Francis Meyrick

Of Helicopters and Humans (7)

The Road of Light

3/19/2010

I went to a funeral today.
No, not a tragic, miserable, meaningless ritual. With grey faced folk, standing around, pretending so much they wished to be there. When they just really wanted it to be over…
No, not like that at all. In a strange way, a touching ceremony. A gentle celebration. Of the short life, of a young man, who died at age twenty-one.
It made me reflect. Think. It happens, once in a while. I found myself pondering ‘yardsticks’. The ‘measures’ with which we judge our personal circumstances in life. How lucky we are. Or not. How fortunate we are. Or not. How ‘blessed’ we are. Or…
With a ruler, we measure inches and feet. Or centimeters, if you’re a decimal freak.
With pounds, we measure weight. Or not. Especially after too much steak and beer.
Other ‘yardsticks’ or ‘measures’ are more difficult to calibrate…

* * * * * *

Unless you have been there, as a chopper jockey, I don’t think I can describe it to you.
I could try. But it will probably just be a jumble of meaningless words. It will never have the impact, that out-of-body surge of Awareness, that, afterwards, slowly, makes some of us realize that we have changed.
Changed as human beings. Forever.
But then again, I could be wrong. I often am. Luckily, there is never a shortage of willing souls prepared to point that basic fact out to me. How wrong, misinformed, misguided, and clueless I am. I hang my head in shame. Yes, I am indeed barely a step up from the caveman. From Neanderthal Man. You can call me “Gormless Man “, or “Clueless Man “. I’m just another helicopter jockey. So don’t mind me…

It’s a Road of Light, you see. That’s what is so impressive. So unique. So awe inspiring.
As you fly into the sun. In your helicopter. Over the ocean. Alone.
You have to squint, it’s so bright. But everywhere, there is light. The Ocean is lit up. A million dancing lights, sparkle and fire, and bath your eyes in radiance. You can see for an eternity. Ten miles. Fifteen miles. Twenty miles. Maybe more. Maybe a million. Light years…
You are alone in your helicopter. Beating along, with that steady, purposeful, comfortable rumble. Helicopters have a soul. A heart. And they tell you things. How well you are tracked out. If you are flying in balance. When things are good… when things are not good.
And today things are good. They are beyond good. They are beautiful. There is a serenity about the Ocean sky. The massive distances, far, far from shore. With not a ship, a boat, or a pebble of land in sight. Only sky. And waves. The flickering shadows of the blades. The hum and burble through the airframe.
And the whirrings of your tiny mind…

There is a peace here. A deep, deep calm. A calm not of waves, or wind, or streaking clouds. It’s a calm of the Spirit. A calm of the Soul, if you believe in it. A calm in your mind and heart, where normally there is conflict, and stress. And deep, dark currents of doubt, swirling, fighting, with first one, and then the other gaining a short lived supremacy. It is a calm of Acceptance. A calm of Knowing. A calm, born from a certain essential Doubt and Suffering. A needed Suffering, fathered by Solitude and painful Experience. A modest suffering, compared with that of many people in this world, but a certain distress nonetheless. And all that gone by, accepted, and forgiven. Acceptance…

You check your power settings. Torque. Temperatures. And you find that all is good.
Fuel… it’s good. You have plenty.
You drift back to where you were, in your strange reverie. Your strange, inner dialogue.
You find yourself thanking God for the great gifts of your senses, one by one.
Sight. The incredible phenomenon of seeing. How come you have been blessed with sight all your life? And not stricken with blindness like millions of your fellow human beings? You run your eyes to the horizon, and back to the tiny rivets at the edge of the windscreen frame. You luxuriate in this amazing privilege: to see.
Hearing. The blades beat, the gears mesh, the engine whines, the wind sighs…. and you can hear all this. You can make sense of the different sounds. You know when a bearing starts to give out. That high pitched squeal you had, that came and went. That day…. when the mechanics wouldn’t believe you. You know when the transmission or the hydraulics are starting to grind. You know what sounds are normal, healthy, even happy. You know what sounds spell danger, and require immediate action. The ‘engine out’ alarm, or the ‘low rotor’ beeping. You know because you hear. And today…. all you hear is good.
Smell. You remember the day the electrics went on fire. You could smell it before you saw the smoke, erupting into the cockpit. That strong, nostril assaulting odor of burning circuit boards. Smell is an amazing sense. It’s so easy to take it for granted. You remember the smell of parachute webbing, which you will recognize instantly, even after years.The smell of Jet A fuel in the morning, and the smell of fresh grass, as the rim of a weary sun slowly struggles above the distant, dark horizon.
Speech. She said she loved you, but she didn’t mean it. It was more a matter of form. It was expected. But then you too have been guilty of warped speech. Everybody has, at some stage. And yet, it is such an amazing instrument. Speech. The ability to convey deep, deep emotion. Or simple understanding. Or blazing contempt.
Of all the senses you would volunteer to lose the first, strangely, it might well be speech. I wonder why. Perhaps because it is the one you control, direct, harness…. the least. It’s the one that gets away from you.
Or perhaps not. Are you the strong, silent type….? At home with quietude?
Touch. Instinctively, as you think about it, your fingers close more tightly around the cyclic. You feel the beat of your living steed, the slight tell-tale vibrations of the mad gallop. Touch is wonderful. The smooth, rounded edges of a carpenter’s prized work, the roughness of fresh sand paper, and the softness of her baby hands in yours.

These are wonderful gifts to the helicopter pilot, all keenly and intensively utilized. Mostly for good.

But is there a sixth sense…?
You reflect again on that Road of Light you are flying along. The guiding path of illumination. With bright, bright, golden sunlight blazing and beckoning you. And you know…. the sixth sense is the single most important one. The sense of Awarenes. If you are a little like me, you struggle perhaps with Authority. Perhaps, like me, you are in essence a non violent Anarchist. A person who instinctively distrusts all authority foisted upon him by Man. A typical helicopter rebel. Be it the authority of the State, or Federal Authority, Society or Church. Maybe, just maybe, your experience meshes with mine: that Man corrupts all power he is given. Somehow or another, it has become hard to trust any politician, when barefaced lying is quickly forgotten by the gullible voting masses. It has become hard to trust Teachers and Pastors, Holy Men and Gurus, in the light of ample evidence of their easy corruption…. Even though you know your own limitations, intellectual and spiritual, do you, nonetheless, feel more safe, up here, at one thousand feet, and one hundred and thirty knots? Heading down that Road of Light?

As helicopter jockeys, we don’t amount to much. We are not the leaders of the world, those cameleon, quicksilver politicians, who can bump their gums on television for hours, and seemingly never once lose their conviction that they are right, and everybody else is dumb and wrong. Those politicians who by word and deed demonstrate that their grasp of Economics and History is but feeble. Those politicians who never bother to read books. Because they already know all the answers. No, we simple helicopter jockeys cannot aspire to such lofty heights…

But there is no need.
We have our own lofty heights to claim. Our own, star studded, heavenly emporium.
It is our Destiny to sail above it all, above the mean and twisted bickering, the depraved and corrupt machinations of those who crave power. And those who wield it, arrogantly, yet fearfullly, lest they lose it…

For there is a Truth, written in our skies, that the helicopter jockey understands well, better, I respectfully submit, than many a famed Leader of the mortal men below…
A simple truth. As befits simple men to understand.
The Truth is that we know ourselves, as limited creatures, small and fragile.
The truth is that we venture into the skies, in our frail, man made craft, not as arrogant conquerors, but as humble pilgrims. We are seekers. And as we pass along that Road of Light, as we pass by towering mountains of power and awe, past unseen rivers of air and thought, through endless mysteries of Ancient Laws…

We live. We truly live.

In a manner better, higher, and more noble. Than the frenzied ramblings of populist demagogues.

We breath. We reflect. We wonder. We marvel… respectfully.

And in gratitude. For an extraordinary privilege.

* * * * * * *

I went to a funeral today.
No, not a tragic, miserable, meaningless ritual. With grey faced folk, standing around, pretending so much they wished to be there. When they just really wanted it to be over…
No, not like that at all. In a strange way, a touching ceremony. A gentle celebration. Of the short life, of a young man, who died at age twenty-one.

He was born seriously handicapped. He was nearly blind, could not speak, and could barely hear.
The doctors thought he would not survive for long. They were wrong. They also thought he could never be able communicate with his environment. They were also wrong there.
Through the unstinting love of parents, family and carers, he learned to respond to human touch. He recognized the voices of his parents. He learned to play simple games, and even plinked out simple tunes on the piano keyboard. He was always gravely ill, and survived endless medical crises. He required twenty four hour care, which he was given, with never a complaint.
He did interact with his environment. In his own way. And in the caring that took place, there was a Beauty.
A gentleness, and a deep, deep compassion.

For us, who complain at times, about our lot, myself included…..
Ought we, perhaps, maybe fine tune or ‘tweak’ our ‘yardsticks’ a fraction or two?
Reconsider the way we measure?

Hm…

* * * * * * *

It’s a Road of Light, you see. That’s what is so impressive. So unique. So awe inspiring.
As you fly into the sun. In your helicopter. Over the ocean. Alone.
You have to squint, it’s so bright. But everywhere, there is light. The Ocean is lit up. A million dancing lights, sparkle and fire, and bath your eyes in radiance. You can see for an eternity. Ten miles. Fifteen miles. Twenty miles. Maybe more. Maybe a million. Light years…

And you wonder, just wonder, if young Justin, dead at age twenty-one, recently laid to rest…
if he can see now, what I’m seeing…

A Road of Light, with a million dancing lights, that sparkle and fire, and bath your eyes in radiance …

Francis Meyrick

Return to Index? (ChopperStories.COM)?

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 19, 2016, 6:10 am

Of Helicopters and Humans (6)

Homo Helicopterus Macho Maximus ( “Macho Man “)

In the far, far future, in several thousand years’ time, (long after the Time of the Great Upheaval, the Intergalactic Phenomenon, and Madonna’s awful caterwauling), it might be interesting…. to be a fly on the wall (or a bed bug in somebody’s pyamas) and to be able to listen in on the conversations of future archeologists.
What will they think of us?

I’m sure they will be fascinated by Neanderthal Man, Peking Man, Java Man, and his descendant, Homo so-called Sapiens. If I remember my Latin, from a Time Long Gone when I was young and innocent, sapiens means ‘knowing’ or ‘wise’…
(Yes, I know, it is rather tempting to snicker contemptuously, innit?)
Modern Man…. wise? Knowing? You believe that? Oh! You’re a Democrat. Well, that explains everything, of course. Well, maybe if you believe, tearfully, in the ponderous pronunciations of the Great Oracle, Mullah Obaaaaah-ma…. then I can see how you feel you have found Wisdom in Plenty. Lucky you. It must be nice. Moving, even.
But… For the rest of us wearied cynics, I’m sorry to say your idol encapsulates in one expensive suit, behind the TV make up and the eye shadow, (and the teleprompters of course) the very essence of what we regard as mass produced, manipulative, IL-Liberal, RETRO-gressive old-style socialist bullshit. The epitomy of an intellectual lightweight, in other words. But if YOU wish to hang on to his every word, and regard him as the pinnacle of human evolution, then…. I’m awed. You belong to an increasingly rare breed. Homo Idealisticus Democratus.. Can I have your autograph?
Those future archeologists, I suspect, will lump Neanderthal Man, Peking Man, Homo Idealisticus Democratus, and Homo errr…. “Sapiens ” pretty well all together as one one and the same form of (Very) Primitive Man. A genetically challenged, remarkably dumb, greedy, selfish beast, prone to hubris and fancy speeches. Adept at covering up his ignorance, and admitting no fault.
Additionally, I sometimes have a feeling that they, those fifty third century Wise Ones, may identify a branch off our evolutionary family, that those of us alive today have scarcely recognized. If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say the Wise ones might label this sub family: Homo Helicopterus Macho Maximus.
I know that is rather a mouthful, so I’ll just call him “Macho Man “.

Macho Man will be identified, of course, by his burial place.
The cremated remains will be found, ritually molten together with pieces of aluminium, magnesium, plastic and steel. The exact manner of the ceremony will have long since been forgotten, and these future archeologists will write expansive PH.D. dissertations on the matter.
There will be many theories.
Firstly, it will be suggested that only those who had achieved high honour, were allowed to enter the sky, in remarkably primitive and flimsy contraptions, called “he-li-cop-ters “, and then smash themselves straight into the ground. This fate guaranteed that Macho Man’s soul could enter a place called, not ‘Valhalla’, or ‘Paradise’, but “You-Tube “. The future Wise Ones will of course argue also over “You-Tube “. But the consensus would hold that there, in this strange and wonderful place called “You-Tube “, the dearly departed soul could live out his final glorious act (smashing into the ground), again and again, for all eternity. Hm…

Secondly, it will be suggested, that far from reward for honour and valor, the bit about smashing into the ground was in fact, a punishment, for deeds performed in his prior life. What form those wicked deeds might have taken, the Wise Ones will not know. But they will haphazardly concoct theories to explain that Macho Man had in fact violated the Secret Rules of that Society. And therefore had to pay the price. What those rules were, again, a matter of conjecture. Clean living? Celibacy? Abstaining from strong liquor? Avoiding the wearing of tight pants? It will be hard to say. But they will try hard, those fifty third century Wise Ones, to make sense of a strange, primitive, but widely practiced cultural phenomenon.
Called ‘self cremation by he-li-cop-ter’.

* * * * *

We can be sympathetic towards the inexperienced pilot. The learner. The low-timer, trying hard, who falls victim to a situation for which he was unintentionally, inadequately prepared. Perhaps his Teachers failed him, or his more experienced comrades. Yes, we feel a warmth there, and a desire to help. Not as some kind of a Guru, but just as a fellow pilot, a brother in arms, who loves to fly, and hates to see anybody getting cremated before his proper time. Not to mention, seeing a perfectly good helicopter terminally re-cycled.
But what of the professional, the expert, the dude with plenty of hours, who reaches such a stage of exalted wisdom and knowledge, that mere Gravity and the trifling Laws of Physics, and the mathematical certainty of my patented ‘Eventual Probability Theory’, simply don’t apply to him….?

* * * * *

So there we were, standing not far from the edge of a very deep, very wide, hole in the ground. This particular hole is many miles long, and half a mile to a mile wide. Lots of little helicopters fly lots of little tourists in and out of that big hole. It’s almost a cultural tradition. Especially if you hail from Japan.
My companion, a long time Sheriff’s Office sergeant, stood there with me, and together we silently observed the goings on. We had landed there, earlier on, in the Sheriff’s Office helicopter. On other business.
There was an AStar parked there, silently awaiting its next load of happy tourists. I had inspected it earlier, and I had been surprised at the seating arrangements. The machine was equipped with what resembled long benches rather than individual seats, and I marveled as to how many passengers you could actually load into the beast. In the event, I did not have to wait long to find out. Pretty soon, the smiling pilot marched out, an Oriental gentleman at the head of an equally Oriental looking gaggle of tourists. He was laughing and joking with them, and generally giving them the royal, smiling, very happy treatment. Soon they were all piling into the machine. I thought it would take two separate loads, but no, they all got in, in a oner. It drew my attention.
The pilot, with never a walk around, then hopped into the driver’s seat, and within seconds the blades were turning. Within a very short period of time indeed, the machine arose into a hover.
What next drew my attention was the extreme coning angle of the blades. And the hefty blade slap. I have never seen an AStar cone like that. Poor little thing. I wondered what weight he was carrying. I had not counted how many folk had climbed in, but it was a lot.
A lot…
At least he had the benefit of a good breeze. There was a good fifteen to eighteen knots blowing through.
I glanced at the wind sock. I was assuming an into wind departure.
Wrong…
The AStar performed a pedal turn, and was now pointing downwind towards the edge of the Big Hole, a hundred yards away, over some rough looking boulders, which precluded any chance of a succesful forced landing. Low over those obstacles he went, downwind, rising no more than ten feet in the air.
But it was what happened as he got to the edge of the Big Hole, that truly took my breath away.
The machine lurched over the edge, and the cyclic got slammed hard forward.
Hard.. .forward….
The last thing I saw of the AStar, was the tail boom, pointing vertical, and the horizontal tailplane, like a flag, like a marker in the wind. And the tail rotor disc, edge on,from ‘underneath’ as it were.
I know I sucked air in past my teeth. That quiet sound, that sharp intake, that reveals stress, horror, disquiet.
The sergeant looked at me, and murmured:
“He shouldn’t be doing that, should he? ”
I shook my head, slowly.
Wonderingly.

I asked around about him. Other pilots. They all knew of him.
“That’s his party piece. He does it for the tips… ”
“There’s kind of a chimney there… rock on three sides. He goes vertically straight down it, to give everybody a thrill… ”
Some pilots spoke of him admiringly. As if he was a hero. A magna genitalia dude. Others, the older ones, just shook their heads.

A few months later, the call came into Dispatch. Then the details emerged. Slowly. Over the next few days.
He was dead. Very dead. In fact, he had already been cremated.
His bulging ‘tips account’ was not going to be much use to him any longer.
The NTSB investigated, and it appeared he had struck his rotor tips off one side of the chimney. Not hard enough to destroy the rotor disc. But ample to destroy his pitch links. Yes, he still had a spinning disc. Providing lift and forward momentum. But he had no control over it…

They say he overflew his intended landing point, a raft in the middle of the river, at high speed, with strange noises coming from the helicopter, and that he headed straight for the opposite wall. Presumably, autonomous aerodynamic forces had changed his vertical, nose-down trajectory to a more horizontal one. But these forces couldn’t help him as he arrived, at high speed, with a full load of previously very happy passengers, at the opposite granite wall. The big, black, carbon burn mark was visible for weeks. We have no way of knowing the happiness level that existed in that cockpit in the seconds leading up to the spontaneous cremation, but we can guess.
And that was…
The Last Ride of…
One more outstanding example of Homo Helicopterus Macho Maximus…

* * * * *

I was getting ready to depart in the Sheriff’s Office Cessna 210 one day, when calls started coming into Dispatch about a rogue helicopter. The machine was reportedly coming low and fast down the hard shoulder of the Interstate Freeway, at about twenty feet. It was moving at high speed, and in the opposite direction to traffic. Not surprisingly, alarmed car drivers were swerving to avoid the sudden appearance of the helicopter, creating an additional hazard. A Sheriff’s Office patrol car was soon able to corroborate the reports, and the decision was made to launch our OH58 to intercept the low flying machine. Whilst enroute, I was listening to the reports, still coming in, from angry and frightened motorists. Even as I flew, I was trying to formulate a plan.
What should I do? Fly alongside? Attempt two way voice contact? On which channel? 121.5? Would he possibly think of answering me?
In the event I thought it would be safest to bar his way, but in such a manner that he would have plenty of time to see me, ahead of him.
However, it never got to that. The next report stated that the helicopter had crashed in flames. I winced.

It was a surreal scene. A crumpled, smashed helicopter, on the hard shoulder of the freeway, with two crumpled, smashed human beings. Husband and wife. Going home from a vacation at the Casino.
I remember staring at her legs, protruding grotesquely from underneath the engine. We all looked at each other.
There was a lot of silent head shaking going on.

He had impacted a utility line. Not a high tension wire, off a big, high pylon. No, just a local utility line. The lines ran along the freeway, for miles. He had obviously been flying happily alongside them. Happiness is good. We like happiness. But every so often, these lines cross the freeway. He had encountered one such set of lines. And failed to navigate them happily. As for the ‘500 foot’ rule…

Any thinking human being has to feel sorry for this couple, and their relatives, family and friends.
A tremendous tragedy.
But…. Dude, what were you thinking???

* * * * *

A certain businessman was well known to the Sheriff’s Office.
He owned his own helicopter, and flew it a lot. My colleagues soon filled me in. There had been innumerable complaints about him from citizens, mostly related to extreme low flying, and his insistence on landing in highly congested areas. I remember the opinion of several deputies, who had seen him fly. They all reckoned that it was just a matter of time before our hero killed himself.
They were right. In the event, I was to damn near die right along with him.

The day it happened, I was winding up the OH58. Ready for a mission. I was sitting right out in the middle of a large apron, (apron = supposedly dedicated to flying machines), on a dolley, which had been parked there earlier, roughly into wind. The wind had changed a little now, but I wasn’t worried about it. It was just a matter of picking up into a hover, turning thirty degrees right into wind, and proceeding with the take off. I was in a relaxed frame of mind. This was routine normality. I’d done it a thousand times. More. I completed the pre take-off checks, lifted up into the hover, turned thirty degrees right, eased the cyclic forward….
What the f@!!#k….!!
Out of the corner of my eye I saw something approaching. I looked, gasped, snatched at the collective…. and winced. As the SUV drove UNDER my front skids. Inches underneath. At speed.
The resultant -frantic- collective snatch propelled me weirdly upward, and the entire manoeuvre was an irregular mess. It was him. Our local Homo Helicopterus Macho Maximus. Too impatient to wait thirty seconds for me to lift off and depart, he had decided to drive at 30 mph right past the dolley, under the assumption that I was going to take off straight ahead. It was a foolhardy act to pull off, even assuming I had taken off straight ahead. No pilot is going to expect to be flying formation with a fast moving SUV in the initial seconds of his take off run. However, given my heading change to turn into wind, he had very nearly rammed my right front skid. It would almost certainly have flipped me over, upside down probably, and the resultant conflagration would have been hard to explain to the Sheriff’s office.

A few months later, I observed him doing what appeared to be steep turns. Forty five degree angle of bank, and sixty degree angle of bank. At about 1500 feet. Smack, bang, right over the middle of the town. Although we were surrounded by hundreds of thousands of acres of wide open desert and shrub land, there he was, doing his strange repertoire. What was he doing? I watched him for twenty five minutes. I gave up in the end. What kind of judgment was that?

A few months after that, he no longer hovered amongst us. He had moved on to You-Tube. Low level along a stream into a twenty foot wire. As forecast by every cop on the force. Loss of one outstanding businessman, an employer in a town that needed employers, a husband and a father. You just kind of shake your head. And wonder…
Dude. We miss you. You were entertainment. But….err….. What were you thinking…???

* * * * *

So you see how I present my case for Homo Helicopterus Macho Maximus.
Also known as Macho Man. Undoubtedly, a subspecies of Homo Sapiens. The Knowing man. The Wise man.

A legend in his own cremation time. Spending Eternity in Valhalla. Paradise.
To be known in the fifty-third century as “You-Tube “….

Macho Man. Never to be forgotten. But let us take comfort.
Thank goodness, there’s plenty more of ’em around…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 7, 2011, 10:15 pm

Of Helicopters and Humans

(5) Up to your ass in Alligators
(a true story)

Helicopter pilots, apart from being lovable, cuddly, incredibly sexy and usually hopelessly impoverished, are also very curious people. They can’t help it. They’ve gotta touch it, try it, poke it, and see if it really DOES hurt when you stick your finger in the 220 volt receptacle. The same applies when they deal with beautiful, high maintenance women. There is something inherently child-like about the sheer innocence with which the average helicopter jockey waltzes through life. That is why so many have been cleaned out by ex wives, ex girl friends, and ex bosses. A man who was once the owner of a truly massive helicopter company, famously remarked that he would never be short of helicopter pilots. All he had to do was go and check the gutters of New Orleans, and he’d find plenty. He actually had a point. But he forgot that these poor, dumb creatures, were not there by their own choice, but rather by way of the caprice and fickleness of Fate. It was their trust that placed them there. Their trust in their fellow man. How else to explain men who are perfectly happy spending their working day hanging underneath ONE nut? The so-called “Jesus nut “, which secures the rotor disc to the rotor mast? If this is not an example of stellar trust, I ask, what is? After all, how many nuts do you know who would be happy living under a nut? Our present Government not included, of course.

We should therefore, not be surprised at the unfolding of events, many, many years ago, at a swampy base along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. Our hero of this story, Captain Mickey, had been informed by comrades of the existence of a very large alligator, that inhabited a muddy bayou, just beside the helicopter base. He was told that some of the pilots would feed it, and that the alligator would be waiting patiently for them, after they landed. I guess the alligator associated the sound of helicopter blades and turbines with food. The ringing of the dinner bell, as it were. I’m not sure if this was a wise Pavlovian reinforcement by these men, prone as they were to flying over alligator infested swamps all day, but that simple worry had apparently not crossed their minds. Mickey, being curious, announced that he wished to see this monstrous beast for himself. And he had no difficulty in persuading three of the regular pilots to guide him to the alligator. In this fashion, one very early foggy morning, with a dim and watery sun striving feebly to spread day light, it so happened that Mickey and his three guides wandered purposefully into Alligator country. With some simple sticks they beat at the bushes, determined to flush the creature out. After a while, muddy and cold, they were getting bored. Their attention faltering, they were sopping around half heartedly, when they accidentally became separated. Mickey found himself alone, when the other three unexpectedly almost stumbled right over their furtive quarry. To everybody’s consternation, the exceedingly large alligator burst forth from its hidden lair, jaws wide open, razor sharp teeth a-flashing, and charged straight at Mickey. Mickey, his desire to see this fabled beast for himself close up, having been satisfied within the first one tenth of a second, performed a swift pedal turn, and commenced to run like hell. With the alligator in hot pursuit. Mickey, already travelling at full throttle, looked over his shoulder, and was horrified to see the alligator closing on him. With the shouts of his friends in his ears, he now selected maximum torque, and positively flew across the landscape, his feet barely touching ground. Through sharp bushes, over fallen branches, and straight through muddy puddles he stormed, but he could not shake his pursuer. His friends, knowing that an alligator can run very fast, but cannot turn quickly, were shouting advice:
“Turn! Turn! Turrrrrrrnnnn! “

However they had failed to brief our hero prior to take-off, and in the present stressful predicament, Mickey did not understand the advice, nor was he so inclined to sit down and consult his ‘flight’ manual. Instead, he ran like the very dickens, concentrating on squeezing every last drop of speed out of his headlong dash. Still the shouts of his friends came, and still he failed to understand the advice. And still the alligator gained on him.
The alligator was now almost within biting distance of Mickey’s buttocks. Pretty soon, Mickey, getting desperate, realized he was heading straight towards the bayou, which was, in effect, cutting off his escape route. Desperation was now really setting in, and Mickey’s feet barely touched the ground. Pretty soon, here came the alligator, moving at alligator Warp speed, drawing along side Mickey, overtaking our hero, and then pushing ahead. Mickey, eyes bulging, with very confused thought processes, was now backing off the throttle, and could only watch in amazement as the alligator reached his intended target, the bayou, splashed right in, and disappeared. It was only then that Mickey realized he had not been the intended target at all.
The beast, alarmed, had chosen to escape, not dine on helicopter pilot.

His friends now rejoined a panting Mickey, who was caked in sweat and mud, scratched and cut, and totally out of breath. His composure was in tatters, but thankfully not his nether anatomy. They now proceeded to remonstrate with him.
“We told you to TURN! “
Mickey, unable to reply, was still attempting to send sufficient oxygen to his lungs, to stave off cardiac arrest.
It was a while before he could answer his accusers.

“Fu-fu-fuck TURNING…. “
(pant, pant) (gasp)
“Fu-fu-fuck that shit… “
(pant, pant) (gasp)
“I was fu-fu….. “
(pant, pant) (groan)
“…….trying to FU-FLY! “

The moral of this story is two fold:
1) that a nut who trusts other nuts where large alligators are concerned, has to be the perfect candidate to spend life hanging under a nut.
2) and that the expression “up to your ass in alligators ” undoubtedly found its origins in an event on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, one foggy, wet Louisiana morning, near the old Sabine base…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 17, 2012, 4:52 am

A really, really bad day…

Of Helicopters and Humans

Part 4: “A very nice lady, walking her dog on the beach. A very, very nice lady. “

The first time I heard this story, I thought it was a Gulf myth. I didn’t believe it. But then I saw the photographic evidence. It was kind of interesting. Irrefutable. Good grief. Yep. Many years ago, on a sunny day in the Gulf of Mexico, this event actually happened…

A helicopter ‘communications center’ is, if you like, is the ‘eye in the head shed’. It’s a large room, with lots of telephones ringing, lots of screens, and lots of people hunched over those screens, and quietly cursing the telephones. . Out there, somewhere, lots of little helicopters are plying their trade. Pilots are calling the commcenter, and the commcenter is calling pilots. Position reports, landing reports, flight plans…
Special requests. Can you contact the rig and get me a green deck? Can you check the weather for me at Houma? Is Warning Area Number 123 active today? The list goes on.

A quick thinking commcenter controller is a pilot’s best friend. But not his only friend. There are many others. Fortunately. This fact was proven in an unlikely fashion on this sunny day, but before we go there, we need to step back a moment to Cameron beach. Where a nice lady is out, walking her dog. It’s a pleasant walk, with the waves lapping gently on the beach. She is well used to helicopters passing over, and pays them scant attention.
Some forty five miles away, in Lake Charles, on this pleasant day, another very nice lady is sitting in the dispatcher’s office of the Police Department. She is answering nine-one-one emergency calls, mostly the usual road traffic fender benders, and the occasional drunk trying to order pizza. She is wishing she was outside on this pleasant day, not cooped up in the artificial light, trying to politely get rid of deaf old Mister Murphy. He is very pleasant, but very hard of hearing. And also somewhat sozzled. He is a retired professional Welfare Recipient. A very popular trade these days. He’s getting really pissed because his pizza has not turned up yet. And he wants salami on it, not pepperone like the last time. She sighs. It’s just another routine day at the funny farm…

Some seventy five miles away, two more very nice, very elegant ladies are sitting at the front desk of a very large helicopter company. They are very good at smiling. That’s what they are paid for. They are the beaming face, that unfailingly welcomes you the moment you walk in the front door. Whether you are a potential new customer, who is maybe going to spend millions of dollars, or just a humble working class grunt,(or, going even lower, even if you’re one of those very strange dudes…) (helicopter jockeys), you still get treated to this beaming smile. No matter how many thousands of people they see, they have this uncanny knack of making you feel that you, my friend, are special. They even remember your name. Quite a feat. They know their company structure inside out, and are capable of quickly guiding any visitor graciously to the exact correct location. Theirs is a skillful job, and requires patience, good humor, organizational excellence, and the ability to instantly recognize the urgent from the mundane.
And to react accordingly.

And lastly, just up the road from Cameron beach, are some massive oil storage units, with thousands of gallons of highly volatile liquids, just quietly sitting there. Waiting… And a small office building with some very nice workers sitting there, getting through another uneventful day, pushing very important pieces of paper from one side of the desk to the other.

Helicopters come and go, around Cameron. Hundreds of the noisy little devils. There are several major bases there. Local residents hardly look up anymore. Little whirlybirds quietly announce their presence as they appear over the distant horizon. Then they get louder. Then really loud. Eventually they will clatter overhead. And get quieter again. There are so many of them, it really is a wonder that this nice lady, walking her dog along the beach, even bothered to look up. But she did. And in doing so, she set in change a remarkable series of events….

The very nice lady in the Police Department answered the next call. She was still thinking about Mister Murphy, and wondering if he would call back for the fourth time that afternoon, even madder than before, still going on about his salami. But the next call, from the nice lady on the beach, got her full attention. They spoke for barely twenty seconds, by which time the dispatcher was already grabbing for the Yellow Pages and waving at her supervisor.
The two nice ladies at the helicopter company, when one of them took the call, conferred briefly together, and patched the call straight through to comcenter.
And this is where our harassed commcenter controller came in, who was working a lot of helicopters. He had an IFR flightplan to pass on, and two helicopters were waiting for a “green deck ” landing clearance. One of his least favorite captains was getting impatient for the weather at Boothville, and he had a Bell 407 with a scratchy radio who was unintelligible. Added to all this was Captain Luigi, who was a really nice dude, but his heavy Italian spaghetti basher accent was hard to follow. Captain Schmitt’s German-American phraseology didn’t help. And then there was the Mad Irishman causing chaos. And on top of all that…. now the phone was ringing. It was a circus again. Just one of those days. He answered the phone curtly:
“Commcenter! “
The nice lady at reception said: “Excuse me, But I have an urgent call from Lake Charles for you. “
The nice lady from the Police Department came on the line, and said:
“Hold on, I have a call from a lady on Cameron beach for you “.
The nice lady from the beach came on. Relayed via the good services of the other nice ladies.
She sounded a little nervous and embarrassed.
“Oh no “, thought the comcenter controller. “Not another noise complaint. “
“Yes, Ma’am, can I help you? “, he said, maybe a little brusquely. He was busy.
“Excuse me, but do you have a little yellow helicopter flying over Cameron? “
“Ma’am ” spoke the controller, restraining himself with some difficulty, (another damn noise complaint).
“We have dozens of little yellow helicopters flying around all over the place. “
“Oh “, spoken the nice lady on the beach,walking her dog.
“It’s just, well, this one is on fire “.
“WHAT!? ”
“Yes, sir, it just passed over me, and I can see big long flames and lots of black smoke pouring out for hundreds of yards behind it. I don’t think the pilot maybe knows… ”

And that is why, the following call went ringing out over the airwaves. It was a most unusual call.
It kind of… got everybody’s attention. It was, indeed, a clarion call.
“ANY HELICOPTER FLYING OVER CAMERON!!! LAND IMMEDIATELY!! YOU ARE ON FIRE!! “
And with that the controller was waving frantically to his supervisor.

There was a sudden silence on frequency. An awful lot of pilots were now waking up in their cockpits.
It happens occasionally, especially when there is food around.
Slowly, thought processes were beginning to get going in a whole lot of simple minds. What passes for brains.
Pilots’ brains. (it takes a whole lot of food)
“Huh!? ”
Everybody was thinking the same.
What kind of dozy bastard doesn’t know he’s ON FIRE??
Which was exactly the mindset of a Bolkow pilot, flying along quite happily on his own. On this sunny day.
As they say in pilot-speak: fat, dumb, and happy.
He looked down. Yeah, he was flying over Cameron. But it wasn’t him. All his warning panel lights were out. There was no sign of any trouble. Life was good. So who was the idiot flying along on fire?
On an impulse, he craned around, looking over his shoulder, and flew a slight turn, to check behind him…
And that is why, the following call went ringing out over the airwaves. It was a most unusual call.
It kind of… got everybody’s attention.
It wasn’t what you would call a “clarion call “. More like a yelp. High pitched. A whole octave up, I’d guess.

Mayday-Mayday-Mayday! I’M ON FIRE…!

The oil workers in their office, beside the vast storage tanks, were thinking coffee and doughnuts. The important things that keep a working man awake. And going home time of course. And maybe that lovely chick on the calendar. The one in the skimpy bathing suit.
The door burst open. It was one of the staff. He was somewhat breathless and red faced.
“There’s a helicopter ON FIRE and he’s coming down to land HERE! “
“He’s doing WHAT!? “
There was a mad scramble for the fire extinguishers, and a stampede out the door.

The actual photos tell quite a story.
The reason the fire alarm detection system never went off, was that the system was long since burned to a crisp.
Turned into carbon. The black, black stuff. A strange irony. A contradiction in terms. A bit like an electrical fuse that doesn’t fuse. Or a Democrat voting for lower taxes. Or Dolly Parton on a trampoline.
Several structural members were so weakened, that the probability of continued flight, for much longer, was about on a par with me getting a date, skate boarding, with Dolly. (Never mind, I probably would have had to calculate her center of gravity, anyway) The chance of the helicopter ever making its intended destination, Lake Charles, was exactly nil. Minus nil. The certainty existed, that very soon, in a matter of mere seconds time, our intrepid aviator would have become a test pilot. Trying to fly a machine, re-configured into a most un-aerodynamic configuration, never intended by the designer. Most probably, he would have become an unhappy, squealing part of a spectacular cloud of falling, burning shrapnel.

That this regrettable scenario never occurred, we all owe to the many friends of the helicopter pilot. Ranging from the nice lady walking her dog (a very, very nice lady), to the quick thinking lady in the Police Department in Lake Charles, to the very nice ladies at the front desk, to the fast thinking commcenter controller, to the posse with the fire extinguishers. It just makes you think how lucky we helicopter dudes are.
I guess they all feel sorry for us.
..
Especially for the dozy bastard flying over who doesn’t know he’s ON FIRE….

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by admin on June 22, 2013, 11:09 am

Of Helicopters and Humans

Part 3: “A Certain Rich Aroma “

I remember that African day well. Even down to tiny details.
I remember walking out to the aircraft, my passenger in tow, across the grass. I remember it was warm, and sunny, and Africa was truly beautiful. The Black Angolan gentleman I was taking out to an offshore platform was a foreman, and I had carried him several times. He was polite, well spoken in a quiet voiced way, and highly intelligent. His knowledge of History had impressed me a few times. We usually chatted quite merrily all the way out. We passed one of our pilots, feeding and fussing over the local feral cats. They swarmed around him, and he treated them royally with dinner scraps.
All customers are important, and have to be treated with respect. The foreman was even more a VIP, as any complaints from him about a pilot would very quickly travel up my employer’s ‘head shed’ management totem pole. Accordingly, I tried hard to be pleasant. But no sooner were we strapped in, and the doors were shut, than a very unpleasant odour assaulted my nostrils. Within seconds the horrible smell had gravitated from being a mere whiff, to being a real smell, to being an astonishing stink.
It was all I could do, to not comment out loud. My mind was thinking things like:
“You smelly BASTARD. You stinking, low life, unwashed, maggot ridden, FILTHY GIT! “
However, being a humble wage slave, and loyal to my employer’s interests, what I was actually saying was:
“Are you comfortable, Sir? “
“This is your volume control, Sir, you can adjust it for your own level of comfort…. “
He, from his part, replied politely to any of my questions. He was a nice man. If only he didn’t stink like a…. like a…. what was that awful smell…???
We took off, and I casually tried to open all the vents as wide as possible. I even slid my window open a bit.
Soon I had a howling gale across the cockpit, which I pretended not to notice. My maps and papers were fluttering in the hurricane. But it was to no avail. The smell was beyond overwhelming. It made your eyes water. It was doing evil things to my sensitive nostrils, much like a one legged kick boxer on a rampage in a flour mill. It really was the most obnoxious invasion of my personal area I could ever have imagined. It just positively honked. All I could think was:
“Dude! How in heck’s name can’t you smell yourself?? What is wrong with your nose? You’re just about knocking me out here! What is your problem?? “
But I actually said:
“Is the temperature all right for you, Sir? “
He assured me that it was. And thus we carried on, making light conversation. It was going to be a long, long flight. The smell meanwhile was getting worse and worse. It was making my eyes water. I wanted to gag. There was no escaping the vile pong. It was making me mad, but I forced myself to remain polite.
After a while I noticed the smelly, diseased, good-for-nothing walking cesspool was actually fiddling around with HIS vent control. He was turning it up to full volume. Grimly, I thought to myself:
“See? See? See how you are? I bet you can even smell yourself, eh? Why don’t you DO something about it it, eh? Take a shower! Change your clothes! Anything! Instead of just sitting there, marinating in your own body odour! You frickin’ primitive!! “
But the spoken word was way more polite. He asked how long we had left to go.
“We should be there in twenty minutes, Sir “, I said politely. I was thinking bad thoughts.
“And I’m counting every second, you walking dung heap… ”
He seemed relieved we were getting close. He asked me again, about ten minutes later, how long we had to go.
I told him politely.
“We should be there in about ten minutes, Sir “.
He nodded, with seeming enthusiasm. He was either very eager to go to work, or he could smell his own body odour. I guessed it was the latter.
“Good luck on the drilling rig, sunshine. They are going to LOVE you…. “
I ran a rapid approach, sliding out of the sky with relief.
We touched down, and relief was beginning to return. He thanked me politely for the ‘pleasant flight’, and I thanked him, and actually added, heroically, with a straight face:
“Thank you for flying with us, Sir, look forward to having you on board again! “
He smiled. I smiled. Bye-bye. Love you too. Yes, bye-bye…..
You smelly pig…

On the return journey, to my disgust, I could STILL smell him. He had so honked out the cockpit, there was no way I could get rid of it. With no other passengers on board, I was free to give vent to my frustrations.
I addressed him out loud, in the manner I would have really liked to. I told his imaginary persona exactly what I thought about his personal hygiene, his ancestry, his sexual orientation, and his life expectancy if I ever met up with him one night in a dark alley. Heck, I was cross. Was I going to have to fly all the way back STILL smelling the scurvy rat?
It was a long flight back. I was probably going to have to get some disinfectant. And wash his seat out. Spray some aerosols in the cockpit. Or, I reflected grimly, maybe I would just have to burn his seat. Heck, burn the whole cockpit, maybe. Who knows.
What a…a…. smelly skunk!
Normally I really like to fly. I love to fly. On a sunny day like that, off the coast of Africa, with the sun sinking in a red sky… it is good to be a helicopter pilot. But my enjoyment was gone. A black cloud was hovering above my head, as my soul could only think evil thoughts of my fellow man. It would be so nice to be able to kick somebody like that right out of the cockpit, in mid flight, at two thousand feet, but the paper work it would engender would take weeks. My company probably wouldn’t like it.

I landed back at my base, still snarling about it. My mind was thinking ‘disinfectant’, ‘bleach’ and ‘de-odoriser’. And fresh air. I couldn’t wait to get out of that damn cockpit. Most unlike me.
I shut down, tied the blades down, and strode away from the helicopter.
What the …???
Unbelievable. I could STILL smell the African. I was now standing twenty yards away from the aircraft, and it was as if he was still standing beside me….??
What on earth…?
On a sudden impulse, I turned the sole of my shoe up.
Oh…. Oh….
Cat shit. Lots of it. Pure, fresh, raw, recently defecated, slimy green liquid cat shit, all over my sole. I’d stepped right in it. Probably just before I got in the helicopter. No wonder it had made my eyes water.
Oh…. Oh….
I suddenly remembered the soft spoken African gentleman I had carried on board. Who had exchanged polite conversation with me. Who did, admittedly, turn his fresh air up to max volume. Who did, also, inquire several times as to when we were going to be there…
Oh… Oh….
A horrible thought hit me. What… was HE thinking??? I winced. Oh, dear. I could probably guess…

“You smelly helicopter pilot! Call yourself a professional? You FILTHY creature! Let me OUT of this helicopter! How can you POSSIBLY not smell yourself? Go take a shower- PLEASE! You are just HONKING!
This is disgusting! Dude! How in heck’s name can’t you smell yourself?? What is wrong with your nose? You’re just about knocking me out here! What is your problem..?? “

Errrrr….

(Oops…?)

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 15, 2014, 9:18 am