Francis Meyrick

Note: “Alternative version” – I just could NOT get it down right. I went round and round the houses, struggling to say something. I just could NOT get it down the way I wanted on paper. So… in the end, here are BOTH versions of Chapter 7. Maybe the kind reader, between the two versions I so laboriously wrestled with, can figure out what the heck I was trying to say.

Learning to Fly Helicopters

Part 7 – The Dark Side of the Sun (alternative version)

I could stop here.

I could have left it right there. And written just these six chapters. Kind of light hearted, kind of mischievous. An amused look back at my introduction to another branch of Aviation. The fun stuff. How to get sucked in. Addicted. Worse than crack. All about learning, enjoying, making mistakes, recognizing them. Exploring. Steadily becoming a better, more knowledgeable helicopter pilot. Steadily becoming more in tune with my machines. Soaking up the strange, discordant harmony. Feeling the air moving around my blades. Recognizing different types of vibrations. Knowing when shuddering is good, as when you accelerate through effective translational lift. Becoming alert, immediately, when something tells you all is not well. That circumstances were beginning to take a set against you. Conspiring. To set you up. For a nasty surprise. Or, worse.

It would be easy to stop here. Maybe even comforting.

But somehow, that would not be honest. It would be almost cowardly. For there is a Dark Side of the Sun. And we tiny Mortal Ones, we Seekers, we Moths who inexorably are drawn into the Lighted Candle, do well to pause, and ponder that dark Side. We do well to take a step back, a deep breath, and ask ourselves even the uncomfortable questions.

Even those questions we would prefer to ignore.

For as we gaze into the Mirror of our Lives, as we gaze into the uncertain reflection of our image, who are we? We can stretch out a trembling hand, but we cannot touch that person. We can climb mountains, to where we find, at last, in the early morning light, the clear, crystal lake of Tranquility. Where, utterly alone, we recognize the absurdity of lying to ourselves. We are what we see in the unwavering reflection in that cold, pure mountain mirror.

A small creature, pitiful in our innocence. Touching, in our deepest dreams. Surrounded by tall mountains, and bewildering vastness.

What do we know? What do we really understand?

Within a few years of the events I have respectfully submitted for your gentle consideration, I heard terrible news on the grapevine. There are many helicopter pilots on this tiny planet, but as many as there are, the brotherhood stays small and close. Bad news travels fast. And even slips quickly around the globe, skipping time zones, and darting effortlessly across the continental divide. If I was to fire up accidentally with a blade tied down, and do incalculable damage in a matter of seconds, they would know tomorrow in Africa. In Papua New Guinea. In Scotland. And down at the Alligator Bar, in Knockmedown, Northern Australia. Pilots fly fast. News flies faster. Bad news goes supersonic.

In this way, although I was an Ocean away, I heard that my first helicopter instructor, my buddy, the man with the two hundred flight hours, who took me under his wing as his first student, had been killed. During a training flight. Along with his student. I tried to call my old school, only to discover that the phone number was unlisted. Further enquiries revealed that they had gone out of business. I sighed, and shook my head. I made a note that one day, one special day, I would maybe write about my old vegetarian friend. The soft spoken one. The thoughtful, kind one. I continued to fly, helicopters and airplanes, with yet another quiet memory to add to all those many others. The growing rows of silent shadows, that I could hear no more, but often sense, gesticulating, or shaking their heads, noiselessly laughing, when I goofed up, or forgot to perform some essential cockpit duty. Or when I opened my mouth, honestly but without tact, when silence would have been golden.

I was rapidly building flight time and experience, and I was now a dual rated Flight Instructor, Airplane and Helicopter. Not a great one. Just one who tried, and who deeply loved his occupation. Time went by. More terrible news. Old Floyd, the Chief Helicopter Instructor, whose first solo pantomime I described earlier, and whose unusual Private Pilot Check ride I passed, he too had died in a helicopter crash. I was eventually able to find out more, and even talk to a witness, a fellow pilot. It appeared Floyd had been fire fighting, and was last seen entering a smoke cloud, low and heavy, preparing for a water drop. He never came out.

And always, the same question would hover on the edge of my consciousness. Whenever I heard terrible news. A small voice would cry out in the wilderness. Awake me at night. Plunge me into silent introspection.

Francis… what do you think YOU know, that he did not? With all his experience?

I would try and push that voice away. I would try and rationalize. Find causes. Find fault. I caught myself a few times deliberately making comforting assumptions, to the effect that HE must have F#@KED UP, and I (the great, exalted one) would NEVER DO THAT. (I was that good)

Francis…

(Oh, I know…)
So how is it that some pilots die old and ancient? And others young and daring? Or at the peak of their knowledge?
Is it pure Lady Luck? Dancing the Terminal Tango with that mercurial lady? The one with the blue eyes, and the eternal gaze? Drawing in young men and women, the world over?

Is it Skill? Wisdom? Training? Fate? What!?

If I may venture an opinion.
(Well, dammit, you know I’m going to, right?)

I honestly think Fate and Luck have very little to do with it. To be sure, in a small minority of accidents, (way?) less than one per cent, there was nothing, nothing the pilot could have done. He or she was just destined that day to see their main rotor transmission catastrophically depart their aircraft. Or the hawk to come smashing though the windscreen at 500 feet, causing chaos with pieces of Perspex flying through the cockpit, and the sudden explosive wind blast disorientating the highly skilled crew. In the seconds available to react, what aviator would claim to be able to instantly recognize the fact that the hawk had slammed both throttles back to flight idle? A Million-to-one chance? I don’t think the greatest pilot on earth could have salvaged that particular Tango.

So, yes, you can encounter the impossible odds.

I am a keen motorcyclist. I have been riding for decades. I’ve even blogged about it. I like to think I can see situations coming. One day, Lady luck reminded me how some Tango mis-steps… are impossible to recover from. I was a mere three miles from home, on the main road, approaching a junction. I had the right of way. With fifty yards to go, a small car erupted out of the side road, straight through the STOP sign, at about sixty miles per hour. Straight across the junction ahead of me, right to left, never slowing. Four black youths on board. There was nothing, repeat nothing, I could have done, if Lady Luck had shuffled the dice a few seconds the other way. MY number would have been up.

So, yes, you can encounter the impossible odds. Stacked against you.

But those instances are, comfortingly, extremely rare. If you’re like me, not very bright, simple even, and infernally curious, maybe you just want to:

1. drink the cup dry
2. get your ticket’s worth (Ticket-to-ride, Ticket-to-think. Ticket-to-dream)
3. act in your own play (“strut and fret your hour upon the stage”)
4. star in your own movie (even if nobody comes to watch it) (too bad)
And, above all,
5. slide sideways into the grave, in a tire screeching, banshee defying blur of crazy, with a big, silly grin all over your face, shouting:

“WHOOPEEEE! What a RIDE…!!”

Maybe you just want to try (believe me, you will fail) to never hurt anybody. In any sense. Physical, emotional, spiritual.

Maybe you just want to try, to tread softly though this world, and bow your head reverently before those mysteries that you know you have no definite answers for. Hints, maybe. Inner stirrings. The voice in the wilderness. The beacon light in the vast darkness.

The sigh of the soul.

If you are just a little like that, you will magnificently enjoy flying helicopters. Or even, just sitting in an arm chair, taking a break from your everyday non-aviation office existence, and simply READING about flying helicopters. Because if you have gotten this far in my scribbles, then we are brothers, you and I. I may look down on you, from my office in the sky, and you may look UP at me, from yours on the seventeenth floor, but in our tiny, searching minds…

We are similar.

Yes, there is a Dark Side of the Sun. Yes, we should tread wisely. But the Light, brother, the Light… is awesome.
In the following stories, below, I would like to tell you a yarn or two. Ninety-nine per cent true. Except the one about the poor elephant. Okay, I made that one up. The little Indian didn’t really whop him in the n…. But I had to bring that one in, to introduce the interesting Indian concept of the lower societal castes. So bad, so low, so impolite, you can’t even touch them. The Untouchables. So I thought my (two) regular readers might be known as… Moggy’s Untouchables?

I would like to take you back a few generations in my family. I know there were story tellers there. It’s in our genes, I’m sure. And I’m sure they sat outside their cottages, after work, in Ireland and Scotland, and in Northern England. Even earlier, they sat outside their simple homes in Scandinavia. I see them, smoking perhaps, drinking, laughing, and bantering. Scolding the mischievous young ones, and worrying about the harvest, the weather, and the taxes. Secretly lusting after Brunhilda.

(Damn, here she comes, don’t look now) (Mama!… would you take in those jiggly knockers…!) (Down, Rover!)

Nothing changes. Much. They were feeling, human, just like you and I.
And before the age of the Internet, and computers, and Wi-Fi, and Mass Media Manipulation, and Global Politics, and Weapons of Mass Destruction, and Gurus, and Tele-PROMPTERS, these more honest folk, probably more feeling and cultured in many ways, engaged in “fireside story telling”. I imagine it was a favorite part of their day. The story tellers, their faces lit up in their light of the fire, eyes shining with passion, regaled their audiences with tales of Monsters and Heroes, Devils and Saviors, Good and Bad, Truth and Falsity. Spooks and Leprechauns.
And I imagine (no, I’m sure) they did it for no monetary reward at all, just for the pleasure of being surrounded by kin, and eager listeners. The pleasure of exploring the world, in the mind, in the heart, in the soul. Savor the simple reward.

The reward of being enjoyed…

And that is what I would like to do. Not for gain, or accolades, or vain motives of self promotion, but just for the sheer joy of spinning a yarn. Continuing an age old family tradition. After all, who am I? Sum’thin special? You want my autograph? Are you kidding? Heck, no. I’m just another expat Mischief Maker. With a mucky laugh. And laughter in his eyes.

I invite you into my tiny mind, to sit by the warm fire. I know, it’s a bit cramped in here. But relax, chill out, and gaze into the flames.

Here you go. A full glass in your hand. Cheers.
Aye, your good health, kind Sir, and lovely Missus.

Can I tell you guys a story? You don’t mind? That’s good of you. Just humor an Old Pilot. And listen, while he boldly rambles on. Contentedly. Slightly tipsy.
No charge. No fee. Keep yer f@#k’n money… It has no value here.

We are amongst friends. Present, and absent.

Enjoy.

Scribbling Moggy

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 16, 2015, 4:57 pm

Learning to Fly Helicopters

Ch.7 “Joy, Caution, and Tragedy”

I have been scribbling stuff all my life. But some chapters, some stories, have waited many decades to be written. Many are still… waiting. I don’t quite know why. Reluctance, for sure. Based on what? The unthinkable? Facing the dragon? Acknowledging certain truths of the game?
The Helicopter World is a small community. If you want to know how small, wait until somebody crashes. Despite better and better hardware, better maintenance, better safety programs, pilots.. still… crash. Inevitably, word speeds around the globe at the speed of Light. I was absolutely stunned to hear that my Flight Instructor, the soft spoken vegetarian, him who had so carefully worked with his first ever student -me- had died. In a training helicopter crash. That I couldn’t immediately digest. We had shared a cockpit together, but that was only part of it. We had shared an experience together. Life. Excitement. And I was stunned that he was now dead. I never did find out what happened. I wasn’t even sure the full facts were known.
Time went by. The Helicopter world is a small community. If you want to know how small, wait until somebody crashes. Word speeds around the globe at the speed of Light. I was once again absolutely stunned to hear that my Examiner, Floyd, the laughing examiner, with a love of throttle chops, him who had so cheerfully checked out his first ever Irish student -me- had also died. In a firefighting helicopter crash. Witnesses said he went into smoke, and never came out. His widow sued Bell Helicopters, and won a substantial settlement. I never did hear exactly what transpired. I wasn’t even sure if the full facts were known.

These two deaths came on top of many, many others. Not just in helicopters. But in skydiving, fixed wing flying, and aerobatic flying, I was -time and time again- to receive truly horrifying news. Or watch really bad stuff unfolding right in front of my eyes. The pretty girl from France, on holiday in Ireland, on a beautiful, sunny day, blue sky & wafting clouds, who finally pulled her ripcord at about twenty five feet above the ground. Right in front of my eyes. Only the extractor chute had time to appear.

I later escaped a few times from situations myself, many of which I describe -or intend to describe- truthfully elsewhere. Watching a buddy skydiver (with whom you have just done a free-fall two man link up) pull his ripcord early, way too high, you are amused. He got that wrong! And you track away, hands coming in beside your hips, arched at the waist, feeling the acceleration coming in. Now you are sizzling across the ground. You are laughing to yourself, you feel so good. You feel like you are an experienced sky diver, enjoying himself, who knows exactly what he is doing. A few nano split seconds later, as you -frantically- flare and pull your ripcord (whistling though twelve hundred feet AGL in a Max Track), (five seconds from ground impact) you don’t even have time -right there- to wonder what in hell’s name just happened. The ferocious opening SLAM (you’re not supposed to open a “Para Commander ” -way before the modern ram air chutes- doing a hundred and eighty), kind of wakes you up that you just really GOOFED.

The incredibly short canopy ride to the ground (still seeing stars) is where the process of analysis starts. If you’re like me, you spend days thinking about it. Weeks. You return to skydiving a chastened fellow. The hubris is diminished. I was a fool. And I damn near killed myself. How in hell…? There was nothing wrong with my altimeter. Or my parachute. Or my training. It was ME. I screwed up. I simply mis-read my height. Over confident. Way too relaxed in free-fall. What a mistake. I will NEVER, ever, do that again.

In the fixed wing world… I made Jumpmaster in skydiving, and I made Flight instructor in airplanes. Over the decades, so many cases of friends and acquaintances dying. Needlessly. All the time. The weekend warriors. And the professionals. I sold a Cessna 150 to a gentleman, who subsequently died in it with his son. I had a lot of flight time in G-BCTV, all instruction given, and I had sent many a student solo in her. It was stunning to think of a smoldering wreck lying in a field. With two dead bodies. Again, there was nothing wrong with the aircraft. Or the pilot’s training. They were flying a precision flying competition. The name of the game is to arrive over an exact spot at a precise split second in time. They were a little early. So… slow it down. Slow it down a bit more. A bit more… put some flaps down… a bit more… stall/spin/death. It upset me for days. He was not my student, but I somehow wished I had done more. I subsequently changed my instructional technique, to reflect the lead up to this accident, but that is another story. One day. Perhaps.

In aerobatic flying… I have many, many stories. So many. Yet to be written , or posted. Maybe. I loved aerobatics. I read every aerobatics book I could get hold of. (there were not that many available, as I recall) I was never so happy trying to fly the perfect round loop. Then flying an OUTSIDE loop. Or hitting the smoothest vertical hesitation roll you had ever seen. Hitting the snap just right -perfect- at the top of an avalanche. The inverted pass, followed by a crisp, four point hesitation roll. The happy Lomcevak-with-smoke, which is not a precision maneuver, no matter what anybody says, but just a fun entry into a wild crowd-pleasing nutty, ass-over-tit oscillation. I loved flying along early in the morning, and flying a leisurely Cuban eight, just for the sheer mischievous hell of it. I loved flying into sunsets, and coming home close to dark.

But one story stands out. Yet to be posted here, on this little site. A story which many people will never believe, but it -truthfully- describes how I managed to knock myself out, stone cold unconscious, with the nose of my Christen eagle pointed almost straight at the ground. I was flying an advanced aerobatic sequence. I have no clue how the aircraft (which is designed to be aerobatic, and hence is not stable hands off) managed to fly itself out of that pilot induced mess. When I woke up, hands and arms hanging limp and useless, momentarily blind, and only able to hear, G-TARA was flying almost straight-and-level, in a very slight descent, almost TWO MILES away from the lakes I had been practicing over. That should have been completely impossible. On all subsequent flights, if I let go of the stick, she would just roll over and dive for the ground. But on that occasion, when I needed all the help I could get, somehow, I got it. From whence, I hesitate to even speculate. Somebody was flying that aircraft. And it wasn’t me.

The point of this preamble is, simply put, that I have loved to fly. Loved it with a passion. I have no regrets for becoming a pilot. But I do regret the Stupid. I have done it myself, so I cannot throw stones. I live in a glass house. But I have also seen so much Stupid. Aviation counts among its ranks the haughty, the sneering, those who look down their toffee noses at ordinary mortals. They are quick to sneer, quick to judge, quick to condemn. But it seems to me that some of the greatest self appointed Sky Gods, the most stern and judgmental of bosses, some of whom I have worked for, have long since -conveniently- forgotten their own ‘stupid’. It never happened. THEY are without sin.
They inspire not… they have no humanity, no compassion, no warmth. Limited understanding.
Some leaders listen first, calmly, to the whole alleged story, before they even begin to -softly-comment. Others don’t bother – they already know it all. They come down the phone from the get-go, screaming and angry. The former inspire. The latter discourage and demoralize. Very often the former… were better pilots.

One big reason why I scribble in general, is to “vent”. To get something out of my system. I suffer from insomnia. I often get up in the middle of the night, and scribble. For hours on end. Then, when it’s out, expressed, I can -maybe- sleep. But where the aviation scribbles are concerned, there is a special motive. I just don’t want any pilots who read this, to ever have to go through what I went through, exemplified in a simple phone call, a long time ago.
I called, his wife answered, and I bellowed, noisily and cheerfully, the way I often do:

“Hey, darling, it’s me, Francis! Where’s the old rascal then? Put him on…!”

And she… burst into tears. My aerobatic buddy had been killed, the day before. A smoking wreck, in front of his family.
I still feel totally awful about that blasted phone call.

Flying is wonderful. ‘Destination’ Zero IS possible. No accidents. None.
But it is SO easy to enter…

the hubris zone…

I have done it. I cannot cast stones.
If we reflect, quietly, we know we are pilgrims. And if we bow our heads, and proceed quietly, with a deep respect, even awe, for the Universe that surrounds us, we will become -perhaps- better men. Safer pilots.

And if my little cerebral doodles, the Moggy scribbles, help even a little bit, that would be… reward in itself.

Peace. Fly safe. And for those who just fly arm chairs… enjoy.
Be gentle with this world. It is still, a beautiful place.

Scribbling Moggy

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 16, 2015, 5:05 pm

Learning to Fly Helicopters

Ch.6 General Flight Test and Beyond

The Great Day had dawned.

The written exams were all passed. The required flight hours and training had been accomplished. There remained only the GFT. The General Flight Test. That I would be flying with the Chief Instructor and owner of the school, Floyd. If I passed, I would be a licensed Private Helicopter Pilot, and a dream would have come true. I was excited. I was mostly worried about those autorotations. The auto-tribulations. But I reasoned that Floyd had a huge amount of experience, and that he was not going to frighten me too much. I was sure he would give me plenty of warning. I liked it all… steady. Under control.

When the actual hour was upon me, I was fairly calm. Floyd, from his side, was very pleasant, smiling, and seemed to be trying to put me at ease. I started her up, and soon we were doing ground maneuvers. That was okay. I liked them. Backwards, sideways. Turns to the left, turns to the right. Quick stops. You pretend you’re taking off, you accelerate, and go faster and faster. Then, simulating an emergency, or maybe a wire appearing, you firmly lower collective, flare, and STOP. I did okay. I liked those. Floyd seemed happy.

“Fly me a circuit, Francis!”

Sure, I can do that, I thought. I was beginning to feel confident. I lined up obediently, accelerated, and started to climb out. We were passing through two hundred feet, when, all of a sudden…

WHAMMO…!

The throttle was slammed HARD SHUT. A classic -vicious- “throttle chop”, simulating a complete and total instant engine failure. The nose yawed viciously left…
(oh!)
ENTER AUTOROTATION! DO THE DRILL…! Where are we going?? Straight for some trees! That won’t do. Hard autorotational turn LEFT! Go for that field! FLARE! Pull in the power!…
I had pulled it off, but I was shaking. My own vegetarian soft talking Instructor had never given me such a vicious, low level, total failure. We would always do a verbal one-two-three count beforehand, to make sure we were both on the same page. What I had just experienced, was a new one. I was shaken. I had done okay, but it had drained me a bit.
I looked at Floyd. He, for his part, was grinning like a maniac. HE thought it was funny.

The tone was set for the rest of the GFT. Autorotations, left, right, and center. Including a nice little party piece. Heading straight out over a swamp.
“Francis, do you see that lake over there in the distance?”
“Errr… yes, I do.”
“Do you see the Gas Station beside it…?”
“Errr… ” I peered hard into the distance, eyes straining. “Errr… No, I can’t say that I do, Floyd.”
WHAMMO! Throttle slammed hard shut AGAIN!
A triumphant I-got-you voice over the intercom: “That’s funny, neither can I!”
AUTOROTATION! (do the DRILL!) MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!
(thinks: Now where am I going for? There is SWAMP everywhere! Okay, do a one-eighty autorotational turn BACK to where we came from). All this, decided in split seconds.

GFT’s with Floyd, it seemed, were good for your autos, bad for your NERVES. We went through the entire syllabus. He was thorough, and I felt well wrung out by the time we were finished. When I climbed out, I realized for the first time that I was soaked in perspiration.
But the deed was done. He told me I had passed. Unbelievable. I had passed as a licensed Private Pilot Helicopters!
There was quite a crowd assembled now, and there were a lot of smiles, some clapping and a few cheers. I was so happy, my guard, foolishly, was down.
“Are you hot, Francis?” Somebody asked solicitously. A beer magically appeared. Relieved, I stretched a hand forth to accept the gift… then… some memory stirred.
I froze…

TOO LATE! A blast of cold water, as the hose was turned on.

Gol-darn-it…

* * * * *

Two days later, I was on the long, transatlantic flight back home, clutching precious bits of paperwork. My brain was in a whirl.
I liked helicopters… the thought was on my mind to carry on. Go and get my Commercial License. But it was expensive. Money was going to be a problem. I sighed…

How nice it would have been to maybe get a Flight instructor’s rating on Helicopters. It would be really interesting to teach the Art. I had enjoyed teaching Fixed Wing Flying, and Taildragger conversions, aerobatics and biplanes. To instruct helicopter flying would be yet another fascinating skill to add to the rest. It was a nice thought, but also heavily problematical. Cash. Lack of. How the seemingly unattainable tantalizes the imagination.

I ordered myself a celebratory drink from the bar. Then I sat back and dreamed. And dreamed. I shut my eyes, and imagined an exciting future. Soon I was fast sleep. Little did I know what adventures lay ahead.

The triumphs, the heartaches, the heart-in-mouth moments.

Soft sunrises, on quiet airfields. And vicious storms all around, coloring the onboard flight display solid red. Water spouts and down drafts, system failures and human conundrums.

Satisfaction, joy, and disappointment. Bewilderment, even. It was all still to come.

But for now, I slept. One task, one small step, well accomplished.

Scribbling Moggy

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 16, 2015, 4:53 pm

Learning to fly helicopters

Ch. 5 “oh, oh, oops…! Sorry…!”

And so it came to pass that I turned up at an airfield that I had not previously been to. Innocently, full of the best intentions, I proceeded on down to land. High time fixed wing pilot, fixed wing CFII, low time helicopter student pilot. Maybe not the best combination. Shakespeare’s Macbeth said it best, and that was a long time ago:

Is this a dagger, I see before me?
The handle towards my hand…?

I had, admittedly, looked up the airfield on the ‘Flight Guide’ beforehand. And I had noted that it had a dedicated heli-terminal, separate, and away from the fixed wingers. The plebs. It was also a “Unicom” job. No Tower, you just talk, tell the world, if anybody’s listening, where you are and what you’re going to do.

I arrived overhead, looked down. Yep. That’s the heli-terminal. Rows and rows of shiny little helicopters, parked in neat, white circles. Down I went. Nice approach. Noticed this funny, rather high barbed wire fence all around the heli-terminal. Strict security, eh? Hey-ho. Hop over the fence. Land in a nice, big circle beside a big shiny fellow. Great! Hey-hum. Don’t want to shut down just yet. Having too much fun. I’m in circle number twenty. I see. Well, let’s do some practice. Hop over to circle number eighteen. Lift up, hover checks, across we go. Settle down in the hover, DOWN we settle, BINGO!

Damn, I’m good…

Alright! Now what? Okay, let’s do a three sixty degree turn on the spot. Yeah! Another one the other way. Banzai! This was FUN. I was well pleased with myself. Ahead of me, there was another free space. I decided to go for it. More practice. I lifted up into a reasonable hover, stabilized (Good Boy!), and hover taxied the twenty yards across to circle number twenty-six. Good. There was now a spare space beside me. Through the rather high barbed wire fence beyond it, I could see the rows of shiny fixed wingers. Outsiders. You’ve got to be ‘special’ to be doing what I’m doing. Okay, let’s go for that circle then. I was positively humming to myself with enjoyment. This was great.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a number of chaps had stopped to look outside the offices.

Must give them a good show…

I lifted off with the greatest of care, stabilized in the hover, and moved sideways twenty yards. I settled down again, nicely. Not bad for twenty-something helicopter flight hours…? I glanced at the little group of observers, and I noticed more had come out of the offices to get a better view. They must really like helicopters, I thought to myself. I looked away from them, at the nice, shiny Hughes 500 I had parked alongside. It quite dwarfed the little Red Robinson. It looked very new and shiny. I now noticed it had

“Los Angeles Police Department”

…written all over it. Well, well, I thought to myself. A Police Helicopter. A copper chopper, in fact. Interesting. I looked back at the growing group of onlookers. Some of them were leaning against the wall, arms folded. Must really, really like helicopters, these chaps, I thought.

Well, I’ve given them a good little demo…

I looked around at the other helicopters. The one on my left was also a nice, shiny Hughes 500. Good condition. It had “Los Angeles Police Department” written on it as well. Oh, fancy that. Two Police choppers. Well, well. I looked across at the helicopter diagonally ahead of me. Nice Bell Jetranger. It had “Sheriff” written all over it. I see. I looked back at the group of very interested onlookers. There was something very similar about them all. Big guys. Yes, that was it. They were all wearing short sleeved white shirts. Arms folded. With badges…

“WHAT THE…???”

And my eyes darted back to the assembled helicopters. The one ahead of me, the ones beside me, the ones over there… they were ALL Police! I looked back at the group of men. THEY were all COPS! Ohmigod!

I’ve landed in the Police compound!

I’m playing a juvenile game off hop-scotch and ring-around-the-roses in and around their very expensive crime busting tools… This isn’t the civilian heli-terminal! That’s why the big high, barbed wire fence was around it! And those BIG guys… arms folded… not happy… Guns… oh, oh…
And the brain sputtered-spurted into action: two choices! One: shut down, get out, explain, apologize!
Stuff that…
Option TWO: VAMOOSH…

And a little red R-22 pulled in a fistful of power, and… hightailed it out of there!

* * * * *

(sigh)

No sooner had I made my escape, and hopped out over the (barbed wire, high security) fence, than I instantly regretted my decision. That was pretty stupid… They would doubtless know the school I was from, and they were probably even now on the landline. Miserably I flew back. I was going to be in trouble. Far better to have shut down and apologized. Clot! Would I be in serious trouble? Only one way to find out…
I arrived back at the helicopter school, crestfallen, tail between skids. Between Legs, even. Walked in. Sheepish. Guilty look. Expecting a telling off.
I had hardly stepped inside, than I was met with hoots of laughter. The owner, Floyd, was paralytic. So was Sharon, his wife. Everybody else was convinced I had made History. A classic clanger. In all the years they had been there, nobody else… etc, etc.
What could I say? I just stood there, half laughing, half thinking:
“Scotty… if you are there… Beam me up, bro’…”

Apparently the Police Officer that phoned was too cracked up with laughter to talk properly. Sharon said that, in the background, while he was trying to explain, all she could hear was his colleagues hooting it out. What seemed to have really tickled these boys was the way events unfolded…

From the cops point of view:
1) Sudden, unexpected, roaring arrival of a strange helicopter, smack in the middle of a highly secured area. Are they under attack? Is this a bad guy? What…? Momentary alarm. Drug aircraft? Cartels? Guns? People leap up, move quickly to the windows, prepare to take defensive positions…
2) Everybody recognizes the little red Robinson R-22 hopping neatly over the fence.. “It’s Hiser!” Cops watch as unknown pilot does a nice landing. No bad guys jump out with guns.
3) Pilot, presumed to be a solo student, looks well pleased with himself. Lifts up, hover taxies sideways, lands again. Big grin. Cops are figuring out what’s going on. “He thinks he’s over at the G.A. ramp!”
4) student still well happy. Does several more practice take-offs to the hover, and landings on adjacent spots.
5) happy student helicopter pilot, diligently practicing 360 degree turns, first one way, then the other. Crowd of cops gather. Offices emptying out. “You gotta come and see this…”
6) happy student looks very happy. Grinning like a banshee. Cops watching, arms folded.
7) slight LESS happy student’s head turns, and looks closely at helicopter parked beside him.
8) distinctly AGITATED student’s head bobs first this way, then that, taking in ALL the rows of copper choppers.
9) chuckling from cops. They’ve got it all figured out. EXTREMELY agitated student helicopter pilot pulls in a fistful of collective, and HIGHTAILS it out over the fence and away!
10) Cops fall around laughing.

(Scotty? Scotty? Are you there…??)
Oh, oh. Oops. Sorry!
(sigh)

* * * * *

I knew the laugh was on me. What could I do, except try hard, as I always do, in my own, bumbling way, not to break the rules, and not to upset anybody. The intentions were pure as the wind driven snow. Before they spread the salt. I swear. Well, barely a week later…
I had caused even more chaos. Much more. And I wasn’t doing anything. Much.

I was just flying along, building cross country flight time, over an open country area. I was just enjoying myself. Honestly. I had been told by my instructor that it would be a good idea if I gave myself a practice engine failure. Down to a low hover. He had encouraged me to do them enroute, over open country. Away from built up areas, but it didn’t have to be over an airfield.

Really?
Yep.
Boy, you can’t do that in the UK. People would get all excited.
You’re not in the UK, son, you’re in America!

I concurred with that. I sure loved America. Still do. Okay, I reasoned, my “General Flight Test” was coming up soon, my final flight test to be issued with my FAA Helicopter Private Pilot’s License. So I needed to practice conscientiously. So, innocently, I thought to myself:

“The first RED car I see, I’ll pretend the engine has quit. I’ll drop straight into autorotation, pick a spot, complete the drills, send out a Mayday, the whole bang lot. Uh-huh.”

A good idea…

It was a pretty long ride. Ho-hum. No red cars. Soon, I was droning along happily, in that other world I like so much. Peaceful, alone, dreamy, and happy. Terrific views. Freedom. Thoughts that wander.
No red cars. Droning along. Merrily. La-di-da…
Chortle, chortle…
I decided to make up some silly poetry. With a nod to Winnie-the-Pooh.

And so on…

RED CAR! WHOAH!
ENGINE FAILURE!
ENTER AUTOROTATION!
MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!
Into the DRILL! A site! I need a site! Where’s the wind coming from?? All hills and valleys and rocks. I have to find… Ah, there! Beyond that little ridge! Go for it! Good lookout! MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!
Looking Good. Nobody around. Take it all the way down to ground level… three hundred feet. Over that little wood. Two hundred… coming down… down… FLARE! LEVEL! Pull in power!
Good one…
And away! Down a little valley, watch for cables, and up into the sky! Not bad…
And off I flew, happy-happy. Pure as the wind driven snow. Before the coyotes come sneaking along. (and p… in it).

Well…
There were some folk out, hiking. And they saw and heard this helicopter approach, droning steadily, flying in a straight line. And suddenly, backfiring. Doing something “very funny”, before hurtling down out of the sky. Then it disappeared behind a ridge line, and was never seen again.
And of course, these well meaning hikers ran to the nearest phone. To report a helicopter CRASHING. Big panic. Search parties alerted. Volunteer Fire Departments called out. Police helicopter dispatched. Looking everywhere for a crashed red helicopter. Meanwhile, I was flying along, happy as a mouse in a granary, composing silly poetry. Wholly unaware that vast (and expensive) resources were being hastily mobilized because of my chance and flamboyant encounter with a passing RED car.
It took a couple of smart cops to figure out: “Hang on? A little RED helicopter? Doing stuff? Call Hiser! See if that dozy Irishman is still flying around!?”
And thus it came to pass… honestly, you can’t make this stuff up. And thus it came to pass, that I returned from a successful solo cross country, and walked into the flying school, happy as only a newbie helicopter jockey can be. A bounce in his stride. A sparkle in his eye. All hail, the conquering hero…

Every face turned towards me. And Sharon, breathlessly, asked if I had been flying over such-and-such an area. Errr…yes? About what time? I work it out.
What? Now bloody what?
The whole place collapses. Again. Quick phone calls to inform search parties. Laughter.
“Yes, it was him again!”
WHAT…!!???
Would somebody please explain to me what the hell is going on? Don’t just stand their laughing your socks off??! NOW WHAT HAVE I DONE…??

Oh.
(Oops!) (Sorry!)

Francis Meyrick

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 16, 2015, 4:52 pm

Learning to fly Helicopters

Ch. 4 “Auto-tribulations ”

(For Sam Mohring, because he said he’d like a sequel…)

It was several more months before I could get back to California.
This time I turned up with a very different attitude. Gone were the doubts. In their place was a lot more confidence. Confidence in the helicopter. Confidence in me. Oh, there were still doubts. And still, a certain amount of fear. I didn’t like autorotations. MY instructor told me I would end up loving them. Maybe. But I didn’t right then.
Looking back on it, I think my understanding of the aerodynamic principles of autorotation was not matched by my confidence in the blessed principle working. It sounds so simple. In powered flight, all normal, the engine powers the rotor system, via the transmission. Airflow is “induced” down through the rotor disc. Okay, happy-happy. Now, gremlins. What happens if the engine goes tiddley-up AWOL? As in Kaputt, seized, broke, busted, knackered? We simulate that in autorotation training. We lower the collective lever, that looks like a really old fashioned vintage hand brake, and roll the throttle off. Sadistic instructors enjoy doing this to petrified students. I’m sure they torture kittens as well.

Help! No ENGINE…??

What’s going to make the rotor blades keep going around?
Enter The Principle? The WHO? The Principle. That fancy Theory what asserts it’s all gonna be just fine and okay. You can imagine a swaggering type, all full of his self importance, puffed up in pride, because this is one helluva smart Principle, and he knows stuff you don’t. You mutthead…
“Easy”, says the Principle. “The Helicopter, faced with an engine failure, will initially drop. This is nothing to worry about.”
If you’re like I was, you might be inclined to reply:

“Nothing to worry about?? You must be… effin’ JOKING!”

The Principle, unfazed, continues: “Then, after you’ve dropped, guess what?”
“Go on, tell me.”
“Well, the upcoming airflow, now flowing UP through the rotor disc, instead of DOWN through it, will drive the rotors round. Simple. Works every time…” The Principle ends on a smug note. Every time. All full of himself. I’d like to kick him in the bolt securing devices. Wryly, I opine:
“Yeah. Simple. Huh. And what if it doesn’t? What if you don’t work, Mister fancy high-falooting Aerodynamic principle? Eh? Eh? What do I do THEN?”

I was… suspicious. To me, Rotor RPM was sacred. The Nr gauge (‘Rotor RPM Indicator’) was the key to life. With healthy Nr, you had a flying machine. A good, strong, healthy flying machine. (The Hueys in Vietnam were famous for chopping down TREES with their blades. Taking enemy fire in a small clearing, overloaded, nobody exactly wanting to get off, trees in the way… What do you do? Fly in circles, knock a few down, and… hey presto.) (Spinning Blades are tough) With collapsing Nr on the other hand, the centrifugal force was insufficient to keep the rotor blades flying out. They would “cone upwards”, desperately trying to fly, until in the end…
The vivid picture of a child, clapping its hands over its head, always came to my mind. A mental picture of the rotor blades “clapping hands”… followed by the equally disconcerting picture of the whole she-bang plummeting earthwards. Streamlined shrapnel… NOT good.

I didn’t like that idea. At all. I was still very much a high time fixed wing pilot. I was used to a nice, stable, fixed wing-PLANK hanging over my head. Or bolted on below my seat. You could SEE the wing-plank. It was always in the same place. It didn’t DO weird stuff. In the case of a biplane, there were TWO planks, with nice steel cables running between them and your fuselage. Life for a Plank Pilot seemed somehow simple. A whole lot less confusing. Now, once you start ROTATING those planks, well, all bets are off. Who on earth dreamed up that idea? Juan de la Cierva, for one. Holy Moly. Is this wise?
I had been converted to the strength and reliability of the Robinson helicopter. That long session with the super friendly mechanic described elsewhere had really helped. Provided you flew along normally, engine running, healthy Nr… all good. But this business of tricking around with the Nr/Rotor RPM… Auto-rotations? By WHY? Why not leave well enough alone? Why disturb it, just as things were going well? Hey, I can start the contraption up, take off, fly about, navigate. Come back in one piece, hover, land. Why have I got to practice autorotations? Lots and lots and lots of them? Why?

In case the engine quits? Or something else goes tiddley-upski??

It’s not going to quit. It’s a Lycoming O-320. Same engine as in my old Cessna 172. Goes forever. Never quits. Can’t I just do a private Pilot’s license on helicopters WITHOUT practicing autorotations?

Nope…!

Aw, shucks. I thought not. Oh, well then… And then we did a bunch. A whole gaggle of bunches. Millions of the little baskets. Straight in autos. Ninety degree turn autos. One-eighty autos. Three sixty autos. Short range. Long range. Fast. Slow. Inverted/upside down…!
Seriously! (No, I’m just kidding…)

It was always the same. Autorotation. We would enter the Twilight Zone. Auto-perturbation. My eyes would fly to the Nr gauge. It would do things. Oscillate. Depending on what you were doing. You had to control it. Keep it in a certain range. I felt like a high class hooker. In drag. A make-believe-this-is-actually-fun drag session. Trying to please Master. With a lever-whip that controlled DRAG. A drag lever. UP more drag, DOWN less drag. It’s all about DRAG.
Watch the Rotor RPM… watch it!…

If it went too high… not good… Need some MORE drag…lever UP… blades have a higher angle of attack, hence more resistance from airflow…. bring Nr back down. Ah… yes… It actually works…relief.
If it went too low… drooping… limp dick… bad-bad-bad… Need LESS drag. Lever DOWN. Now blades have a lower angle of attack… hence less resistance from airflow… Nr coming back up. Ah…yes… it actually works…

relief!

Too fast…? Needs more resistance. Dammit. Drag up. More drag!
Too slow…? Needs less resistance. Give us a hand here. Please! Drag down. Less drag!
The collective lever controlled the… the… Friction. It was all almost pleasurable, if you got it right. You just had to know how to juggle the lever.
Just like Katy down at the Bar X Saloon.

Enter Auto. Eyes fly to the Nr gauge. Mouth dry. Start breathing again when that settles down. Eyes fly outside. Where to land? Airspeed. Eyes out. Scan. Nr, airspeed, gauges… eyes OUT.
And I’m doing this voluntarily? For FUN??
Slowly, I got better. And better. But it was to be several hundred helicopter hours before I could truly, casually -almost- drop into autoperturbation, feeling relaxed -almost.
The breakthrough came eventually. Later on. Ironically, because I added a Helicopter Instructor’s ticket to my Fixed Wing Instructor ticket. Now I was free to TEACH it all. My way…
But in California I had not reached that happy stage. An auto was something to approach very warily indeed… Even after I had been officially declared quite proficient, they still would not come naturally. Some of my later students breezed through it all like it was a walk in the park. Others, worriers like me probably, had to be reassured, and could only be slowly exposed to Katy. Down at the Bar X. Imagination is a double edged sword. Always remember that child clapping her hands above her head.

There came a day for me, that I realized I still somehow dreaded Katy. And I was being prepped for my private Pilot check ride. You’d think I could swagger into the Bar X saloon, and hold my own. But no…
We were practicing landing and taking off on a tiny helipad perched way up on top of a steep mountain. The helipad was actually built on the ridge line. Quite fascinating. It got my attention, every time. Especially the way the ground would fall/plummet away below you as you lifted off… one moment you were in a four foot hover. You moved forward fifteen feet, and…

(gulp)

…below you a drop of several thousand feet would open up. Actually, the verb “open” doesn’t do justice to the phenomenon. It would be more of a techni-color visual EXPLOSION. A stomach lurching “Holy Cow” opening up. It has to be a brave man, (or a pilot devoid of imagination), whose stomach doesn’t lurch. The famous butterfly gang-bang. You may ACT all cool for the rest of the patrons of the Bar X saloon, but deep down a lot of us think to ourselves (very deep down)…

(Mummy…!)

But, in my own way, I was quite enjoying myself. Around and around we went. Pinnacle approaches, pinnacle take-offs. Damn, I’m good. Pretty cool dude, me, leaning over on the bar, back in the saloon. Eventually, my instructor told his first ever student -me- to head on home. We were now several thousand feet up, the airfield in the distance, far down below.
“How do you reckon we’re gonna get down…?” The voice beside me asked.
I was puzzled. What kind of question was that?

“Why, just fly down, of course…?”

I looked at my instructor. He was wearing a look I had seen before. Many times. Officially, it’s the look of ‘quiet reproof’. Unofficially, it usually heralded in the unexpected. It was a look along the lines of “Have you learned nothing, thou inveterate fixed wing deluded plank thinker?”
An unseen hand firmly bottomed the collective, my stomach lurched, my eyes flew to the Nr gauge, and a loud -heartfelt- expletive burst from my lips.
We had entered auto-tribulation…
It certainly was a quick way to descend, and we were down within a fraction of the time it would have taken us to FLY down. It made sense. I realized that auto-perambulations had actually got PRACTICAL uses as well. Fancy that.

* * * * *

As I have said numerous times, I never understood the mindset of pilots who were careless with Nr in helicopters. Rotor RPM in a choppy is what airspeed is in a plank. It’s what keeps you alive.
Child-clapping-hands-above-head…
But in the decades I have been flying helicopters, I have heard innumerable stories that convince me that this holy respect for Nr is -surprisingly- not universal. Afterwards, back in the UK, I heard stories about pilots who would fly along, and frighten their (knowledgeable) passengers witless. With their lackadaisical attitude.

One classic story bears repeating. This involved a character, who apparently would continue to look out the window when the ‘low rotor rpm warning horn’ would go off. This was in the days before Frank Robinson invented the throttle correlator. Which did stuff automatically the pilot had to do for himself in the old days. In doing so, he saved countless lives. Mostly of dudes who maybe just should not have been in helicopters in the first place. Back in the late eighties’, YOU had to match the throttle rpm to give you correct Rotor Speed. Just like a Bell 47. You had to pay attention. It’s not difficult, and it becomes pretty easy/routine after a while, but (like changing nappies) it HAS to be done. Well, genius character, successful business man, High I.Q., used to fly along and his ‘low rotor rpm warning horn’ would go off. It happened so often, that all he would do is -absently- lower a bit of collective lever to ‘get rid of that annoying sound’. When queried by concerned passengers, his attitude apparently was something like: “OH, THAT thing again… it’s always going off.” Needless to say, he eventually came to terminal grief. Yet another example of Brains-to-burn, brilliantly successful Business Man, taking a certain mindset with him into the cockpit. What is the root cause there? No imagination? A life time of bossing the world around, and bending those around him to his iron will? Listen up: It may work in business, it’s NOT going to work in the fluid world of helicopters…

My feelings then, and now, have not changed in this respect: The Robinson R-22 is a superb machine. Very well engineered by a man with an awesome design pedigree. But it is NOT a toy. It may look like a wind up toy. You may fantasize about sticking a four foot tall key into one side, to wind up the spring. You may on first sighting be inclined to wonder what might happen if you “add water”. Will it grow up into a real helicopter? But it IS a serious machine. Worthy of serious respect. A sensible fellow, gifted with a modicum of respect for the immutable Laws of Physics, can happily learn to fly a Robbo. His devoted wife, and their twenty kids, need never worry. Hubby will probably be a lot safer than driving his car down the motorway. Mixing it with all the crazies. He will be much safer scooting over the top of the whole lot of them. However. Don’t trick about. Treat the machine with respect. Treat the sky with respect. Listen to your instructors. Be AWARE of the pitfalls. Respect Nr. Simple. Happiness.

It was now time for me to build hours. In deference to my several thousand hours fixed wing experience, I was given a minimum of training, and turned loose. Go build yourself some hours! What, me? On your helicopter? I can go anywhere I like?
Right…!
And so it came to pass that I turned up at an airfield that I had not previously been to.
Innocently, full of the best intentions, I proceeded on down to land. High time fixed wing pilot, fixed wing CFII, low time helicopter student pilot. Maybe not a good combination.

I was unaware that I was about to…

(deep sigh)

Make local Helicopter History…

Apparently, they still talk about it.
Yep, I’m a feature in Corona bar stories. (“you remember that Irishman…?”)

I describe the whole sorry saga… in the next chapter.

Scribbling Moggy

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 16, 2015, 4:52 pm