Francis Meyrick

A Blip on the Radar

Blip# 35 “Die with the Dolphins (2) ”

Surrounded and blinded by bubbles, he thought only of his mouthpiece. Experimentally, he sucked air, and relief flooded through him as his lungs expanded normally.
The bubbles occasioned by his mighty splash entry abated a little, and now he could see that he was on his side, still heading down beneath the waves. Now he could see the black ominous net below him, spreading out like a malevolent creature, that probed into the pale blue distance. Visibility underwater was surprisingly good. But something was wrong. He seemed to be popping back up to the surface too fast. He was too light…
Instinctively, he reached down to check his weight belt. It was gone. His crazy, wild, slithering , splashing entry must have somehow jerked the release lever. His first thought was:

“Well, that’s the end of THAT! “

It would be impossible to dive, and swim the depths, without the weights. Then he looked underwater. There, caught in a fold of the net, lay his blue weight belt! He tried to swim down, but was unable to. There was still air in his jacket, plus he was now in a state of positive boyancy. He looked back towards the ship, and realized that if he would only swim back a few yards, that he could then grab the net, and probably lever himself down hand-over-hand towards where his weight belt lay…

It took some effort but soon, head down, he had managed to pull himself along, hand over hand towards the fold that contained his target. He had to extend his arm completely down into the fold, and was aware as he did so that the net was extended tight and being hauled inwards rapidly. His hand closed over the belt, and, relieved, he swam further away from the ship, watching the net falling away into the abyss. He re-donned the weight belt quickly, mentally grateful to his old instructor for how often he had practized the same manoeuvre.

The swell was powerful, rocking him back and forth, and he quickly dumped more air from his BCD to sink deeper down into the blue depths. Visibility was good to astonishing. Maybe eighty to a hundred feet or so. His depth gauge read twenty feet, and now he could concentrate on finding the dolphins. He had no idea what he would do if and when he did find them, beyond some hazy idea of helping them find a way out.

A few minutes later he was down to fifty feet, and he had swum some distance from the ship.
He knew the net extended down to one hundred and fifty feet, and, at this stage, the set was still three or four hundred meters in diameter. It was a large volume of water, equivalent to a reasonable size office block. Somewhere within this building of nets and water, he had to find a handful of dolphins.
More time went by, and some small fish came by in loose formation. They had two horizontal blue stripes down their sides, and yellow forked tails. He wished he knew what they were.

Still on he swam, slowly and deliberately, both exultant and fearful in his aloneness. He knew he was inside a closed purse seiner net, but he could not see any part of it. Somewhere below him was an ominous floor of black, shiny net. Somewhere ahead of him was an impenetrable wall of net. But for now, he was alone in the sea, with no man made influence visible anywhere.
Still on he swam, searching everywhere, marveling at the uniqueness of the experience.

A school of Yellow Fin tuna went past below him. Several hundred fish, including some larger specimens each well over three feet. They swam in formation, still unhurried, with no sign of panic or bewilderment. That, unfortunately, would come later, he knew. Other fish appeared and disappeared. Some Skipjack tuna went by, smaller, but moving faster than the Yellow Fin. Still there was no sign of the opposite wall of net.
A shadow appeared in the distance, maybe eighty feet away. A large shadow. Another joined it, and then another.

A mental picture of sharks disturbed him. In his imagination, a large Oceanic White Tip shark was even now bearing down upon him. He had seen them before, whilst hovering low in the helicopter over a stricken humpback whale. The unusually large, smoothly rounded fins with white tips were unmistakable. Three of them had been tearing into the whale, which had blood pouring from a gaping wound. He knew the White Tips fed on Tuna and Mahimahi, and sometimes were attracted to the blood from the nets of purse seiners. He hoped none were about on this day.
The two shadows disappeared, and he changed course, and swam in their direction.

More minutes went by, until he started to wonder if he had in fact somehow swum out of the set. The disturbing thought came into his mind that he was now out in the open sea, heading away from the ship, being carried swiftly along by dangerous unknown currents. It seemed astonishing that he still had not reached the other side.

Then, almost as he was seriously considering reversing course, the net wall came into view. He swam up to it, and marveled at the oddness, the strangeness, of this geometrically perfect structure that reared up from unseen depths to an unseen top. At his depth, he could see neither top nor bottom, only an impenetrable, cruel, unfeeling wall of small, impersonal, mosaic like rectangles. His eyes seemed to play tricks on him as he tried to judge distance. The closer he swam to the net, the more his eyes seemed to become confused, causing the net to swim in and out of focus.

Was that what happened to fish, he wondered? Even as he turned away, he caught his breath as a large tan-coloured Manta Ray appeared, heading straight for him. It was the first time he had ever seen one under water, and he fought down an urge to panic. Rays were docile creatures, inoffensive as long as one did not provoke them. Some people liked to stroke them. Still, the ominous flapping winged shape with the long tail made him uncomfortable. He was glad when it changed course slightly. Then, much to his surprise, it aimed straight at the net, and swam full tilt into it! It seemed to really dent the even rectangular shape for a second, but then the wall sprang back to become the cold, impenetrable frontier of before. The ray started to swim along it, its long tail – the last two inches of which were bright white – gliding along behind the rhythmic flapping wings.

He shook himself. It was all so unreal. It was impossible that he was really doing this, diving in a closed purse seiner net, five hundred miles from land, somewhere north of Papua New Guinea in the Western Pacific Ocean…
He retraced his steps, and headed up towards the surface. Maybe the dolphin pup had surfaced again.

Maybe…. Then, suddenly, he saw them. Eight. Ten. Twelve. No, thirteen dolphins, including two pups. Huddled close together, the dolphins seemed indecisive, not knowing which way to go.
Slowly he swam towards them, trying to formulate a plan.
Above all, he must not alarm them. He had to try and swim slowly and smoothly.

And then what? Introduce yourself and shake flippers?

The sarcastic voice was back. A feeling of despair welled up again, increasing as the dolphins moved away as a group, swiftly disappearing into the distance. Once again he set off in pursuit, automatically checking his depth and air pressure. A few minutes later, the story repeated itself. He found the dolphins, huddled together, not moving in any particular direction. He would swim towards them, and they would move off and disappear from sight. Maybe they were nervous of him.
A third and a fourth time the same sequence unfolded, until he was forced to realize he was getting nowhere. All he was doing was reducing his supply of air. Air which he might well need later…

It would be wiser to surface, rest, and wait until the set became much smaller. He kicked slowly upwards, listening to the familiar hiss in his ears as his body outgassed excess nitrogen. He rested for a while at fifteen feet to aid a safe decompression process, and then listened hard for the sound of
a net boat engine. This was his next big worry. Being run over by one of the small net boats, and killed or seriously injured by the propeller. However, from fifteen feet he could see the surface very well.
Although the water carried many man made ship and winching sounds, they were distant. Nowhere could he see a small dark hull cutting through the water, or the powerful throb of a nearby diesel engine.
He decided it was safe to surface, and cautiously kicked upwards. His head broke the water for an instant, and then a large wave broke over him, its force overpowering him totally. He felt like a discarded bottle or can, bobbing about helplessly, at the mercy of far superior forces. Staying calm,
he fully inflated his BCD, and soon he was able to take stock of his surroundings.

He was in the middle of the set, which was still as large as before. He looked towards the ship, from which the tannoy blared forth a stream of angry instructions. They were having some kind of problem, and the winches were stopped. He decided to swim to the edge of the set, and wait things out there. The water was warm, so there was no problem with hypothermia. He could stay in the water a long time.

Fifty yards away, three, no, four dolphins surfaced simultaneously in line abreast, unhurriedly, smoothly, graciously… and dived once more. They were beautiful to watch. Sleek, shiny, harmless, gentle…
they had every right to be there. To live in the sea. To survive.
He groaned inwardly, and tried once more to formulate a plan. When the set became much smaller, maybe he could lean across the yellow bouys that marked the net edge, forcing the net down with his body weight. Then the dolphins might escape that way. It was a plan, anyway.

He studied the yellow buoys, and experimentally grabbed the cable that ran through them. Hauling down with all his strength, he managed to deflect the cable half an inch, whilst raising his body up.
No good. He tried throwing himself right across the cable, bringing his whole weight to bear.
The deflection downwards he achieved was less than six inches. Hopeless. The floats were not even remotely submerged. It was no use. Dispirited, he swam down the line towards a large red buoy.
Every one hundred meters or so, one three foot diameter red buoy helped the fishing master assess how much net he had played out. With no particular plan in mind, he reached one, and tried to climb onto it. After several futile attempts, which involved some clown-like manoeuvres, he gave up, and rested.

How in hell’s name…?

There just seemed no way for a diver to lower the net on his own. It needed some kind of assistance from the ship. Which was not going to come, he knew that…

Thirty minutes went by. The winches were working again, and whatever problem they had had, it had obviously been overcome. The dolphins surfaced at regular intervals, usually several at a time, diving again almost immediately. If it had not been for the terrible fate that he knew awaited them, he would have enjoyed watching the show. He would have been thrilled at his underwater close up observations. People went on very expensive holidays just on the off chance of catching fleeting glimpses of dolphins.
He had met some divers who had excitedly shown him their photographs. Small, distant, blurry specks you needed a microscope for to examine, had been presented as the crown jewels in a privileged private viewing. He had picked up the mood, and oohed and aahed at the appropriate intervals.
What would they say if he told them that he worked on a tuna ship, and saw dolphins quite often? That his ship occasionally murdered them casually, simply because they got in the way of profit making?
That here he floated, helplessly wondering what to damn well do next?

Oh, brother…

He was quitting, that’s what he was doing. He was getting the hell out of this business. He would just fly tourists for fifteen minute rides around Los Angeles, or fly traffic watch up and down the same freeway, or maybe instruct at a school. Anything was better than this…

Fifteen minutes later, the set was smaller again, and he decided to dive once more. This time he located the dolphins easily. They were all together again, all thirteen, seemingly indecisive but still calm. They looked at him as he approached slowly, and this time it was more difficult for them to simply disappear. They moved off, but he swam after them. They moved off again, and still he quietly pursued them. They were even more beautiful than he remembered. No captive dolphin he had ever seen in a small, concrete prison, came near to the splendor of these creatures in their own domain. There was a fluid grace, a supple flowing of a gentle life form, that spoke only of a desire to live in peace. A desire to protect and nurse the young. There was no malice, no badness, no cunning, no calculating intrigue. Just an intelligence that Man will never understand.

One of the dolphins, the largest one, slowly detached himself from the group, and swam slowly and purposefully towards Bob. Amazed, he stopped swimming, and hung there, his eyes almost popping out of his head. He felt no fear, only a force that scrutinised him. Assessed him. Was he a threat?
Did he constitute danger? He wanted to cry out, and shout that he only wanted to help. That the last thing he wanted was to see the dolphins die.
Despair hammered at his brain. He felt a communication between him and the dolphin.
He simply knew its…

feelings?

Impossible…

“Something very strange is happening today. I am worried. There are noises here I do not like. I would like to take my family and swim away. But I cannot. There is something in the water. Something that blocks my way. No matter what way I swim, it is there, blocking my way. I don’t understand it. But I am worried. Worried for my family as well as myself.
Now there is this creature following us. I have never seen one before. I do not recognize it. Is it a threat? Does it want to hurt us? I don’t know. I need to investigate, carefully… “

The dolphin stopped fifteen feet away, and hung there, its head moving slowly from side to side, the watchful eyes clearly assessing Bob Meyrick in his ridiculous, clumsy, lumpy, non streamlined unnatural shape.

“It doesn’t look dangerous… It doesn’t behave very dangerously either… It’s a funny looking fish… looks awfully awkward… however… I’ve got other things on my mind… “

Another dolphin detached itself from the family group, and slowly swam over to join the first one. It too slowly moved its head from side to side, with its eyes watchful and examining.
Side by side the two dolphins scrutinised Bob, who was almost forgetting to breath, so startled and amazed was he at this scene mere feet below the waves.
The two dolphins looked at each other, and then, together, back at Bob. Then they looked at one another again, unhurriedly, and a wordless communication passed back and forth.

“No dear, I don’t think it’s dangerous. It’s not attacking us, or making threat movements, and I don’t think it’s even got any teeth… it’s clumsy too… I wouldn’t take any notice actually… “

Crazy thoughts raced through Bob’s mind. Telepathy? Could the dolphins pick up his thought waves? Could they sense his intentions?
Nonsense! Nitrogen narcosis! He had been down too long!

“I think we should be getting back to the others, dear… this creature is just an oddity… “

They turned away, and headed back to the rest of the group.

“Whatever you say, my love… “

In spite of himself, Bob bounced thoughts after them.
I only want to help… I think you are beautiful…. I’d do anything I could to help, but I just don’t know what… unless we get you out of here, you’re all going to drown…

The minutes crept by, and the set was closing all the time.
Now it was impossible for the thirteen dolphins to evade Bob. But they had far greater worries on their minds now. Horrendous noises cascaded down on them, close and loud. The straining and howling of the winches, the throb and grumble of the engines, even the blare of loudspeaker instructions, all rained down on the dolphins, whose puzzlement at this stage had to be extreme. Still, Bob marveled, their movements were composed, with no sign of panic. Only their heads turned this way and that, frequently
looking upwards at the source of all these strange and unnatural sounds. Sudden sounds, like a sudden howl, or metallic bang, or shouting over the loudspeaker, would cause many heads to turn and look up.
Every so often, four or five of the dolphins would surface, breath, and return back down to the family.

Bob, watching and waiting, was struck by their composure. They had to be concerned, upset, maybe frightened, maybe terrified… but still the mothers stuck close to their young, still the movements were fluid and composed… Only the heads, that turned, this way and that, frequently upwards, showed the level of their apprehension.

Now the skiffboat was arriving. This was no time to surface, and Bob knew it. He hurriedly checked his depth gauge. Twenty feet… he went down to thirty for comfort, and watched and listened as the unmistakable shape of the skiffboat motored in to take up station beside the lower working deck.
Now the top of the set was closing in. It was like a bag, with a narrow opening at the top, and a large, billowing bag slowly being pulled in. Common sense told Bob he should be getting out, but he was unable to leave. The net was now swirling and billowing in strange shapes, with tunnels forming, opening and closing. It was a dangerous place to be. He thought of his knife, and knew that he could always cut his way out. Assuming, his arms were not pinned by the force of cables or nets being hauled in… Every instinct told him he was being stupid, irresponsible, and asking for trouble.
But still he could not tear himself away…

Up to this point, the dolphins had always surfaced in the diminishing set. They had been able to breath, and return to their family. But now, with the top of the bag becoming more and more constricted,
suddenly their route to the surface was becoming blocked by a sloping roof of net. Bob flinched, knowing what had to happen.

The first dolphin to panic found its way upwards blocked, and instead of following the slope up to the small open water between the skiffboat and the mother ship, it tried to ram the net. It headbutted the net with increasing force and desperation, and suddenly its whole body movement spoke of raw panic. It moved desperately to another portion of net, and tried the ramming manouvre again. Bob was already moving towards it, as it slumped for a few seconds, its mouth tangled in the net, but it shot free, swept past him and rammed yet another section of net.
It was as if the panic was contagious. As if the first dolphin communicated its terror to all the others swiftly and with a means wholly unknown to Man.
Within seconds, dolphins were going crazy everywhere. They would ram the net in one place, then shoot off to another, and then shoot back to the first section. Astonishingly, two dolphins remained with the two calves. Only their head movements, now rapid and jerky, demonstrated their anxiety at the surrounding chaos.
Bob, watching in horror, was aware of the net billowing in and out into strange shapes.

This was no place for a diver to be. He decided to surface. Looking up he could see the skiffboat propeller had stopped, and that he could more or less safely ascend. He gave a last look around, despairingly, and
then he saw… the first dolphin succumb. He knew in a flash that it was drowning. Something in the way the head slumped, the mouth tangled in the net, was unmistakable. He swam across, and tried to grab the dolphin. But it was impossible to get a grip on the smooth, silk like surface. Pulling and pushing at the net and the dolphin, he managed to free it, but now the net was collapsing on top of him.
It was as if they were at the end of a tunnel in the net, with the mouth of the tunnel rapidly closing. If he stayed any longer, he would be cutting his way out. Common sense kicked in, and he quickly retreated into the main chamber of the shrinking net. He tried to grab another dolphin, but he could not get a grip. It came suddenly alive, and shot out of his grasp, and rammed the net five yards away.
Yellow Fin tuna and other fish were also beginning to panic now, and were whistling around his head like runaway torpedoes.
His own breathing rate, he realized, was way up. He was gulping air with the tremendous exertion, and now he was down to less than seven hundred pounds pressure. He tried grabbing another dolphin, with some vague idea of guiding it up to the surface, but it easily evaded him, and crashed into the net further on.

If he stayed any longer, he ran all sorts of risks, not the least of which was being crushed by the weight of fish. Helplessly he watched the carnage, for the first time maybe just glimpsing what it must be like for a dolphin to die in a purse seiner net…

It was a bedraggled Bob Meyrick who slowly stripped off his gear, stepped out of his dive skins, and stood, swaying wearily, on the rolling floor of the shower room. He turned on the water, and stood, his eyes closed, under the welcome spray of water that gently washed away the salt.
He wished it could wash away the memories as well.
Out of thirteen dolphins, he had been unable to rescue a single one.
All had drowned.
He had watched their bodies scooped up with the fish, and, one by one, manhandled and dropped carelessly over the side. He had counted, hoping against all the odds that one might have escaped.
He had found himself stroking the last one, feeling its soft skin, wishing that it would revive.
So this was fishing…

That night, he had drunk three cans of beer, instead of the usual one.
He had retired angrily, frustrated, and wondering. Stormy thoughts had tossed through his mind.

What kind of intelligence did dolphins possess? Surely they were capable of feelings.

Maybe deep feelings. The way the mothers had supported their calves, hovering close to them. The way the two dolphins had come to investigate him. The way they had studied him, looked at each other, and then re-joined the group…

What was intelligence anyway?

The ability to split the atom? And bomb Hiroshima?
The ability to develop the micro chip? And become reliant on computers, cellular phones and satellite television?

How about the dolphins’ ability to live in complete harmony with their environment? If it wasn’t intelligent, it was at least more than Man had achieved…
Maybe intelligence required the existence of language. The ability to express ideas and feelings about the present, the past, and the future.
Could dolphins communicate ideas and thoughts to one another concerning the present?
The past? The future?
Who knew for sure?

One thing though, he felt for certain.
Any man who could not appreciate the dolphins, just as they were, with all their agile, sleek beauty, was a man devoid of soul.
Any man who saw dolphins only as minor, irrelevant obstacles on the path towards profits, was to be pitied.

For such a`man was insensitive to his own insensitivity…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 15, 2012, 6:35 am

A Blip on the Radar (Blip# 34)

Note: although this is part of my draft for a novel, it actually truthfully describes an experience I went through. Everything is factual, including the outcome…

DIE WITH THE DOLPHINS (novel excerpt)

He had heard the Fishmaster’s shouted ‘Let Go!’ in the distance, through a haze of sleep, and glanced wearily at his watch. Four thirty in the morning. It was still pitch dark outside. He had decided to snooze on for a short while, and then he had slowly roused himself, showered and breakfasted on porridge and coffee.

It was still a slightly sleepy Bob Meyrick who had appeared on deck, bracing himself against the unnatural lean of the ship. He had casually glanced out at the set, still large at this stage, and instantly come wide awake. A young common dolphin, obviously distressed, was struggling at the surface, gasping and opening and closing its eyes. Even as he watched, horrified, two more dolphins, much larger, surfaced beside the baby, and one nuzzled it tenderly. His gaze raced around the set. He counted four more. That made at least seven dolphins caught in the closed set. It had been three months since he had last seen any dolphins trapped, and that time there had only been two. Both drowned. Seven dolphins inside was the highest number he could remember for a very long time.
He moved quickly to the upper working deck control panel, where the Navigator stood manipulating the levers.
“Hey! Dolphins! Eh? “
He made the traditional hand movement, a rough mimicking of the dolphin’s surfing movement through the sea. The Navigator had nodded, sadly it seemed to Bob, and muttered, almost quietly:
“Many, many! ”
Bob looked out again, and saw four, no, five more dolphins surface simultaneously, line abreast, unhurriedly, diving again almost immediately. He groaned inwardly. Could he help? He thought of his brand new scuba diving gear in his cabin. This was the first time they had trapped dolphins in the set, that he actually had diving gear and tanks on board. But…

He looked at the sea, and winced. There was a four foot swell, with waves breaking in swirling white foam. The wind was not strong, but it was brisk. He only had a total of sixty three dives experience, and none in this kind of sea. Added to which was the ominous, partly unseen hazard of the massive nets, waiting to trap and ensnare the unwary. He glanced at the winches, that creaked and groaned noisily as they strained at the Herculanean task of hauling in the combined weight of cables, chains, nets and fish. He felt frightened at the very thought of entering the water with so many dangers. Besides which, he was alone. The cardinal rule of his PADI training had been to never dive alone… What would his old instructor say if he knew his former student was even remotely contemplating a dive under these circumstances? He would most definitely NOT be impressed…
It was impossible. What could he do? Nothing.
The decision made not to try anything foolhardy, he tried to feel better about himself.
Sorry, Dolphins, wish I could help, but I can’t…
He felt better already. There was nothing he could do, so why fret about it. It was… beyond his control.

The Dolphin pup surfaced again, its beaked mouth pointing up vertically and unnaturally. It appeared to be panting, and struggling for breath. Instantly, at its side, another dolphin appeared, nuzzling it, seemingly supporting it. Coaxing it to breath.
He stared in horror…
In his ears, the crashing, grinding noise of winches, cables and hydraulic systems reached a peak of destructive frenzy, an impersonal apparatus bent only on catching and destroying…

Almost before he knew it, he was flying into his cabin, and ripping out his diving gear. He suited up in a greased blur of speed, and hauled his equipment bag out onto the deck. A second time he flew back, this time to grab the air bottle. Up the stairs to the bridge, round the corner at full speed, swaying dangerously, and panting with exertion. He almost collided with the Fishmaster, who scrutinised him with a quiet stare. He stopped, pointing to the set, making an urgent dolphin hand gesture. He was unaware that more than the gesture or his dive skins, his face spoke volumes. The Fishmaster studied him for a moment, and then nodded, smiling surprisingly warmly.
Bob was already on his way, with a high-pitched, indignant voice hammering through his mind.

“You’re crazy, you know that, don’t you? You’re stark, staring, bonkers! What the heck do you think you’re going to actually do? Pick it up and carry it? It probably weighs as much as you do? How are you going to control it? How are you going to catch it? What about the mother Dolphin? She’s not going to be real pleased with some creature grabbing her pup! What if she headbutts you? What if you get caught in the net? What if you get trapped down there, you big plonker? What about the PADI rules about not diving on your own? “

He assembled his gear in record time, and wondered how and where to enter the water.
The least risky way would be to descend the ladder in the side of the ship away from the nets. Then he could swim around the ship, cross the yellow bouys, and enter the set that way. The more direct way was simply to enter on the net side, but that meant risking God knows what.
Entanglement with nets, cables, steel links….
There was all sorts of stuff there to get caught on…
The voice was back.

“What in heck’s name are you DOING? This is just so stupid, even by YOUR standards, Mister Helicopter Man! You have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for… “

It was obvious that the safest way was also the roundabout way, on the side away from the nets. He looked over the side. It was a ten to twelve foot drop to the water, too much for a giant stride entry. The most he had ever done was maybe four feet. Ten to twelve feet was scary, with the chance of hitting the water really hard. Then again, if he actually sat on the nets, he could possibly just slither down…

“SLITHER DOWN??? You’re five hundred miles out at sea, you’ve never dived in this kind of rough sea,you’ve never dived inside a purse seiner set, and now you want to save a few minutes and SLITHER DOWN THE NET??? You ARE bonkers! “

It wasn’t feasible. There was no way of knowing how the nets were lying. He could get caught and trapped. It was foolhardy. The voice in his head sounded relieved.

“Well, maybe there is SOME sanity left in you then, Bob Meyrick… “

He struggled into his Boyancy Compensator Jacket, and checked his gauges. The small sharp knife peeked somewhat reassuringly from its holster. That was one decision made then. He was going around the sensible way, on the starboard side away from the nets…

A minute later, he was sitting – port side – on top of the nets coming in over the side of the working deck. Surprised sailors were beginning to turn around and look. He studied the swirling water below. Maybe, just maybe, he could slide smoothly down the net like a child down a chute in a playground. It would be about fourteen feet, as the net sloped steeply…
Placing the mouthpiece between his teeth, he drew in a lungful of air, and shoved off.

He got two feet, and something snagged his right flipper. It pivoted him over forwards, and he hit the water with a colossal smack, face first, and completely out of control…

(to be continued)

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 18, 2014, 9:01 pm

A Blip on the Radar

Part 27 (B) “The Quiet Observer”

One day we were told (by a displeased Captain) that we would be receiving an official observer on board ship, who would be making a trip with us. The news was greeted with annoyance by the ship’s officers, and by mild curiosity by the rest of us. We were in port in Papua new Guinea, offloading our cargo. We had not had an observer for years, and the very fact that the Department of Fisheries of Papua new Guinea was sending a duly delegated person to “monitor us” piqued our interest in the coming arrival of this worthy gentleman of import. There was speculation where he would be quartered, and the assumption was that he would have to be berthed in one of the officer’s cabins. After all, this was a V.I.P. representing the Nation of Papua new Guinea, which entity was invested with the power to grant or refuse fishing licenses to humble fishermen such as us.

In the event, his arrival surprised all of us. For some reason, I had imagined a tall black man in a good suit, with a clip board and a University Degree. What actually appeared up the gang plank was a shy, gangly, diffident youth of about twenty one. He was bare foot, with raggedy shorts and a stained T-shirt. For luggage he carried two white plastic shopping bags with his personal belongings. His hand nervously met mine, and he was overwhelmingly ill at ease. The Taiwanese and the Chinese are by nature very polite and respectful, and their inscrutable expressions registered nothing. But behind the mask, I knew there was amazement, contempt and ridicule.
The voyage got underway, and I was the only one who talked with our new ship mate. I found out he had been allocated the worst bunk in the ship, right beside the engine room, with little or no privacy. I also soon realized other things:

1) Our friend was challenged in the personal hygiene department, had a severe case of Body Odor, and didn’t seem to know how to use the showers. At least he never went there, and when he finally did, at my quiet prompting, he had to be shown the hot and cold taps, and how you mix the water flows together to achieve a comfortable temperature. I know, because I was the one that showed him… I knew this hygiene issue alone would seriously offend the Taiwanese and the Chinese, who are scrupulously clean people. Something told me this chap was from a primitive village, and that different cultural norms prevailed. I was deeply sympathetic,

2) Our friend, once you got to know him, and once he trusted you a bit to open up, was fascinating. He spoke softly, but feelingly, about many issues. Tuna conservation, the observer program, his homeland of Papua new Guinea, his struggle to become educated. He turned out to be deeply religious, carried a Bible with him, was intimately familiar with the contents, and carried an Old Testament biblical name. Soon we walked the limited space of the lower working deck for hours, and we talked and discussed a massive variety of subjects.

It was from him I learned that the observer program paid a salary (provided by the boat company) that was excellent by local standards. But that, nonetheless, there were very few volunteers for the post. When I asked why, he told me, with an expressive nod of his head towards the ship’s bridge, that none of the observers were ever made to feel remotely welcome. I knew what he said was true. And I could sense how the cultural divide would discourage the locals. Perhaps it was meant that way, including the cold shoulders, the horrible bunk beside the engine room, and the atmosphere of aloof frigidity. I was the only one who he talked to.

The days went by, and my new friend, who I shall call “Isaiah”, impressed me -hugely- with his knowledge of Tuna conservation issues. When I described to him times when I feared we had disrupted a spawning event, and possibly done major ecological damage, his eyes lit up, and he asked a million questions. When I described to him the rivers of young Tuna, flowing, flowing, across the Ocean, for mile after mile, he was enraptured. I told him I had followed those rivers of Tuna, and that the fish were small to tiny, but that there were millions of them. The rivers were often only twenty yards wide, but I had followed them in my helicopter for ten, fifteen miles, and still not come to the end. Nothing but tiny tuna, nose to tail, swimming their little fins off, going exactly where Mother Nature was guiding them, as they had done for thousands of generations. I told him that we never made a set on them, (they were far too small), but that I had heard other fishermen were not so squeamish. He nodded, understandingly, and told me that is why he was an observer. He was studying, at a college run by missionaries, and he spoke of them with great warmth.
We talked of Papua New Guinea, and his eyes shone with a great pride in his country. He talked, very honestly, about the crime and the corruption, but also about the natural resources and the endless possibilities. He talked about his people, and the future. I saw him quietly happy, and softly sad. He was amazingly aware, and amazingly interested.
His knowledge of the Bible was astounding. We would move on to the subject of God and Man, and the meaning of Life. He would pull out his Bible from a well stained pocket, and instantly flick to the passage he wanted. That he, in his way, loved his God, was clear to me as the stars in the skies. I admired him for it, or perhaps I envied him. I don’t know.
A few weeks had passed, and meanwhile his treatment on board had not changed. People pulled faces behind his back. Or held their noses. The ship’s officers simply ignored him. He was tolerated. That was all. When we caught fish, he would be there, observing, and occasionally taking measurements. He had no camera, which surprised me.

The day it happened, luckily I was there to see the whole thing go down. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I had landed half an hour earlier, and the ship had made a successful set. We had about a hundred tons of large Yellowfin in the net. At $1,700 a ton at that time in the nineties, (more today), the value of the fish caught in the net was a cool $170,000. The captain was at the hydraulic control panel on the middle deck, which looks down on the lower working deck, where all the fish are being brought in. From there the captain controls the nets, and barks his orders (usually with a lot of histrionics) over the public address system. I was standing there watching, and so was the Deck Boss. Our quiet observer was standing silently in his usual spot, ten yards away. Observing.

Suddenly some dolphins surfaced in the net. About four of them. They too were caught in the net. I sighed to myself. Not good. In the western half of the Pacific, dolphins and porpoises follow the tuna, and used to be caught in the nets and killed by the hundreds. Environmentalists successfully raised an outcry, and the fishing boats were forced to put in dolphin escape hatches, and employ sailors to specifically help those mammals escape. That reduced the death toll dramatically.

In the eastern half of the Pacific, where we were, for some strange reason, dolphins and porpoises do not follow the tuna anywhere nearly as much. Which is why we rarely caught them in the net. You would go for a month, six weeks, without catching any. If you did catch them, most would escape by simply hopping over the floating cork line. I have even seen a small whale crawl out over the cork line. An extraordinary sight. But if the dolphins had pups with them, then the risk of death became acute. The adults would not leave their pups. I had risked my life one day trying to save two pups and five adults, all to no avail. I couldn’t get a grip on them.
So now I watched, sadly, these four dolphins. I hoped they would escape. But it was a fifty-fifty chance. I always wondered why the captains would not release the nets (let the catch go) ever, under any circumstances. Even if they only had four ton of Tuna in the nets, or just one ton, they would not let them go for the sake of twenty dolphins. Now, with a hundred ton of valuable large Yellowfin in the net, these four dolphins were on their own. There was no way, Jose, this captain would ever release the nets and kiss goodbye to $170,000. No way…

Isaiah was there in a flash. His face was stern. I had never seen that expression before. Not on the little black dude from Papua.

“Release!”

His finger pointed authoritatively at the nets. He stood stock still and his gaze never left the captain’s face. The captain looked totally flummoxed. The Deck Boss opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again. I carefully suppressed a snicker, and quickly turned my face to neutral.

This is going to be interesting…

The captain stared at him, his hands on the controls. Then he looked at his deck boss. The deck boss looked baffled. Then the captain looked at Isaiah. Then the captain looked at me. I looked back. Careful not to show any expression at all.

“Release!”

Isaiah was rock firm. The finger was still pointing. His face was granite.
The captain licked his lips. Looked at his deck boss. Looked at me.
$170,000.
One-hundred-and-seventy-thousand-dollars.
The captain looked bemused. He looked again at the black, granite face beside him. He started to say something. Mutter a protest. Thought better of it.
There was a clank. The sound of chains rattling.
The nets were opening.
The dolphins were saved.
I wanted to cheer. It was tough, keeping a straight face, when in reality I was busting my ass laughing…

* * * * *

Isaiah stayed with us for one trip, and we never encountered any more dolphins. Nor did we catch any under size specimens. Nor did we disrupt any spawning grounds. If we had encountered any rivers of young Tuna, swimming nose to tail for miles and miles, I know they would have been perfectly safe with Isaiah on board.
I was the only one who said goodbye to Isaiah, as he stepped off the ship at Wewak. I shook his hand warmly, and wished him every success further. I wonder where he is today, but I hope his fellow countrymen have realized his great potential to lead a new way ahead for Papua new Guinea.

Francis Meyrick
©

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 19, 2016, 6:08 am

Photo by Wayne Sutherland

A Blip on the Radar

Part 27A: “Musing about Mother Earth “

A) Environmental issues

Most people are vaguely aware of the many threats to our little planet home we call “Earth”. Depending on your outlook, you care a lot, a little, or not at all.It’s hard sometimes to even begin to grasp the enormity of the stakes. All we can say with a certainty is that Man has it within his power to -at least temporarily – alter his surroundings very dramatically. Often for the worse.
You’ll notice I qualified that statement cautiously. “At least temporarily”. Why?

My personal opinion holds that Man is an extraordinarily short sighted and limited creature. And also stunningly arrogant. We forget that Mother Nature, or Planet Earth, or our environment, has been around for many millions of years. Our planet has raged with volcanic fires, frozen under miles of ice, and been swept by all engulfing tsunamis. This little rock, hurtling through Space and Time, is being bombarded with dangerous ultra violet rays. She has seen – almost overnight – the wholesale demise of previously arrogantly dominant species. All of a sudden… things changed. Our planet survived. Altered, changed, matured perhaps… But she survived.

How now these strange, two legged creatures?
That exist a mere instant, and are gone? That repeatedly fail to show respect for the endless cycles of Time? That repeatedly demonstrate a strange lust for power, conquest, dominance, wealth… even at the obvious cost to their fellow creatures and their Ancient Mother?
And so it is with our Oceans. Those vast expanses of our planet, that feature in most minds as irrelevant wastelands of wet. The Oceans, I tell you, are lush gardens. If you ever have the privilege of learning how to scuba dive, you will quickly fall in love with this new dimension. I have dived all over the Oceans, often and unwisely alone (I had no companions), and marveled at the diversity of Life. The richness and variety of the species of creatures that inhabit our dwindling rain forests, is only a small fraction of the bewildering variety of Life in the Eternal Seas. It is a different world down there, when you swim with sharks, laugh with the clown fish, marvel at the Manta Rays, and take in the bewildering variety of colors of soft, swaying corals.

It is a different world down there, as, sadly, you swim along and over the wreckage of World War Two fighter aircraft, ships and weaponry. And it is as if, even after all these years, you can hear the echoes of the bombs raining down, unleashed by Man upon Fellow Man. You can hear the screams of the dying, and sense the terror brought on by flames and burning oil, by bullets and high explosives. How many men died, trapped in those rusting Japanese hulks in Truk Island? As water rushed in, how many men gasped for their last breaths of air? And that dive bomber lying quietly in the soft mud of Agana harbor, with the tropical fish quietly exploring the silent gun turrets, did the young men get out in time? I don’t know. But I know one thing: that Our Mother watches quietly over these tragic scenes of bygone hatred. Our Mother washes away the screams in gentle tides of purifying water. Our Mother gently covers the torn metal with soft sand and pale white corals. Our Mother survived. Altered perhaps, but supreme. And her sad lament is heard in the quiet, rhythmic slap of the waves overhead.
Her quiet judgment is spoken on the Absurdity of Man and his Eternal Wars….
And so it is with some of the most magnificent creatures that flourished for so very long in the gardens of our memories. The Yellow Fin Tuna, the Big Eye tuna, the Skip Jack, and their endangered cold water cousin, the Blue Fin Tuna. I have swum with all of them, except the Blue Fin. They bothered me not, and gracefully awed me with their size and the vivid brightness of their colors. They thrilled me with their speed, and their ability to change direction effortlessly. They were beautiful, distant, vibrant, alive, meaningful… And then they were lying dead on the lower working deck.

People have to eat. The world has to eat.
I have no time for the shallow, trendy environmentalist, who demonstrates a convenient selective reasoning. Those who verbally furiously denounce tuna fishing and the use of helicopters and speedboats, sonar and bird radar. With much indignation. Whilst casually bopping a few cans of tuna into their shopping basket, at the local Walmart, or tucking in delightedly into a tuna salad sandwich at Subway’s. That to me is just childishness. About as sensible as the protesters I saw a week after the BP oil spill. Having driven all the way down from Chicago in their Cadillacs and gas guzzling Dodge Ram 2500 pickup trucks, there they stood by the side of the road, holding up signs against drilling and oil exploration. Demanding a total ban.
I pulled over and wound down the window. How on earth did they expect the Nation to run a modern advanced economy without Oil, and drilling and exploration? I wanted so much to yell:

“Hey Missus! Have you thought about a windmill on that thing and see how fast you can go…?”

But I was in company uniform. I bit my tongue, and wound the window back up.
The world has to eat. People have to eat. The bounty of the Oceans is a legitimate target. And such fishing will take into use all the latest technology. Do you seriously expect a boat full of thousands of little Chinese with fishing rods and worms on their hooks? To give the fish a sporting chance??
The issue is not the hunt. That’s a given. The issue is the sustainability. And the enforcement of protective policies. And here is a very important point:

PILLAR OF HOPE # 1:

Many of the richest tuna fishing grounds, are not in the middle of the open ocean, where any fisherman from any nationality may go, unhindered and unlicensed. On the contrary, many of these choice fishing grounds are within the economic zone of local nations.

PILLAR OF HOPE # 2:

To many of these island nations, the income from fishing licenses represents their biggest single source of income!

It’s not just Mother Earth who deserves respect. And who punishes dis-respect, when Man disturbs the balance of Nature. It’s not just the concerned environmentalist who rightly worries about over fishing, but can seemingly do little about it. Those nations with an economic stake in the sustainability of the Tuna, have a tremendous amount to lose.
And this brings me to a conundrum I have never understood:

Conundrum #1: The fishing licenses I have seen and read through, all incorporated a provision that the host nation reserved the right to place an observer on board any tuna fishing vessel. At the ship owner’s expense. The observer even had to be compensated at a hefty rate, again at the ship owner’s expense. Despite this… in all the years I was out there, I only once encountered an observer on my ship, and that was for one six week tour.

The question then arises, what good such an observer potentially can achieve. To answer that, I need to tell you a story…

(to be continued) (CLICK here)

Francis Meyrick

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 19, 2016, 6:07 am

Photo by “Konr4d “
A Blip on the Radar
Part 26: The Funny Guy

Question: What is it, that keeps us alive?
Us half crazy guys, that fly helicopters in far off places, jump out of airplanes, fly aerobatics, participate in open cockpit biplane mock dog fights, race motorbikes, but who point blank refuse to bungee jump?
Bungee jumping? Are you nuts!? Far too dangerous…
(And then we stare in amazement around us, as everybody falls around laughing…)

Question: What is it, that keeps us alive?
We fly, we sky dive, we drink in a bar, with comrades. Maybe not comrades-in-arms, but comrades nonetheless. People who understand and share our passion. People whose eyes light up at the description of that “mirror image” formation we flew, or that amazing four man link at thirteen thousand feet, or that three hundred ton Yellowfin foamer we chased into the net.

We live right on the sharp edge, right on the abyss, saying loudly (with barely a stammer) “I DO” for the second time in your life, and the ring slides over your finger. Full reality knocks like a sledgehammer on your hollow, echoing cranium.
Oh boy, I’ve done it now…

We buy that plummeting stock, Walther Energy, and spend $23,000 of our retirement dollars backing a strong hunch that she’s bottoming out. It’s a good stock, you tell yourself. Good technicals. They are making the profits. People are just stampeding. The Tsunami effect. It’s way too low. So you pump $23,000 hard earned dollars in, and after you have clicked “yes”, and confirmed the trade, the stupid thing goes right on down, continuing the plummet. With your eyes bulging, you decide it’s time to log off and go for a beer. Three days later, having scared the willies out of you, the stupid thing has reversed course, and is sky rocketing. It has soared upwards, way past your buy point, and you’re looking at a multi thousand dollar gain. You wipe away perspiration. But did you listen to that inner voice? Which little voice?

And we stare at the ground, in a screaming dive, in our aerobatic biplane, unable to pull any harder, for fear of an aerodynamic stall. You’re not going to make it. You are going to die. You just botched up a double avalanche, and right in front of the airshow crowd. That unrehearsed encore, you just HAD to throw in at the very end… And you KNOW you didn’t listen to that little voice, that whispered, moments earlier…

Don’t do it…

Somehow, I have grown used to that little voice. I listen to it. I have learned to do so. The hard way. He talks sense. Listen to him. Maybe it will keep you alive…

* * * * *

Thus there came the day we were scuba diving on a wreck in the harbor of Agana, in Guam.
An old steamer. I was inside the bridge, behind the helm, looking out at two of my buddies on the outside. I felt like I was the old Captain, behind the wheel, and looking out upon the shimmering seas.
Suddenly, it seemed like a fun thing to do, to swim OUT of the bridge windows. And I did so, kicking with all my force. Here I was, a lightning bolt, erupting out of the bridge.

Heh-heh-heh…

I remember chortling into my mask. That was funny. SOOOO funny. I quickly re-entered, to go do it again.
Whoosh…. Here I came… blasting out the windows again…. In a shower of bubbles…

HEH-HEH-HEH…

By the time I had done it four or five times, I was convinced I was the funniest guy on the planet. I was in hysterics, laughing so much I could hardly draw breath.

HEH-HEH-HEH-HAR-HAR-HAR…!!!!

This was TOO FUNNY for WORDS!!! Heck, this was GREAT!!! I was almost in convulsions. I would have wiped the laughter tears from my eyes, but for that stupid mask.
Heck, GLORIOUS FUN…

That little voice…
It was saying something. But I wasn’t really interested. Not now. I was having a ball. I had not laughed so much for years.
That little voice…
I could have answered: Oh, go away. Shut up. You’re always spoiling my fun. Go away!
The little voice, distant, persistent, was trying to communicate.
I sighed: Oh, all right then. NOW what…??
And quietly, remotely, sliding with difficulty onto the rim of the plate of my remaining consciousness, I heard words…
Francis… It’s not THAT funny…
Not that funny? It’s HILARIOUS! What is YOUR problem…???
Francis… something is wrong…
Wrong? What could be wrong? Nothing is wrong! I am having the TIME OF MY LIFE!
Wrong… wrong…
Francis… start ascending… go up…
Slowly, reluctantly, not wishing to end the party, I kicked up… and again…
Francis… keep ascending… go up…
And suddenly, thirty feet higher, abruptly, it was as if a vital switch had been flicked in my brain.
Into the “ON ” position…

Holy Maloney! What was THAT all about???
Oh….fukkit…. nitrogen narcosis… I was frickin’ narked! That’s DANGEROUS…
People get KILLED that way…

And the stories came back to me, of happy divers ripping off their masks (“we don’t need no stinking mask”) and spitting out their breathing regulators (“we don’t need no stinking regulators”), and drowning with wide smiles etched on their staring faces. Divers who were last seen plummeting downwards, ever faster, into the dark depths, hell bent on a vital mission never to be recounted. Divers who disappeared, and were never seen again.

* * * * *

Somehow, I have grown used to that little voice. I listen to it. I have learned to do so. The hard way.
He is my friend. He talks sense.

Listen to him. Maybe, one day, he will keep you…

alive…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 21, 2011, 12:36 pm

A Blip on the Radar (Part 25)

“Floored by a Russian Hooker “

I miss Steve.
Steve Hoffman. Tuna Pilot.
Owner, operator, of “Hoffman helicopters, Guam” for many years.
He’s long since dead now. Many years. At a young age.
Poor old boy.
Steve ran a fleet of really fine Hughes 500 Tuna spotting helicopters.
And I worked for him for a while. And…. Well, he got me good one time. Him, and my so-called “mates”. Good and proper.
Good and proper…

* * * * *

If I hadn’t been so tipsy, I could have smelled a rat. I could have seen it coming.
Everybody was being far too nice to me. We were in a bar in Guam, and I was being plied with drinks.
It was almost as if I had done something extraordinary, and I was being rewarded by grateful companions.
I couldn’t actually remember anything of note I had done, but that minor detail didn’t deter me from imbibing happily. After a while I was becoming decidedly… mellow. And agreeable. And just…
Ripe for picking, I guess.
It was Steve, my buddy, my pal, who suggested, in a loud, perhaps somewhat theatrical voice, that we should ALL continue the night’s celebrations in the local strip joint.
I wasn’t that enthusiastic. I demurred.
They served alcohol there (ridiculously expensive) with old, wrinkly, sour faced Asian waitresses who never brought you any change. (You soon learned not to pay for a three dollar beer with a twenty dollar note.)
It had the usual slippery pole, and some scantily clad female performing weird gymnastics up and down the pole, to the accompaniment of loud cheers and cat calls from the audience of drunks. Many were old lechers, the proverbial dirty old men, and there were few women watchers. It was all kind of seedy. I wasn’t that keen, as in my mind, I associated these venues with shallow exploitation. Massage parlors. Many of the strippers were illegal immigrants, Russian, Chinese, Latvian and Philippino, and few looked as if they were having a good time in Life. It was pretty obvious that the strip joint was a front for the oldest occupation known to Man, and a few hefty, low IQ, Neanderthal looking ‘bouncers’ completed what, to me, was a boring, stale, predictable dosshouse.
I’d been taken there before, and I had little interest in repeating the experience. But Steve and my buddies were all… Insistent. And persuasive. And adamant.
In the end, I shrugged my shoulders. What the heck… I didn’t have a car, and I sure didn’t want to walk back.
It was three or four miles to the hotel, and in my advanced state, it would have been a six or eight mile “duck waddle”. That’s if I managed to avoid all the stupid lamp posts.
I agreed. And, for some reason, that seemed to really,really please everybody…

* * * * *

Once we entered “El Casa”, I went to sit down at the back, where it was quieter, and darker.
Away from the harsh glare of the stage lights. Maybe I could just sit through it patiently, sip my beer, and take my mind far away. To somewhere nice, and sunny, with plenty of Light. Maybe my cockpit, alone, high above the Pacific. With in the distance, shadowy, beckoning, a massive mist-draped mountain range, looming up out of the sea..
But no. Steve was strangely adamant. He insisted on chaperoning me right through to the front row. Right under the stupid stage. I wasn’t too wild about that, but he WAS my boss, and he DID sign my pay check, an’… an’…
And I was still too thick headed to even remotely smell a rodent.

How, you may ask, did this innocent ever survive on his motorcycle, alone, for months on end, driving around behind the Iron Curtain in his early twenties? Camping in fields and old barns?
Answer: I have NO idea…

The strippers came on, and they were the usual sorry looking lot. Too much make up, unsmiling, almost bored looking, going through the required motions. It was as if they assumed their bodies were so stunningly gorgeous and luscious that we were supposed to collapse in an orgy of admiration and erectional awe just by their very presence. They made no effort to appear charming, or interested, or even particularly awake.
To me, it was boring. And I stifled a yawn. I like my women sexy in a full bodied way. I like ’em nicely dressed, with room for my rabid, lusty imagination. With tight, tasteful tops, peeky breasts, and tight skirts. High heels of course, black stockings are a bonus. But above all, I like my women to smile, laugh, and be funny. I enjoy charming, intelligent, witty women. I’ll even take frisky…

But this parade of too-much-flesh, and way too-much-makeup, and here and there some puppy fat, and here and there too much under-arm hair… And never a smile, never a recognition that there was even an audience out there…
Nah… boooooring…
So I sipped my beer quietly, with my mind far away, roaming around distant worlds, longing for the Great Longing I have never understood, and just simply a hundred miles away, I quietly put up with the fleshy un-smiling un-sexual parade directly above me.
They were all mostly versions of the same. One after the other…

***Here comes another one. Very little clothes on, no room for imagination, and (Lord!) would you look at those varicose veins…
*** And that one… must have dated a tattoo artist at some stage… no darling, the serpent on your left buttock looks like he’s got indigestion…
*** Sweety, lose the biceps, and tuck your nipples in…
*** Honey, if you’re gonna wear high heels, you need to practice walking in them, ’cause you are gonna hurt yourself…
*** Hey Missy, your false eyelashes are slipping…
*** Hey, Brigit, it’s called “make-up”, it’s not called “camouflage paint”…
*** DARLING, nooooo, next time, SHAVE YOUR PUSSY, for goodness’ sake…!!

And so there I sat, a connoisseur of Fine Art and Good Wines, observing Vin Ordinaire and table wine with a polite composure.
Steve leaned across. Whispering softly, there was a certain odd excitement in his voice.
“Elena is up next! You’ll like her!”
Was there a certain grim satisfaction in his emphasis on my liking her?
I looked at the stage door, and, sure enough, the redoubted Elena had put in an appearance. Russian. Leggy, tall, and very fit looking. It looked as if she worked out a lot, because I could see well developed muscles.
A ripple went around the audience. Cheers. Some applause. My companions seemed very enamored with Elena. I wondered why. Beside me, Steve, my boss, seemed to be smiling from ear to ear.

Elena was indeed, different. Firstly, she sprang onto the stage like a cat. She didn’t just waddle up the steps like the mutton and lamb that had gone before her. She positively uncoiled, and exploded onto the stage.
She also knew how to play the audience. Her gaze was direct, challenging, and she responded to the audience. Her movements were tailored to the decibel level, and a slyly slipping strap or zipper would pause in the action, if the cheering and the foot stomping diminished. Once the old men, the perverts, and the assembled helicopter pilots and mechanics had figured that simple “accelerator” out, you can imagine the ruckus. It positively hurt my ears. Elena soon controlled the entire room, and it was indeed, mildly interesting, even for a cynic like me, how she managed to still look so sexy, when she in fact was wearing multiple layers of clothing. All of which had to be slowly, slowly, peeled off.
By now she had waltzed the entire length of the stage several times. That she owned the stage, and was totally in charge, was obvious to all.

A spotlight slowly moved across the audience. Slowly, it played over the assembled lechers and perverts. Some waved, some cheered, some flashed… signs with their fingers. The light slowly moved on.
At first, I didn’t take much notice. Just silly stuff. What the hell…
Then the light swung closer to me. Closer. Closer…
All of a sudden I was bathed in bright light that I wished wasn’t there.
Cheers, cat calls, foot stomping…
Oh, gawd…
I waited patiently for the spot light to move on.
(Yeah, yeah, yeah… very funny…. Now bog off and leave me alone…)
Oh, gawd…
Elena had now paused in her strutting, and was standing directly in front of me, towering above me on the stage.
(Gulp)
Now she was looking directly down at me, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Suddenly it seemed as if the chairs around me had moved slightly away. I looked over at Steve. He suddenly seemed to be sitting a few feet further away. What was worse, it was obvious that he was in hysterics. I looked to my other side. Sure enough, my buddies over there had also moved their chairs away from me. And, surprise, they were also in hysterics. Coiled up, like school boys peering through big sister’s bedroom window.
What the fu-fu… is going on…??
It got worse. Elena was now crouching down, blowing kisses at me. Manfully, I tried to pretend I was totally un-phased by this, and blew one back.
Loud cheers, cat calls, foot stomping…
Now she was getting OFF the stage…
(Double Gulp)
Now she was standing right in front of me, lightly squirming her hips, and running a gloved finger across a silk latticed breast. You could see the ripple outline of her hard nipple, and she was playing with it. She was pretending to be breathing hard, and succumbing to an intense feeling or passion for my unshaven, bearded, unkempt Irish persona.
(GO aWAY! Please…?)
Closer she swam, and I was now transfixed in her hypnotic gaze. Too late, too late, to puzzle what lewd mischief my comrades had organized for me. I was trapped, trapped by the spotlight, trapped by her presence, now inches away from me, trapped above all by her powerful gaze. How I wished for an escape! Slowly she moved towards me, until her stockinged legs touched my knees. Instinctively, I flinched back, to which she threw the entranced audience a triumphant look. Now she was bending over me, her lips puckered, and her claws stretching out towards shirt buttons. I yelped, but it was too late.
A split second later, she had sprung on top of me, like a tiger, smothering my face with massive, hot ruby lips. The rickety wooden chair I was sitting on, of the fold up variety, almost instantly gave up on the unequal task, and collapsed us both onto the floor.
Now I was struggling, with her full weight on top of me, but in my advanced state of alcoholic stupor, and given her phenomenal upper body strength, all I could manage was the occasional quick surfacing for air.
“HELP!”, I remember mouthing to Steve, through the glare of chaos and confusion. But no help was forthcoming. On the contrary, the events unfolding were clearly entirely to the satisfaction of my comrades, as none would render assistance.

And thus it was, that I spent a truly extraordinary amount of time, lying flat on my back on the wooden floor of a Guam strippers’ club, with the buxom Elena on top of me, easily pinning me down. Her mouth and fingers, and her various curves and appendages went into and around unmentionable places, and I know I lost a few shirt buttons. These were sacrificed -unwillingly- trying to defend -unsuccesfully- my left nipple from Elena’s mouth. I struggled and gasped and squealed (especially when she was trying to pull my zipper down) and manfully attempted to preserve what little was left of my dignity. In this noble purpose I was not entirely successful.
It turned out, of course, that my companions had parted with a substantial sum of money the night before, leaving specific instructions for Elena to follow.

I consequently can state, from my close and personal observation (and experience), that Russian strippers are powerful to look at, but when they open their mouths, (believe me, they do) they sure do flash a lot of gold. At today’s prices of Gold, at fourteen hundred bucks an ounce, I wonder if they still do that?

Or do you poor unfortunate Tuna Schmucks today just have to “slum it” with plain ordinary PORCELAIN teeth wrapped around your unmentionable….

unmentionable…

Thing…?

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 8, 2011, 11:35 am

A Blip on the Radar

(Part 24E) “What did you do THAT for…??”

I had let it go as long as I possibly dared. Longer.
I had given this Commercial Pilot every opportunity to recover. To get with the action. Hell, to blessed well get involved, even.
But no… Too busy waving The Royal Wave at his buddies. Too busy doing his Grand Fly By.
Too busy showing off…
I could hear the blade slap. I could feel the buffeting. I could sense what was about to happen. All the warning signals were there, all the harbingers of Truth, all the Reminders of the immutable Laws of Nature and Gravity… everything was lining up, trying to flash that little amber caution light in a good pilot’s mind…
Remember the introduction?

“But if I had never had any help, never had any advice, never had mentors…
I would be stone dead by now.
I have waltzed -innocently- into many situations where…
a small amber caution light…
…flickered on inside my retarded brain. Where a little voice said to me:
“Hang on! Jimmy was telling me about this! This is where I have gotta watch it! Hold on here now! “
And it is only in hindsight I fully realize how important those informal bar flying sessions actually were. “

I sighed, and moved the cyclic positively forwards, and at the same time eased down on the collective.

“I have control!”

You could almost hear as well as feel a sigh of relief from our poor little helicopter, as the airspeed built up, and clean air rushed up into our disc. Now she was flying again, the airspeed was picking up, and we were rapidly moving away from the danger point.
“What did you do THAT for..??!”
His intense annoyance was obvious. I looked across at him. He was really ticked off. It seemed I had messed up his perfect Royal Fly By, and embarrassed him in front of his buddies. I studied him carefully for a second.
“Why do you think I did that?”, I asked, gently.
“I have no idea!”, he retorted sarcastically. He meant it.
Ignoring the jibe, I tried a different tack.
“What do you think was going on back there?”
Silence. I looked at him. He was still clearly annoyed. I thought back to the hours and hours of aerodynamic theory I had put him through. Despite his reluctance.
Clearly, there was some mail I had tried to send that had simply not arrived.
I reached a decision.
“Okay, let’s go back and land, and then we’ll talk about it…”

* * * * * *

It took me a surprising time before, with the aid of drawings, I could explain to him (once again) that a Bell 47 helicopter cannot hover at just any old altitude he feels like. That HOGE is not just a fine theory. Not just some technical mumbo-jumbo that doesn’t really matter. Some part of aerodynamic theory that you learn to pass a test, and then you can bye-bye forget about it.
I eventually convinced him that the combination of a high power setting, a tailwind, and no airspeed at an altitude of two hundred feet above the sea was not a good idea. After a while, I think he maybe even understood that it was bad idea. A truly lousy ‘bad idea’. A deadly… bad idea.
My confidence in him was now at a truly low, low point. I wrote up a lot more notes that night.
A week or two later, we were landing back in Guam, at our company’s base. And within a few minutes I found myself sitting down opposite the desk of my Boss. I knew what was coming, and I was prepared.
He greeted me with a big smile. We got along well, and I liked him a lot. He was a good, highly experienced pilot, and a very approachable human being. We chit-chatted for a while.
Eventually. “Well, Moggy, how about (…)? Can we send him off on his own? The Fairwell 707 is coming in soon, and I was thinking of sending him out on that. Is he ready?”
I sighed inwardly, and arranged my notes. His smile disappeared.
“Well, Boss, it’s like this…”
And I started laboriously going through my notes, item by item. He asked several sensible questions, and his look became more and more concerned. I was half way down the first page, when I came to the incident I have described above. The attempt to hover with a tailwind and zero airspeed at two hundred feet.
He was clearly shocked.
“Ok, hold it, Mogster. Are you telling me he was slowly losing ALL his airspeed, WITH a TAILWIND, at two hundred feet and he was looking OUTSIDE the whole time?”
“Yes, Boss, that is what I am telling you.”
“He didn’t notice the buffeting, the blade slap, anything?”
“No, Boss.”
“And then when you took over control at three seconds to midnight, he got mad at you?? “
“Yes, Boss.”
There was a pause while he digested the information. Then he leaned back, his expression serious.
“What you’re telling me is that he has absolutely NO CLUE what’s going on… Damn, he’s going to kill himself…
That’s crazy!”
I said nothing.
“Okay, how many more notes have you got?”
“I’ve got two pages worth, Boss. We’re right now half way down the first page.”
“Holy Sh#@!!. Okay, FORGET IT. He’s not flying for us. Ever. I don’t even need to hear the rest of your notes. That’s it, right there. That just does it for me. FINISH!”
Verdict rendered. And for some reason, I felt a surge of pure relief…

The decision of course was not popular, and our young friend was soon mouthing off all over Guam that I had stabbed him in the back.
We had a regular watering hole there, and one subsequent night I got a real cold shoulder from several Tuna Heads. I was kind of hurt, but tried hard not to show it. I was quietly sighing into my pint at the bar, feeling lonely and lousy, when a hand clapped on my shoulder. I glanced around, and there was an old buddy of mine. Aussie dude. Good guy.
“Can I join you?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind sitting with the unclean…” I was feeling sorry for myself.
He had a drink, thoughtfully.
Eventually. “Moggy, I want you to realize something. You may never get much thanks for what you did, but I’ve seen that fellow fly. Or try to fly. And I can tell you one thing for sure…”
He paused.
“And what might that be?”, I asked, irritably.
“You saved our young friend’s life…”, he said, softly.
His hand clapped on my shoulder, and he was gone.

And after all these years, for some reason, I remember that bar scene well.
I’m on my own, with a beer, propped up at the bar, sipping quietly, reflecting. Pondering. Worrying. Fretting…
Try as I might, I could not free myself from a nagging doubt that I could have done better, should have done better.
And that mindset is maybe carried through in this manual. This megga Moggy scribble…
These funky bubbles…
I know guys actually read this Bovine Silliness (B.S.) of mine, and I have emails from all over the world testifying to that effect.
Something about flying helicopters joins us all together. Like a motorcyclist waving to a total stranger on another bike, we rotor jockeys salute each other, even if it’s through the disembodied medium of cyberspace.
Flying helicopters is wonderful. It’s a magnificent experience. Flying out over the Pacific Ocean, chasing Nature, hunting the beautiful Yellowfin and the Skipjack…
Heck, it’s more fun than a barrel full of tipsy monkeys.
But there is some technical and behavioral stuff a safe pilot absolutely MUST know. MUST understand. MUST appreciate. MUST respect.
MUST study…
Tuna helicopter flying, no matter what those who make an obscene profit out of your labors will mockingly tell you, is serious kimcha.
Serious um-noggin’ kabootcha whatyadoin’, Dumb Ass?
It’s not one big joke.
They may tell you that “only the idiots get killed” (how heartless is that?) but the truth is that the unwary, the poorly prepared, the innocents… are highly vulnerable, especially in those first three to six “anchovy” months.
One of my buddies was killed on his first ever take-off from a tuna boat.
I know of one poor young pilot, sitting in a wheelchair as we speak. A recent victim of the Tuna Fields.
If you want to survive, to enjoy your helicopter flying, then you need to have lots of fun, balanced with a well developed, well maintained, ever ready amber caution light, that you pay prompt attention to anytime it alerts you to something… maybe sneaking up on you.
Or that big joke (ha-ha-ha) might just… hurt or kill you.
It’s all about doing outrageous stuff, having hilarious adventures, meeting really nutty people, and eventually getting old, really old, and hiding the whiskey bottle under the blanket in the wheelchair, whilst the nurse scolds you for those blue jokes about her fat, ugly butt you are sharing with the other nursing home residents.
It’s all about drinking the cup dry, getting your ticket’s worth, riding the bus of Life, being kind to all living things, being gentle with your helicopter, and surviving all that hysterical madness that humanity will chuck at you, to quietly reflect on it in your old age.
It’s also about achieving peace and gentleness in your heart, even when you are surrounded by chaos, bitterness, envy and hate.

Gawd, and to think I could have been a librarian…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 6, 2015, 3:53 pm