Cops & Robbers (8B) “Spotlights and Bullets (Part 2) “
July 5, 2011 in Auto-biographical (law enforcement), Sheriff Pilot
Spotlights and Bullets
Part TWO
On the ground, there was now what sounded like complete chaos. Everybody was talking at once, but with half sentences, unintelligible instructions, warnings, and frantic counter orders. With bullets flying, tall mountains around, steel aerials, and a large bull’s eye painted on the bottom of my helicopter, I wondered once again about my choice of career. I listened hard, and tried to make sense of it all, whilst straining to keep the light on the metal building. Orbiting, orbiting, aiming, and amidst all of this, darting a look outside at the mountains. Trying to keep clearance, keep clearance, keep it safe…
Amidst the pandemonium, the cool voice of Lincoln Nine cut in. Our Patrol Commander. He sounded unfazed. He was a remarkably clear thinker under pressure. Logical.
“Air One! You can disengage if you wish…”
He was offering me an out. I was free to cut and run if I wanted to.
Yeah, right…
I replied something, and went grimly back to my task.
Keep the light ON that building…
Orbit, orbit, orbit…
Watch for the mountain side…
Watch for the aerials…
Check the gauges… Pressures and temperatures in the green…
But no matter what I did, I kept wandering off a bit. There is a world of difference between single pilot operations of a helicopter at night over an illuminated city, and single pilot ops at night, high up in the mountains. When the ground is flat, keeping station is relatively easy. When your reference points are all over the place, so is your orbit. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but wander off, only to realize it, correct for it, wander off again… correct for it again… I would lose the buildings in the light, and have to reacquire them. Then answer the radio. A request for light support two hundred yards to the West. I would nail that, and hurriedly glance up to check the mountain side. There would be an uncomfortable few seconds lapse time, during which I would peer through the darkness, not quite sure of my position. Then I would figure that out, go back to the light…
Damn. Lost the target…
And so on, and so forth. Backwards and forwards. Trying to help the guys. Trying to keep it safe.
Hot. Damn. Where are those aerials gone now??
Whoa, baby, you’re getting a bit close to that mountain…
He wants the light WHERE…??
With such a frenetic cockpit work load, fifteen minutes feels like five hours. Now I was drenched in perspiration. The reports coming up (none of them whispered) indicated that one man has been arrested. They are looking for two or three more. And the show continues. Requests for light…
Follow the road down. Three hundred yards right. Watch for my flash light. Good, now aim the light over here, behind that old car. Search the hill side. Stop, back up. Okay, here. Search this area.
Time blurs, and the world has changed. The world is my cockpit, small, artificially illuminated, radios chattering. The world is my ride, perched crazily on top of a burning white finger of Truth, that points accusingly into the Dark World. My mission is Support. Support for the cops on the ground, who have to deal with endless Darkness. I am the bearer of the torch. An Insignificant Acolyte. What matters is not I, but the Light. The Light. In the darkness. The darkness, that is the world…
Time blurs, and now fuel is adding itself to the long list of concerns. I’m getting tired.
Another arrest…
And I’m still going around and around. Around… and around.
Orbiting a crazy, dark world.
* * * * *
The next morning, I was called in to the Sheriff’s Office. The sergeant wanted a word. He took me into a private place. There followed a debrief, and I was warmly thanked for my efforts. With one caveat. My language. Not approved. I looked blank.
Language… what language?
I was reminded that the citizenry often listened in on the Police Radio. And that certain standards of ethics pertained to our operations. I nodded, without comprehension. What was it that I had said?
I was asked if I remembered the radio exchange at the moment the shots had been fired. In particular, the moment that the Patrol Commander had said:
“Air One! You can disengage if you wish…”
I nodded. Yes, I remembered that, sort of. Why?
Did I remember my reply?
Errrrr…
“No Sarge, not exactly, I was kind of busy…”
My comment was quoted, for my benefit.
Oh…
“Sorry, sarge, I guess that won’t do. Won’t happen again…”
* * * * *
As I drove back to the airfield, thoughtfully, I tried to imagine the reaction of the honest Kingman citizenry. Clustered around their radios and scanners, listening in to our conversations.
Heck, I don’t know.
“SHOTS FIRED! SHOTS FIRED! SHOTS FIRED!”
“Air One, you may disengage if you wish!”
(sigh)
Followed by…
A very irate, Irish accented growl…
(sigh)
“FUCK NO! NOW I’M PISSED!!!”
Oh, well…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 31, 2012, 11:01 am
Cops & Robbers (8A) “Spotlights and Bullets “
July 4, 2011 in Auto-biographical (law enforcement), Sheriff Pilot
Spotlights and bullets
I’m probably a little bit of an adrenaline junkie.
No, make that a big bit. It’s all genetics. Maybe. The bottom line is that I would have made a lousy librarian. I just know I would have messed up any book shelf. I just like to feel I’m alive. I respect risk, I measure risk, and I don’t take unnecessary chances. It’s not healthy. Of course, there is always the small matter of my Irish genes. The ‘fighting Irish’ genes. That little lot have gotten me in trouble plenty of times…
It all started one night, when the home phone rang, my pager went off, and my cell phone rang. You always know it’s going to be something interesting. I was in the midst of a deep slumber. First thought as you roll over in bed is
“what the f…k time is it?”
01.30 am…
Okay… I answered the call. A slightly breathless Sheriff’s Office Dispatcher told me there was an armed robbery in progress, and that they were requesting the helicopter.
Cool… ACTION…
I legged it into my uniform, tripping around the bedroom like an out-of-control drunk on a pogo stick, trying to do three things at the same time, with only half a brain cell. My wife, much more alert at crazy times of the night, provided the requisite garments as I fumbled around. But for her, I’d have been running out the door minus my pants. The Sheriff’s Office might have an issue with that.
Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling up beside the Sheriff’s hangar. Here I was to discover that there was no observer waiting. That was a disappointment. It meant I would be operating all the systems, including the radios and the spotlight, on my own. It’s nice when the work load can be shared. What was worse, was that the scene location was now coming in:
The Hualapai Mountain Road…
That was going to be a tough one. It was a winding, steep mountain road, with mountains rising up sharply on both sides. There were also some nasty tall aerials. With a cloudy sky, limited moonlight, limited ground illumination… I was worried. As I raced across the dark terrain below, I wondered where exactly the scene was located. Hopefully, it was down the road towards Kingman, and not higher up the mountain, where the valley was narrow and extremely dangerous. For a helicopter. At night.
Dispatch had told me that the bad guys did not know they were being quietly surrounded. Kingman P.D. were backing up the Sheriff’s Office deputies.
Sounds like a big operation…
I had also been asked not to switch on the helicopter spot light until instructed to do so. They didn’t want to alert the bad guys just yet…
I flew on, quietly reflecting on the tall transmitters I knew lay ahead for me. I knew the area reasonably well by daylight, but night flying was an altogether different matter. I knew I would be orbiting, and having to divide my attention between the probing search beam, the radios, and the hidden obstacles all around me.
The radio was strangely silent. Occasionally, a short, whispered command was heard. The very fact that the officers were whispering, told legions. The boys were moving in on the unsuspecting bad guys. Setting up the perimeter…
“Air One, Sam Six…!”
They were calling me. I replied, curtly.
“Sam Six, go ahead!”
“Francis, we can see you coming. Slow it down, and just keep coming right up the Hualapai Mountain Road. Keep the light off. We’ll tell you when to switch it on. Watch for three flashes from my flash light. Copy that?”
I acknowledged the instructions, whilst groaning inwardly. Not good. The scene was right up the road, where the high mountains closed in ominously on the twisting road.
Where the aerials stood, tall, haughty, impregnable, waiting…
I wished they had sent me an observer. Now I could really have done with help. One man to operate the light and the radios, whilst the pilot flew the blessed helicopter…
Onwards I flew, the rotors circling endlessly overhead, the soft glow from the instruments, the rush of wind, the song of the turbine, and the ongoing smack of rotor tips hitting disturbed air from the previous blade.
I banked slightly to follow the road, and wondered again how far up the road they were. I could see the lights on the aerials above me now, insignificant pin pricks of warning amongst a rolling sea of darkness and death.
Concentrate, lad, concentrate…
I glanced down at the controls for the “Star Burst ” spot light. I had been practicing with it, and I could do fairly well, flying the helicopter at night AND aiming the powerful beam. But I had only flown over open urban areas. Plenty of ground illumination, and excellent ground reference points. Never like this, totally alone, up in the mountains, on a truly dark night, with a serious situation on the ground.
Concentrate, lad, concentrate… this is serious flying…
The radio crackled again:
“Air One! Lincoln Nine…!”
It was the lootenant. Somewhere. Good guy. Very pro helicopter, but also very pro safety.
“Air One, you know about the aerials up there, right?”
He knew I knew. But it was his way of looking out for you. I appreciated it. And suddenly the cockpit wasn’t so lonely anymore.
The whisperer was back on. He was giving me range and bearing. I was now approaching the scene rapidly. More whisperers were joining in. I was straining to see the three light flashes.
It was hard to hear what they were saying, so quietly.
“Air One! Look for my signal…! We will want your light two hundred yards to the West, on a metal building…”
I peered in to the darkness below. Nothing. Nothing…
Then…
Flash! Flash! Flash!
Bingo, I had them. I banked hard, simultaneously straining to see both the metal building, and the surrounding mountain sides rearing up. I hit the spot light switch, and noted with satisfaction the soft glow, growing rapidly, rapidly, into a white fire. Now I just had to aim it…
And then all hell broke loose…
“SHOTS FIRED! SHOTS FIRED! SHOTS FIRED!”
Sixteen voices were transmitting simultaneously. Despite the gravity of the situation, I had to quietly smirk to myself. No more whispering…
The bad guys were shooting at the light…
Now it was getting personal…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 6, 2015, 4:46 am
Cops & Robbers (7B) “A Deadly Search (Part 2) “
June 22, 2011 in Auto-biographical (law enforcement), Sheriff Pilot
A Deadly Search (Part 2)
A Hidden Killer
Preoccupied as I was with what had happened, my mind was full of questions and self doubts. Could I have done better? Should I, could I, might I…? I was dumbfounded in a way, my usual bouncy confidence in the ability of the helicopter to work miracles for the Sheriff’s office had taken a huge blow.
Absently, I drank some more water, as I flew low over the desert.
It wasn’t until I was fifteen minutes out from home base, that I suddenly started feeling really ill. Up to that point I had felt sticky, tired, hot, sweaty… but just in the usual way. Nothing a guy can’t just “tough his way through “.
But now, all of a sudden… heck, I felt bad. Real bad. I grabbed for more water. Then I tried to focus my eyes ahead. Was it my imagination, or was the airport in the distance beginning to float in the air?
What’s wrong with you…?
I blinked, and shook myself. I was surprised how really bad I felt. Something told me to land, immediately. I looked down at the desert floor. That was not going to be good. Miles from anywhere. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. I could tell Dispatch I was in trouble, but what could they do? It wasn’t as if they could send the helicopter!
Rats…!
Now I was beginning to feel like my head was going to burst. I was sweating profusely, I felt clammy and cold, and yet boiling hot at the same time. Perspiration was running through my eyes. My hands were soaked.
Heat stroke! You’ve got heat stroke! Big time! Man, you’ve gotta land! Now! Before you pass out!
Now fear was clutching at me. I was truly alarmed. I could see the airport. Ten minutes away. Ten million miles. But I needed to land. I flew lower, and started to look for a suitable spot. I was struck by how far I would have to walk.
In this heat?
Alternatively, I could just call for help. Stay put. That would be the smart thing to do. They would just have to come and get me.
It’s gonna take hours…
They would need an off road vehicle to get to me. Again, I could be there for hours.
In this heat??? A hundred and ten plus…?
I was now mere minutes from Kingman Airport. But my head was thumping. Splitting. I dropped down to two hundred feet. Then a hundred. Then fifty. Ready to land in an instant. But a voice was screeching in my head. I was beyond alarm. I was close to panic. I had never, ever felt like this before. I grabbed for more water, but by now I was shaking, and I spilled most of it down my T-shirt.
Thumping headache… hot-cold sensation… Trembling… Soaking wet… perspiration… blurred vision…
Holy Cow, Francis… You could pass out here, any second… Land, man, land! Now! For Chrissake…
I was now down to twenty feet. The airfield was three minutes away. An eternity. A million miles. If I landed, they might not reach me for hours. I’d be out of sight amongst the rolling terrain features.
Land. Fly. Land. Fly. Three minutes. Die. Fly. Oh, God…
The voice in my mind was now almost hysterical. Either choice seemed extremely dangerous.
Two minutes…
I was about to cross the three mile point, when I realized I had yet to make a radio call. To advise other traffic of my position. The croaked, feeble, borderline unintelligible voice that bleated pathetically across the airwaves shocked me.
One minute…
In my mind I saw my approaching helicopter from the point of view of somebody standing on the ground. Rear suddenly up, up, and over, and then nose down, violently, and crash in a ball of flames. Black smoke, billowing up into the sky. Shocked faces. Sirens. People running. Fire engines screaming.
And forever, they would wonder, what the hell happened…
Thirty seconds…
Normally I landed on the dolly, attached to the ATV. A small trailer, if you like. It made it easier to pull the machine into the hangar. But in my present state, that precision landing was out of the question. Instead, I set up a slow, shallow approach to the middle of the tarmac, and aimed for a slight run-on landing.
I was shaking like a leaf. It was all I could do to perform a basic, safe, run-of-the mill landing on a wide open space of concrete. The rear of the skids touched down, dragged the surface for a second, and then I settled heavily. It wasn’t pretty, but I didn’t care. The feeling of relief that engulfed me was intense. I realized, to my vague surprise, that I was hyper ventilating. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Not good…
I shut down, and it was a relief to climb out of the machine. So much effort had gone in to the final fifteen minutes of flight, that I had formed no idea about what to do after the landing. I sat down, absently, on the skid rail, to rest and catch my thoughts. A few minutes passed by, and then a shadow fell over me. The fact that I was sitting out, most illogically, on the sun side of the aircraft, facing South, with the temperature hovering around one hundred and fifteen, had drawn the attention of the fuel truck driver. He was bending over me, very concerned.
“Are you all right?”
I swallowed, and thought hard.
“Errr… Well, I think I might have had a touch of heat exhaustion there, you know…”
His face, normally relaxed and friendly, was set to serious.
“Francis, you need to know your face is glowing bright red. Beet red. You’re having a heat stroke right now. You need to come with me – NOW – and get inside into the air conditioning. Do-you-understand-me?”
He spoke the words deliberately and slowly, as if he expected a protest. I, for my part, mildly surprised by the course of events, in a naive, muddled sort of way, vaguely figured out that he knew something I didn’t.
“Oh!”, I said. “Okay…”
I tried to get up, and promptly stumbled badly. He caught me, and helped me up into his truck.
A few minutes later, I was inside, in their wonderfully cool office. Several people were fussing around me, and I was profusely enjoying a mixed drink of 50% water and 50% Gatorade, with ice cubes. I was puzzled by their concern. They were talking about calling an ambulance.
An ambulance? That’s silly…
It took me about fifteen minutes before I started feeling any better, and thinking in a more lucid manner. They made me sip constantly.
After an hour, I felt great. Almost back to normal. Almost bouncy again.
It was then that I started to really understand the serious pickle I had unwittingly gotten myself into. The kind staff at Kingman Aero Services, with their long experience of scorching hot days in Arizona, explained to me carefully (in words of not more than two syllables), that all my water drinking had literally flushed out all my body salts. Potassium, and all that good (essential) stuff. The more I drank just water, the worse I was compounding my problems. The key is to realize that water alone is not enough. Not when it gets that hot. You HAVE to mix it with Gatorade, or Powerade, to keep your Potassium and body salts up to the proper level…
In retrospect, I was exhibiting classic symptoms of confusion due to heat stroke. The muddled decision making, culminating in calmly sitting down on the SUN side of the aircraft, made me wonder how long I would have been sitting there, if my refueller friend had not come along.
His description of my state, the violent red flushing, the confusion, and the difficulty walking, made me realize that I had been very, very stupid, and very, very lucky.
It was a hard lesson learned. But one, I wish to pass forward.
This true story, unexaggerated, (believe me), hopefully accomplishes just that…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 31, 2012, 10:28 am
Cops & Robbers (7A) “A Deadly Search “
June 22, 2011 in Auto-biographical (law enforcement), Sheriff Pilot
A Deadly Search
If you ever spend any time in Search and Rescue, or any type of First Responder involvement, you will experience tragedy. The unnecessary tragic. Needless death. The pointless waste of human life, talent, ability and potential. I had already seen good men stuffed into disinterested, uncaring body bags, and neatly zipped up. On the tuna boats, I had seen the loaded body bags, stowed in the frozen fish holds. And living men, working away, alongside their dead former ship mates, working the catch.
Life and Death, strangely and intimately intertwined, almost lovers, in an eternal embrace.
Death comes in many forms, and death comes to young people, barely starting out. Of all these forms of Departure from this crazy ride, this mad ticket we all use just the one time, there is a particular method of Unforeseen Departure for the “Young and the Free” that seems to me particularly heart breaking.
Drugs…
Dispatch called me one morning, to launch immediately. No information. Having been sitting around once again for a week, with nothing to do except twiddle my thumbs, I positively bounded out of my chair.
Action…
What I did not know, that this was going to be a trying day, a real test of judgment, and a very close call for me personally. A very close call. I was to make a classic mistake, and learn a very valuable lesson.
The details started to come in over the radio. An ATV rider in the desert, had come across a pickup, stuck in soft sand. Stretched out, dead as a door nail, behind the pickup truck, was a male in his thirties. Fit, well built, muscled. Very, very dead. Presumably from heat stroke, and over exertion, trying to free his truck from the cunning grip of the desert. The temperature, even then, before eleven in the morning, was climbing through a hundred. It was to peak at a hundred and ten plus a while later.
What was worse, if that is possible, was that a second set of footsteps were leading away from the truck. Straight into the desert. If that wasn’t bad enough, a search of the cab had revealed a copious supply of drug paraphernalia. Meths. Evil, evil, wicked stuff. Destroyer of Youth. Destroyer of Happiness. The Sheriff’s office, pouring in man power, moving with lightning speed, identified the deceased, and contacted the family. From urgent inquiries, it was soon established that we were looking for a young girl, early twenties, tall, slim, long blond hair. His companion. I heard all this passing over the radio, while still enroute. For some reason, I felt very confident. The helicopter would soon fix that. Find her in a jiffy.
No sweat…
I swooped down, and an observer ran out, and jumped in the helicopter. Young guy, early thirties, fit, strong. Soon we were searching the desert, and the small canyons, the rock beds, behind the boulders. It was more difficult than I thought. There were millions of places an exhausted, delirious person, wandering alone in the desert, could hide from the sun and heat.
Heck, this is not going to be as easy as I thought…
There were also lots of rough, prickly, small bushes. Just the sort of limited shade, where we had to look. She could well be passed out, unconscious, and unable to respond to the sound of the helicopter. We searched, and searched.
Nothing…
The sun was climbing into the sky, and the heat was becoming unbearable. I was guzzling water, but it seemed to be pouring out of me faster than I could possibly replenish it. My observer too, was suffering. Prior to the arrival of the helicopter, he had been literally running through the desert, looking in all the nooks and crannies, under bushes, behind boulders, everywhere. He was already exhausted when he entered the helicopter, but now the strain was beginning to tell on him. Fifty times we would land beside some gorse bush, and fifty times he would leap out, check underneath quickly, and then come running back to the helicopter. There was a note of panic in his voice now, and the radio chatter too indicated extreme concern. It doesn’t take long to succumb in that sort of devilish heat. It was like an oven, out of control…
Nothing…
My observer was now becoming slightly incoherent. His face, behind the running sweat, was taking on an ominous pallor. On top of everything, I was now becoming deeply worried about him. The heat was killing both of us. You just couldn’t breathe properly.
Water… water…
The ground searchers were doing the best job they could. Every available volunteer was being called out. The Search and Rescue Sergeant was a crusty old pro, excellent at his job. But his voice was now betraying the stress.
Frustration…
The clock was ticking…
Several times he called the helicopter. They could no longer follow her tracks, as she had crossed onto hard, stony ground. But they had found an item of clothing, discarded. A white T-shirt. A bad sign. When people become delirious, they start shedding their clothing, often ending up naked. This only massively accelerates the overheating of their body, and the dehydration effect.
I was busy straining my eyes, wondering how many times I was going to criss-cross that section of desert, when my observer’s voice, calm as can be, floated in over my headsets:
“Put this thing on the ground, I’m going to pass out…!”
I glanced at him in astonishment, just in time to see his eyes roll peculiarly upwards, and his body slump forward against the straps. His head rolled to one side, and he was out cold.
Holy… COW!
There followed this exchange over the radio, and I’m told it has become a bit of a classic in the History of the Sheriff’s Office.
Me: “Sam 3, Air One!”
Him: “Air One, go ahead!”
Me: “Sir, I’m landing, and I need another observer…”
Him: (crossly) “What’s wrong with the one you’ve got??”
Me: “He’s unconscious…!”
(silence)
(?????)
I landed, and my unfortunate observer was gently lifted out. I was awed by that young man. He literally ran himself ragged, in searing heat, trying to save a life. Despite his peak physical fitness, even he was no match for the cruel desert.
Soon we were at it again, and now I was running tight on fuel. Another frustration was headed my way. My own airfield refuellers were very obliging. They would give us a hot refuel, rotors running, anytime we asked for it. They would go out their way to be cooperative, often staying on long after closing time. But the nearest airfield to where we were, was the exact opposite. No force on earth would persuade them to go the extra mile. I headed their way as fast as I could, and called them on the radio.
I explained, carefully, that we had a serious life threatening emergency, with a person lost in the desert. We would greatly appreciate a rotors turning “hot refuel”…
Please…
The answer, as per usual, was a curt, flat refusal. The lady on the radio was haughty in her indifference, And I formed the distinct impression that she was playing for the benefit of the gallery. You could just imagine her aside, to the assembled audience:
“Who do they think they are, that Sheriff’s Office lot? We have safety rules here, and if they think we are going to bend them, well, they’ve got another think coming…”
Worse, after we had shut down the rotors, they had to prove their independence, and their contempt for the Sheriff’s Office, by taking their very own sweet time to come out. Minutes passed infuriatingly by, and eventually, easy-ozy, here comes the refueller. At a negative warp speed of minus Mach One. Couldn’t care less… He slowly refueled us, and then smugly told us that we would have to go into the office to pay. I said nothing, kept my temper, hopped back in the seat, and cranked the rotors.
Unbelievable. I wonder how you would feel if it was YOUR son or daughter out in the desert…?
Soon we were streaking back, listening to reports of more items of clothing being found. Sandals, a bra, shorts… Not good.
It was an ATV that found her, in the end. Not the helicopter. She was under a bush, very hard to see,and her naked body was burned by the sun to the same color as the desert…
It was like a gut shot for me. I felt wretched. We had flown and flown over that spot a hundred times, and not seen her. She blended in that well. She was dead, and not long dead. Despite our very best efforts, we had failed utterly. It was one of the worst days for me. An intense feeling of personal failure and inadequacy.
Everybody was upset. There was a lot of sad head shaking.
They went into the desert to do drugs. They had cellphones, and a CB radio. No water. Horrified by her boy friend’s collapse, presumably the panicked girl set off to get help. In her mind altered state, owing to drug use, she failed to use the cell phones, or the CB, or walk West, towards the distant Freeway.
Instead, she headed deeper in to the scorching desert…
Drugs… pure, unadulterated evil.
There was nothing left to do, but re-position, alone, back to base. It was about a thirty minute flight.
Little did I know, what an intense, mind numbing terror still lay quietly in wait ahead for me…
(to be continued) (See Part TWO)
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 2, 2016, 11:44 am
The Burning Soldier (5) “Silent Warrior “
June 21, 2011 in Uncategorized
with thanks to Enigma ” Silent Warrior “
The Burning Soldier
Part 5: “SILENT WARRIOR “
I lie awake, and stare at the ceiling.
The fan turns slowly, brushing soft air soothingly over my aching mind. In the early morning silence, I can hear my heart beat.
I think of the Past, the Present, the Future.
Quantum mechanics. Einstein’s theory of Relativity. The enormous Time Horizons of the Universe, and the Absurdity of Man, who thinks – hilariously – that he actually matters. In terms of Matter and Time.
Time morphs, reverses on itself, and I am a small child once more, running down a tunnel at the speed of light, towards the comfort of my mother’s ever ready arms. How I love my mother. She is the center of my Universe. There is calm. Before the storm. Before the Black Hole.
Time morphs, reverses on itself, and the hate in his eyes is unmistakable. He is going to attack me. He wishes to hurt me, maybe even kill me. We fight, trade vicious blows, and roll around the ground. I get him in a headlock, a hand in his hair, and proceed to bounce his face off the ground a few times. That slows him down. I feel a savage satisfaction. He tries to escape, but I am not letting go. Amidst the struggle, the heaving and the grunting, the stale smell of his body, I whisper in his ear.
“Stay for a while, I’m just getting going…”
My own hate shocks me. But only Afterwards.
I dream of Freedom…
Time morphs, reverses on itself, and I argue vehemently that indiscriminate pub bombings are an own goal. The act of a madman. A travesty of everything that raises humanity above the level of the Beast. I tell them flat out it is the height of cowardice, the weapon of a snake, and guaranteed only to spin the cycle of tit-for-tat violence further out of control. I can see from their eyes they hold me in contempt. In their sectarian hatred, palpable, I sense the certain future death of more innocent strangers. I continue, unwisely, aware that the bar has gone ominously silent. Then, suddenly, I feel a hard coldness. Steel has entered my heart. I discover that I wish to kill. Exterminate. Slowly, and methodically. I look at them, and my feelings show. Through the smoke filled bar, the intensity of my anger has registered. There is a shuffling in the corner. A man stands up, a stranger. After he speaks, you can hear a pin drop. He says, simply:
“The man is right. Listen to him…”
I smile, grimly. What the hell. Now we are both dead.
I dream of Freedom…
I read about Hitler’s concentration camps. Auschwitz. The burning of the Jews, and many others. I think about how easily Man can follow the Beast. Cultured people, educated, successful, are exterminated. Artistic, sensitive, feeling people, are systematically brutalized and lowered. They are murdered, and their bodies burnt. Discarded. Like trash. The smoke from the chimneys, beaten down by approaching, dark thunder clouds, creeps steadily towards the unyielding razor wire. The stakes, and the barbs, the mine fields and gun towers.
I dream of Freedom…
One night, during a long argument about Irish History, past, present and future, he points a gun in my face. At one stage he presses it hard into my cheek. I remember staring along the top of the barrel, right back in his eyes. I remember thinking I was going to die. And not caring. I stared right back into the depths of hate. And dared him to pull the trigger… In the end, he just laughed, and pointed the weapon upwards. Then he shot the ceiling. I remember bits of plaster falling around my head, and I remember never taking my eyes off him. A piece fell in my beer, and I cursed him loudly. “Now see what you’ve done, you fuk’n eejit…!”
And then we laughed, and laughed, and got very drunk…
Time morphs, reverses on itself, and I hear the news.
“Seamus is dead. The Brits got him.” A night raid in South Armagh, gone wrong. I say nothing, and feel only a cold emptiness. I think of the long arguments, lasting all night, and the fists slamming on the table. I think of the guns, the bombs, the deaths, and the hatred. I loved him as a brother, but I’m also relieved that he is finally dead. His violence is blind. There is no reasoning with him, no compassion, no humanity. They buried him at midnight, in the small cemetery in Dundalk. Then they fired a volley of shots over the grave, and woke the whole town up. I think of his beautiful, gentle girlfriend, and I wonder how she is taking it.
I dream of Freedom…
I learn, the hard way, I can’t trust anybody. My back hurts. It has been stabbed so many times. I learn that my biggest failing is to attribute values I cherish to others. Big mistake.
I dream of Freedom…
They teach me how to shoot. And how to inflict pain. I discover I am good at it. It is a clinical science. I can turn on the surgical mask easily enough. But can I switch it off? No. Maybe I enjoy it too much now. For I am all too human.
I lie awake, and stare at the ceiling. The fan turns slowly, brushing soft air soothingly over my aching mind. In the early morning silence, I can hear my heart beat. I think of the Past, the Present, the Future. Einstein. Quantum Mechanics. Time. Bending, in a curve, the End foreseeable from the Beginning. How I long for Understanding. And to stand at the curve in the bend of Time, and be able to see either End. I long for it.
My Freedom.
To achieve what I desire the most.
To rise into Awareness. To rise up into the skies, and drift slowly along, wisely, knowingly, like the laden smoke from the burning furnaces of Auschwitz.
Curling, effortlessly. Unstoppable.
Sailing. Patiently. Over, around, and through.
The razor wire…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on January 8, 2014, 6:44 am
Cops & Robbers (6) “About to fall off a Mountain “
June 19, 2011 in Auto-biographical (law enforcement), Sheriff Pilot
About to fall off a mountain
It was the end of a hot sticky, day, and I was on the short drive home.
I’d put the Sheriff’s helicopter back in the hangar, locked up, and departed for the day.
Or so I thought.
I was idly listening to Dispatch, when a strange call to the Patrol Commander drew my attention.
“Lincoln One, Dispatch! “
The familiar, calm voice of the Lootenant came up.
“Dispatch, Lincoln One? “
“Sir, we just had a nine-one-one from two young ladies up somewhere on Bullhead Mountain. They say their two boy friends are about to fall off the mountain! “
The Loot replied what I’m sure we were all thinking.
“That doesn’t make sense. They either have fallen, or they haven’t fallen. How can they be ‘about to fall’? “
I knew the Dispatcher. A calm, very sensible lady. Something wasn’t right.
She continued, with the whole Sheriff’s Office listening in.
“Sir, the line just cut out. They sound very upset. All I could get out of her is that they are somewhere up on Bullhead Mountain…. “
I knew the mountain fairly well. It overlooked Kingman, and the sunsets often framed the long ridge in spectacular colors. It was sizable, and also pretty steep. About to fall? What did that mean?
“Lincoln One, Dispatch! “
“Dispatch, Lincoln Nine? “
“Sir, they just called back again. The connection wasn’t too good, but it seems the two boy friends started to climb a very steep rock face. They are a couple of hundred feet up, and now they are stuck. But it seems they don’t have a good grip, and they are shouting that they are about to fall… “
I braked hard, and pulled over to the side of the road. I guessed what was coming.
“Air One, Lincoln One! “
“Yes, Sir! “
“Get over there as quick as you can, and see if you can find out what’s going on! “
My tires squealed, and I was racing back to the hangar.
A few minutes later, I was airborne, and streaking over Kingman towards Bullhead Mountain.
I was wondering how I was going to find them. Bullhead Mountain is large, and we had no information as to which side they were on. This could be a needle in a haystack…
The unique advantage of a helicopter is that people see and hear you coming. And you, as the pilot, can see for miles. When you are looking for something unusual, it’s the unusual that catches your eye. In this case, two girls, standing up on a hill, waving a towel, jumping up and down, waving, and generally indicating very much that they wanted to be seen. I headed over, and pulled up in a high hover. There was probably a large question mark floating above the helicopter.
“Okay ladies, I see you, now WHAT is going on…? ”
They were obviously upset, and pointing vigorously further up the mountain. I guessed they had very sensibly come down to a prominent point, once they knew the helicopter was coming. The expressions on their faces were not good. There was serious alarm there. I moved off, slowly winding up the mountain.
I couldn’t see anybody. I was looking, but I couldn’t see a soul.
Then, all of a sudden, as I came over the crest off a hill, down below me, I saw one, then the other.
The white faces that were turned up to me, were terror stricken. Stark terror. There was no mistaking the seriousness of the situation. I could see immediately what had happened. They were very near the top of their climb, but there were no more handholds. It looked as if they were holding on by their fingers and toes, unable to go up or down. Exhaustion was likely also a factor. They were climbing unsecured, no ropes, and the steep fall down to the rocks below was one hundred per cent non-survivable.
“Lincoln One, Air One! “
“Air One, go ahead? “
“Sir, they are indeed about to fall off the mountain. They’re stuck on a steep rock face, near the top. It’s a major fall almost vertically down. Looks like they are holding on by their fingers and toes. And the expressions on their faces are close to complete panic… “
Within seconds, the Search and Rescue Team was being called out. I gave the two climbers a “thumbs up “, and then jerked my thumb over my shoulder. Followed by another thumbs up. I hope they understood what I meant:
“Don’t panic, boys, the cavalry is on the way… “
After that, I was called upon to quickly lead the rescuers to the correct location. Once again, the helicopter was able to perform that function very efficiently. As a “Force Muliplier “, my little girl performed…
It still took time, and the successful rescue was a very close run thing. One of the rescuers, secured in a harness, suspended from a rope, had barely reached one of the lads, when tragedy almost struck. Overcome with exhaustion, the chap actually lost his tenuous grip, and fell. The rescuer, exercising lightning fast reactions, and tremendous physical strength, actually reached out and caught the falling near-victim by his jacket. A tense few seconds, resolved only by a well trained, dedicated, and very skilled Mountain Rescue Team.
The two climbers, shaken and exhausted, were reunited with their girl friends, and I for my part, was delighted to have played a part in the rescue.
I hoped at the time that this was just another example that would show the versatility of the helicopter as a Law Enforcement asset. In the event, I was to discover there were still those in high places who regarded the helicopter as an expensive toy. Pity. It was to be an ongoing battle. The doubters versus the believers.
That same struggle is being waged all over the Law Enforcement Community.
I do know however of two very lucky lads, who, if their opinion was to be asked, would probably say some very positive things, about what it’s like to see a Sheriff’s helicopter coming along, lickety-spit, when you’re hanging from a near vertical rock face by your finger nails…
About to fall off a mountain…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 31, 2012, 10:19 am
A Blip on the Radar (Part 29C) Hotel Excelsior
June 19, 2011 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters), Blip on the Radar
A Blip on the Radar
Part 29(C) “Hotel Excelsior ”
Hotel Excelsior, Manilla, Philippines
June 1997
For once I was a passenger. Flying back to the Tuna Fields, via scheduled airline to Fiji and Papua New Guinea. With a layover for one night at Manilla.
On the approach, gazing down from my comfortable seat in the luxury airliner, sipping a cold beer, I was struck by the squalor of the massive, teeming shanty towns. It looked like thousands of chicken coops, crudely constructed of plywood, wire and corrugated iron metal, had been hastily thrown together. What was also striking, was the way they seemed to have been built slap-bang on top of each other. There were stacks of chicken coops. Mountains of chicken coops. Rolling hills of chicken coops.
And amongst this sprawling mass, this war zone, this hostile landscape of surreal human drama, you could see the combatants, moving about, slowly. You could see children playing, and bicycles weaving their way precariously around the gaping potholes. Cars, too, strained their way, slowly and with difficulty, through this obstacle course, never moving any faster than a snail could jog.
I wondered about this strange infrastructure. I wondered about the health care, sewage treatment, electric supply and education. I puzzled about the Quality of Life. But then I did that a lot anyway, even without such graphic images thrust in my face.
The cab driver was incredibly friendly, too friendly, and bowed and scraped and nodded his head the long way around to my hotel. I pretended not to notice, and tipped him handsomely anyway. His beaming face, and his implied promises of Eternal Friendship, left me wondering how many children he had fathered in this suffocating city. And what kind of father he was. What kind of coop he lived in.
The bellboy at the hotel, young, maybe sixteen, was dressed incredibly dapper in a real bellboy uniform. Like something you would have seen in an old Hollywood movie. With gleaming gold buttons, and white gloves. That he was incredibly proud of his station in Life was obvious, and he was full of boundless energy and limitless enthusiasm. His rapid progress up the stairs, effortlessly lugging my copious luggage, and his spirited chatter, amused me in a puzzled way. He seemed very anxious to know what he could possibly do for my entertainment that night. I was polite, but evasive, my mind elsewhere. I was thinking sadly of my own children, growing up without their Dad, victims of the ever common disease of Divorce.
Not ten minutes later, my door bell rang. I answered the door, puzzled. The bellboy was back, with a tiny girl. She looked twelve years old, but was probably older. Maybe fourteen, or fifteen.
“My sister!”, the bellboy announced, seemingly proudly and sincerely.
“You like her?”
I looked at the shy little girl, her eyes cast downwards. Carefully, she peeped up, and immediately lowered her gaze again. I noticed the attempt at make up, and the bright lip stick, too carefully applied on such a young girl. The thin dress, and the long, elegant, slender neck.
I felt sorry for her. A wave of sorrow.
“You like her?”, the bellboy repeated, briskly and businesslike. He seemed ready to negotiate terms. That this was a routine for him, and that he was adept at his profession, I never doubted.
I looked at her. And then to him. And I know I felt that strange helplessness. When you want to take a child in your arms, not to indulge in your sexual appetite, but to hug and comfort her, like a parent. Like I would have, with my own daughter.
I went to bed, very alone, and very lonely. I spent a long time, staring up at the ceiling fan. Turning, turning. I thought of the children of Manilla. The children of the world. My own children. And this crazy, crazy life, in which kindness, compassion and gentleness exist, side-by-side, with incredible exploitation, greed, cruelty, and bestiality.
Crazy world.
Turning, turning…
* * * * * *
The Solomon Hotel, Honiara, Solomon Islands
September 1997
We watched the procession through bleary, alcohol blurred eyes. Unbelievable. Was that guy ever going to stop? When is enough, simply, enough?
Jiminy cricket…
One of our Tuna Head colleagues had an arrangement going with the hotel porters. Every half an hour or so, sometimes every forty five minutes, they would present to him two to four local lasses. They would line up beside his table, or outside his hotel room, and silently stand under his scrutiny.
He would nod approvingly, or shake his head, and the chosen maidens would be escorted by a porter to his room. Our hero would down his current drink, and disappear upstairs to exercise Junior. After the required interlude, he would re-appear at the table, and order more drinks. He always appeared bushy tailed, cheerful, and obviously well satisfied. Everybody seemed well pleased with the arrangements. The porters, well tipped, so he told us, were all smiles. The bar staff, all smiles. The hotel manager, bowing and scraping, all smiles…
My room was right beside his. I couldn’t help but observe the ritual procedure myself, as handled on his door step. The porters would arrive at his door with three more candidates. They would knock on the door. He would open it, dressed in a flaming red bath towel. Two or three girls would file out past him, all smiles and clutching dollar bills. He would barely nod at them, more interested in the new comers. The selection made, he would disappear inside with the new comers.
In between the action, he would take a break, and re-join us for drinks.
I thought of the old sea captain, and his poem…
And I knew, I couldn’t do it.
Not for lack of lust, or libido, or hormones.
But for lack of coldness.
I guess I care too much…
turning, turning…
* * * * * * *
Hotel Excelsior, Manilla, Philippines
June 1997
Breakfast, the following morning…
And across from me sits a well dressed Westerner, French from his accent, in an expensive suit. He is some kind of engineer, it seems. He is meeting with a similarly dressed gentleman, and the two are engaged in a serious business conversation. Notes, computer print outs, and bright folders litter the table. When they order more coffee, or extra toast, their voices are loud and peremptory. The waiters rush to comply, fawning obsequiously. I imagine the Frenchman is a pillar in his community back home, and that his fine wife and his many children are very much in awe of him.
Beside him sits the bellboy’s little sister. She is quiet, and says little. Her face looks crumpled, and the lip stick looks smudged. Her face is pale. She has not slept much. I notice her dress seems torn.
From time to time, the Engineer looks down at her, in an irritated way, and asks if she wants more Coca- Cola. Shyly, she nods a yes, and sips carefully at the straw.
I feel sick, and I want to scream. I want to rush at the French Engineer, kick him in the nuts, and claw his bloody eyes out.
And I think of the wise old sea captain, and his poem…
turning, turning…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 27, 2012, 7:11 pm
A Blip on the Radar (Part 29B) An Old Sailor’s Poem
June 19, 2011 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters), Blip on the Radar
Photo: Advocates for Human Rights
A Blip on the Radar
Part 29B: An Old Sailor’s Poem
I remember reading a poem, written by an old seaman. An old tuna fishing captain. In it, he reminisced. About the old days, when Yellow Fin tuna were so large, that the sailors working the nets below the nets being dragged aboard would be understandably nervous. The nets would pass up over the power block, thirty feet in the air, and many fish would be entangled with the nets, only to fall down at the worst possible moment. The sailors would cast frequent glances up, lest a 200 or 300 pound monster Yellow Fin specimen would come crashing down on top of them. Occasionally, men got killed that way. A not infrequent occurrence in the old days. But now, he wrote in his poem, sadly no more. He worried about the impact of over fishing…
And he also wrote of the impact of new money, Tuna Dollars, on the social fabric of ancient communities.
I knew what he meant…
And through his words, you could find yourself wondering about the stresses in old, traditional communities. When a wife, girl friend or sister, could earn more in three nights’ work, than their husband, father or brother could make in a year. Practicing the oldest profession known to Man…
Can you dismiss it as merely a “different culture”? No problem, no stresses, no unintended consequences?
Can you…?
How does a man really feel about his wife, his girlfriend, his sister, his mother… when he knows she has been with a total stranger? Not for love, not for caring, not for affection, but for Dollars?
And what does such mercenary, mechanical love making do – if anything – do to, or for, our fair daughter, with the white, almost transparent dress, billowing softly in the evening sun, framed against the light, with the doe like eyes, soft, deep, and oh!….
so inviting…?
I don’t know. I don’t judge. But I know I wanted her, furiously, with a deep, aching masculine intensity. And I know I exchanged pleasantries, complimenting her on her dress, and making nonsensical small talk. And then I passed by, trudging on, my seemingly so composed exterior, almost aloof, perhaps perspiring more than normal, belying the internal fluttering of a thousand agitated demons.
I found refuge in a bar, ordered a double brandy, the first of several, and I know my hand that reached for the glass, trembled perhaps unsteadily…
* * * * * *
Predictably, a year later, I found myself back on that same little island. Only this time, I got a ride in a beaten up old Mazda pickup truck. As we came down the dusty main road into town, carefully avoiding the worst of the pot holes, I saw the girl in the white dress, standing, waiting for business. As we approached, her eyes passed cursorily over the familiar truck, and went back to staring down the road.
Soon I was sitting outside the same bar, with a glass of brandy, and a cigar. Slowly I drank and smoked away the twilight, and watched the girl in the white dress, ply her trade. From the gathering shadows, I watched the smile and the curtsey, as potential business rolled by. And I watched the tired, bored, strained look of frustration when she thought nobody was observing her.
I watched a man approach her eventually, but from their casual banter, it was obvious that this was not trade. It seemed to me it was her husband, her boyfriend, or her brother, casually inquiring how things were going. She, her eyes fixed on the road coming from the port, replied something in an offhand manner. Maybe she was going to stay for a while longer. And then she’d be home. He, for his part, seemed totally at ease with her, in a familiar manner, and nodded patiently. I could only imagine the conversation.
“All right, dear, I’ll see you in a while then… maybe…”
Did he work? That quiet young man? Was there work for him, in that little place? Or did he just rely on the girl in the white dress? What did that arrangement DO to his… his….
And I reflected, quietly, on the old sailor’s poem. And his worries, about the impact of the mighty Tuna Dollar, on old, traditional, but “still developing” societies. To use a well worn euphemism.
Developing…
Which way…?
* * * * * *
King Solomon’s Hotel, Honiara, Solomon Islands.
Winter 1997…
There’s a nasty gale blowing outside, but inside, in the large hotel, animated conversations. There’s a whole gaggle of Tuna Heads in port, and they are all here, two dozen of them, drinking, telling bar stories, waving arms around the sky to illustrate flying stories, and generally whooping it up.
The bar tenders and management love us. They roll out the red carpet every time. We are not merely good for business. We’re fuk’n excellent…
For some reason, that I can never fathom, everybody knows me, or of me. I get brand new Tuna Heads coming up to me, First Trippers, hand outstretched, big smiles, saying:
“Hi Moggy,pleased to meet you,I’ve heard a lot about you…”
And the beer would flow…
And I would always smile, and privately worry to myself. Me? What’s so special about me? Nothing. Just another Tuna Bum, a Foreign Legionnaire, an Outcast from Polite Society, trying to make a living.
“Hey, Maria! Gimme a cuddle, darling! ”
“Bartender! Another round for EVERYBODY, Okay?? “
Sure, I’ve been known to get a little drunk, and then a little rowdy. And I’ll admit to climbing the tallest lamp posts I can find, when I’m like that. And dancing on the tables. And singing Irish rebel songs. And I know the girls like me. Heck, I like the girls… But that’s just… normal Tuna Fields stuff, right? Right…?
Absolutely.
And the beer and the hormones would flow…
The flying stories would get louder, and more outrageous, and then for some reason, we would be surrounded by the local girls. They would descend on us in droves. Some were kind of ugly. Some were nice enough. But many were drop dead, catch-your-breath, Holy-Smokes, roll the hormones, frickin’ GORGEOUS.
(Yep. UH-HUH. Yep-yep-yep. Oh, and please, for fux sake…)
JUNIOR!!!
(sigh)
DOWN, BOY, DOWN!!
And the beer and the hormones would flow…
(to be continued)
Francis Meyrick
©
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 27, 2012, 7:08 pm
A Blip on the Radar (part 29A) The Hookers are coming
June 12, 2011 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters), Blip on the Radar
Photo: Jorge
A Blip on the Radar
Part 29(A) “The Hookers are coming “
I remember one night, in port, in Guam.
I was standing quietly alone, away up on the helideck, above it all, just taking in Nature. The dark sky, the lights of Guam, the hustle and bustle on the working decks below, the noise of the generators, and the swish and clanking of unseen cables, pulleys and anchor chains. The odd, muffled, barked command via the impersonal medium of the public address system. There was an air of expectation below. The crew was excited.
The hookers were coming…
As was not an uncommon occurrence, the ship owner had come down from Taiwan, visiting the ship. He had made a mint from months of good catches. A few million, give or take. The crew, most earning a basic of $200 a month plus a (small) (tiny) share of the catch, were receiving a bonus. A gaggle of comfort girls were on the way in a bus. The sailors, randy and over excited, had spent unusual effort on their own make up. They were mostly showered, carefully dressed, and occasionally you could smell a most unusual odor for the Tuna Fields: eau de cologne…
It was not the first time I had been asked by the captain, quietly and in private, if I wanted my own comfort girl for the night.
“I get you nice girl, Moggy, very high class…”
I always politely declined, the captain would nod understandingly, and the matter would rest there. On one occasion, after a particularly successful run of good fishing, and some good (ahem!) helicopter support, both the ship owner and the captain had offered me a trip to Taiwan. All expenses paid. ALL… expenses.
“You come to Taiwan, Moggy, we take care of you. We get you many beautiful girl. Very nice, Moggy, very nice…”
I had politely declined again. Gravely, understandingly, they had nodded once more, and left the matter there.
The mini bus pulled up alongside the ship, and I watched the doors being opened. Presently, here they came, trotting along, maybe six or seven of them, escorted by two minders. All wore high heels, on which they walked uncomfortably, as if they lacked practice. Their dresses attempted to be black, slinky and tight, but there was something just not very elegant about them. Their blouses, and the cheap jewelry, and the required ample slits and open buttons, combined to create something tacky, un-classy, and mass produced.
But it was their expressions that struck me the most. Underneath the caked make up, applied indelicately, with a shovel instead of just a trowel, the actual face that stared ahead, zombie like, was devoid of emotion. No joy, no curiosity, no anticipation, no light. No humor, no sense of self, no spirit.
Onto the deck they were paraded, like dumb mutton, and the hard staring sailors, silently, formed a hungry circle around them. Alone, unseen, I watched from the shadows above. It was like a mime. A play. Little was said. Selections were made. I worked it out that the ratio was about four or five sailors to every hooker. Four or five… severely frustrated sailors, for every… comfort lady. I wondered what it could be like, being one of those girls, and arriving at yet another ship, facing yet more sexually rampant sailor boys, walking down into the bowels of yet another impersonal, noisy, steel, bolted cage. And being grabbed, roughly, stripped, groped, maybe beaten and violently entered and taken. I could imagine the laughter, the jeers and cat calls from the onlookers, and the competitive urge of the male species when showing off his prowess to his ship mates. That had to be ugly… It was a helluva way to make a living.
I had seen enough of the world to know that different cultures are different. I don’t judge, from the heights of some self assumed position of wisdom and magnificence. The world is the world. And what that means, is that we look and we see, and we make our own choices. We choose how we live, if the world leaves us that choice. Sometimes, it does not…
And I wondered about the stories I had heard of girls illegally transported into Guam and the USA, to satisfy the demands of the sex industry. I wondered about the girls without papers, without a passport, without roots, without an identity. I wondered if they aged prematurely in their spirits, and shriveled up, becoming robots, zombie-like, plying the oldest trade known to Man. I wondered about the massage parlors, and the strange -for me – atmosphere of unreal relations. Being a licensed US driver, I had on occasions obliged the captain by playing cabbie. And in that role, I had found myself sent to different addresses, to pick up some of the ship’s officers. The privileged ones, who were allowed to leave the ship in port, and take comfort where ever they wished. I would find myself in the reception area of some massage parlor, and always there would be gentle flowers there, and pretty prints of pagoda’s, and kimono clad geisha girls wandering some carefully manicured Oriental gardens.
I would ring the bell, and out would walk a creature of comfort, dressed elegantly, more or less, with make up applied, and some kind of silver and gold accoutrements. With never a smile. Just that blank, mechanical face. And I would ask politely for the ship’s Navigator, or the Radio Operator, or the Captain. In due course, said person would put in an appearance, putting the last touches to his hair, or straightening his collar. Unsmiling. Never, ever a smile. Hardly a goodbye. And I would drive him back to the ship, and puzzle about this joyless, mechanical love making.
That night, a few hours later, the hookers trooped off the ship. They staggered a little more than before, on their high heels. Tottering along, their make up smudged, mascara running, and their hair unruly. The odd button appeared to be missing, and the odd skirt appeared to have suffered a mishap along the way. But what I remember the most was the complete absence of smiles.
No waving, no laughter, no goodbyes.
* * * *
There were the lighter moments, occasionally.
There was the massive party we had in the Windjammer Hotel, in Wewak, Papua New Guinea. I describe the whole evening’s bizarre entertainment (including my attempt to stick my head in a crocodile’s mouth) in Blip on the Radar (15), Beautiful American Film Star. And our cook will probably never forget his ordeal when he lost all his clothes, and was left naked, penniless and alone in a foreign port where nobody spoke his language. I describe that little affair in Blip on the Radar (9) Deck Boss have big problem.
And then there was the time my girlfriend came to visit Guam, and we met up with the Captain and his high class hooker. This one had real class, perfect make up, and spoke really good English. Her Oriental features really suited the under stated make up she wore, the gentle shading, and the soft lips. She was beautiful, and intelligent. Her figure was perfect, and her smile refreshing. I couldn’t help wondering how much she was costing our experienced connoisseur captain.
Soon he and I were absorbed in our usual intense conversation about fishing, the best use of the helicopter, and the finer techniques related to herding fish into the nets. My girlfriend seemed to be hitting it off just fine with his companion, and was engaged in animated discussion. It was only afterwards, as we left the diner, that I noticed a slight frown on her face. Did she like the girl, I asked? Oh, yes, she said, and relapsed into a thoughtful pose. It was just… Well, she said to me, you should have warned me.
Warned you? Warned you of what?
It emerged that my girlfriend had enjoyed the conversation, but had apparently assumed that this was the captain’s WIFE. Accordingly, she had asked, innocently:
“When are you going back to Taiwan?”
The conversation had then followed this delicate path.
“When are you going back to Taiwan?”
“Oh, no, I stay in Guam.”
“No, but when the captain sails again, when are you going to go back to Taiwan?”
“No, I stay in Guam.”
“But… but… oh, I see…”
(sound of penny dropping… CLINK…!)
* * * * *
There was the time I came off a boat on some small island somewhere in the vast Pacific. It was late in the evening, I was tired, I was hungry, and I was lonely. As I trudged my weary way up the hill from the port, intent on finding a bar and some good brandy, I was met by a truly beautiful island girl. She wore a shimmering white dress, which was made of a very light material. You could almost see through it. In the slight sea breeze, that ruffled her dress suggestively around her supple, sun tanned figure, with her long slender legs, all set off by the setting sun behind her, I was struck by her wonderful silhouette. When she spoke, softly, her voice was gentle and coy, unassuming and almost submissive.
“Good evening, Master, is there anything I can do for you…?”
And with that, she dropped her eyes, and almost bowed. And my heart stopped.
I am a creature of flesh and blood, and I groaned in my spirit. Part of me wanted her, intensely, passionately, and without any other consideration. I tried to ignore a part of my anatomy, that was suddenly stirring violently and recklessly.
Sigh…
Junior was now in full mode of combat, and there was nothing I could do about the little devil. He has a mind of his own. I remember studying her, the perfect picture of sensuality and femininity, with the rays of the setting sun gently caressing her lithe body…
What… was I to do?
Francis Meyrick
©
(to be continued)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 27, 2012, 7:07 pm
The Oystercatcher, who silently cried out for help
June 9, 2011 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)
with thanks to KT Silvershark
The Oystercatcher, who silently cried out for help
(For Joanne)
Back in the early nineties’ I went through one of Life’s rough patches.
As happens, often enough, with all rough patches is that you think your world has ended. Finito La Musica. Nothing will ever be right again. It’s all over. Life, in the meaningful, traditional, stable sense, is finished. Ahead, only the bleak and the hopeless. Behind, only the barren memories of betrayal, hurt, deceit and disappointment. Then… something happens. It can be a small thing, that sets you off, thinking on a more positive note. But out of that ‘Eureka’ moment, out of that forgotten seed, sometimes you get an unexpected growth. A blossoming of a whole new awareness. The slow, but steady realization that, yes, one door has indeed closed. With a loud, slamming noise. Hard in your face. Painful. Massively unfair and unjust. How-ever…
Now that you have the time to glance around, guess what… lots more doors to try. Interesting doors. New horizons. New frontiers to explore. And somehow I learned -eventually- (for I am a slow learner) that Life is a constant cycle of Birth, Death and re-Birth of Awareness. That experience counts. That one whole part of the secret is to “go and get your ticket’s worth”. Like a ticket to the cinema, or a ticket for a bus ride, we all have a ticket to ride the amazing up drafts and down plunges of Life.
Oddly, in the midst of my rough patch, when I was very much down, both in the emotional and spiritual sense, an Oystercatcher came calling on me. Most unexpectedly.
Now Oystercatchers are wading birds. They are lively, and lots of fun to watch. They hunt on the shore edge, through puddles in rocky cracks, and mess about in the surf. On the rocky little island off the North coast of Scotland, where I was staying, there are hundreds and hundreds of them. Sometimes they gather in large numbers, swooping and swirling, and kicking up quite a ruckus. As their name implies, their diet includes oysters, mussels, and small fish. Further inland, they’ll go after worms. They vary in color from all black to black and brown, to black on top and white underneath. This particular one, who I shall call Horatio, was black on top, and bright white underneath and on his body.
with thanks to smsc4him
I first saw Horatio standing forlornly beside the road, near to the cottage I was staying in. He was still there when I passed by some hours later. He had barely moved. Towards the evening, well, blow me down, he was STILL there. That was most unusual. Oystercatchers have busy schedules, places to see, puddles to explore, dinner engagements to keep. They also have the social meet ups to attend, where everybody swoops around, makes lots of noise, and generally has a blast. What was he doing standing sadly by the road? I stopped the car, and was struck by his misery. I know that sounds hard to believe, but there was an unutterable lack of vitality about him. A broken spirit. A free bird bereft of any will to be. Free.
Slowly, I got out. He looked at me, wearily. He didn’t fly away, or even move away.
What’s wrong with you, dude? Not having a good day?
I beamed the question, silently, with kindness, puzzled by this highly abnormal behavior. In reply, he just looked at me. Slowly, I moved closer. He didn’t retreat. I found myself talking to him, the way I have talked to all kinds of animals, ranging from horses to dogs. In a low, quiet voice. I’m sure, whatever else, I didn’t sound threatening. But birds are frightened of humans… and farmers have been known to shoot at them… any second now, he should fly off quickly.
But Horatio stood his ground, eying me with what seemed to me an intense sadness. Even as I quietly approached, slowly, slowly, I became increasingly aware that something was very wrong.
It was only when I was less than ten feet away, that I spotted the wire, wrapped tightly around one leg. I could see it was wound tight, all the way up the leg to his under belly. Really tight, cutting off the circulation. And all of a sudden, I sensed pain. Massive, soul destroying pain. And suddenly I started to understand. Horatio was losing the will to live. He didn’t care anymore. The approach of a strange creature on two legs, tall and unknown, was normally a serious threat, guaranteed to provoke a flight reflex… But in the circumstances, it was just the final straw on a day from hell.
Or was there something else?
Now I was standing in front of him, barely three feet away, still talking softly. I was a little worried about his formidable bill. I didn’t fancy the risk of displeasing the poor fellow, to where he would have a stab at me with his oyster-and-mussel shattering personal tool. But Horatio seemed past all fight. He just stood there, hunched up pitifully, resigned to my presence. Slowly, slowly, I bent down, and lifted him up. He barely struggled.
Did he sense I didn’t wish to hurt him?
I looked at the wire. It was bad. Wound round and round, multiple times. How could that have happened? I needed another person. There was no way I could hold Horatio comfortably, to reduce his stress, and work on the wire. I headed to a neighbor’s house. The lady of the house saw me coming, and opened the front door instantly. Concern, pity, and a desire to help, were written all over her kind face.
“Bring him through to the kitchen”, was all she said.
In her kitchen, with me holding poor Horatio, Elizabeth carefully worked on the problem. We both winced every time another coil was forced free, and Horatio kicked feebly in my arms. Eventually she produced a set of cutters, and we continued to carefully pry the wire loose. Throughout his ordeal, Horatio, inside the strange nest of even more strange creatures, hardly budged. Only when there was a sudden jerk, caused by a segment of wire springing slack, did he wince, as if in grave pain.
“He might die”, Elizabeth said. “He’s weak, and he may not have eaten for days. He can’t have hunted like that…” Her sorrow was palpable.
Eventually, Horatio’s leg was free of the torture device around his leg. Limp and spent, he lay in my arms.
“What shall we do…?” I asked, sadly. The nearest vet was a long way away. A ferry ride, and a drive. And the last boat had already left the island. There would not be another ferry until the following morning. By then, the stress of captivity, as with his general condition, might have proved to be fatal.
I decided to carry him down to the rocky beach, release him, and see what happened. If he was obviously unable to survive alone, I could re-think our strategy from there.
It was a long walk, and Horatio seemed to be getting heavier and heavier. I walked over rocks and past puddles, to the water’s edge. He was home now, even if he was too tired to react to it. His head was bobbing around now, taking it all in.
Eventually, I stood him down, gently, and stepped back a few steps. He turned around and looked at me.
“Come on, lad, you’re on your own now… action…!”
He stared at me, thoughtfully. I worried that he was too weak, too far gone.
“Attaboy, young fellow! Meal-time! Din-dins! Go get yourself a nice mussel, eh?”
He looked around at the rocks and the sea. Then he looked at me. I held my breath. And suddenly, amazingly, he spread his wings, and flew straight up into the sky. It staggered me, the sudden elegance, the instant control, the fluidity of the transformation from a shuddering, forlorn, pain wracked cripple to a free denizen of the Skies. I stood there, with my mouth open, watching him swoop, and turn, and glide, and bank over hard, and rocket across the sky.
Wow…
After a few minutes, he surprised me again, by landing back on a rock near me. Despite having the whole beach available, hundreds of acres, he chose to land back right beside me. Why? It was not natural behavior. He studied me for many seconds, calmly, searchingly, knowingly. I held my breath, awed. Then, seemingly at last satisfied, he strolled down to a small pool. It was almost as if he wanted me to understand something. To learn something. I didn’t know the moment in time would become etched, indelibly, into my psyche. Never quit. We are all part of a much Greater Entity. The Great Cosmic Kindness.
Soon he was fishing, and busy looking for a tasty morsel. It seemed the right time to quietly depart. The last I saw of Horatio, he was up to his knees, wading through a rocky pool, with supper on his mind. It was as if, for all the world’s cares, nothing had ever happened…
* * * * *
I’ve often thought of Horatio. And when the Oystercatchers would be at it, playing, kicking up a shindig, or quietly laughing at all the strange two legged creatures below… I’ve often wondered, if old Horatio was up there as well, having a good time, and looking forward to his next meal of fresh oyster.
And I would wonder if he looked down upon flightless Man, tethered down by his own lead baggage, and felt a little sorry for him.
The allegorical element didn’t escape me either. The element of rising again. Picking yourself up after hard times. Pain. Needless suffering. To fly again. To greater heights than ever before. The appreciation of the purity of Light, made possible, enabled, augmented, strengthened…
perversely…
by the Multiple Black of Blind, Uncaring Night.
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 25, 2015, 9:58 am