffled): Alpha or Bravo?

Two other pilots, seeing what was going on, jumped on the radio, but the net result was just a horrible warbling squeal, indicative of everybody “stepping on” everybody else.

African 727: (losing it) (still -unbelievably- continuing approach):
“CABINDA TOWER! HELICOPTER!”
Cabinda Tower: One-four-Victor! SIDE STEP TO APRON!
Phuk (unruffled): Alpha or Bravo?

It was too late. The 727 was over the hedge, with obviously never a thought of carrying out a very sensible “go around”. They were too busy panicking. Phuk had not exited the runway. Everybody was freaking out. Except Phuk. I watched in open mouthed horror as the wing tip of the 727 took a solid aim at the tail rotor of the little Bell 206. It missed. By inches. The sheer proximity of a very solid piece of the Boeing to the tail rotor of the Bell, was proven by the fact that the various wing tip vortices literally spun the helicopter around through a hundred and twenty degrees. The collective exhalation from all the assembled helicopter pilots was matched only by the furious commentary from the crew of the 727, presumably directed at Cabinda Tower. It was in African, but I know it was angry as hell. The Tower Operator, in the same language, appeared to be giving as good as he was getting. It was left for the rest of us to quit shaking, as soon as possible. It took me a while.
There was only one totally unruffled participant in the madness: Phuk. We all explained to him what had happened, in turn. Each awed pilot adding color to the narrative. “Oh”, was about all we got out of Phuk.
It wasn’t an act, or a show of bravado. It was just the way he was. Another event had passed him by.
Another event on Life’s journey. Why get excited about it?

Phuk was kind of unflappable. What mattered to us, big things, worth getting excited about, were sources of minor amusement to the decidedly Buddhist Phuk.
The sky could almost fall down, and as long as it was “almost”, I know what Phuk would say, in his polite, soft spoken Vietnamese – English:

“Oh? Well… we go lunch now, yes?”

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 24, 2014, 7:46 pm