Ray Kurzweil – Google Intelligence
October 6, 2015 in Uncategorized
Ray Kurzweil – Google Intelligence
10/4/15
“Philosophers are useful, but I’ll put my money on the Engineer”
I wish, of course, that I understood the intrinsic details of what these gentlemen are talking about. I wish. In truth, I am more like a dusty old mole, debating crossing a Freeway during rush hour. Something tells me it’s all WAY above my level of safe navigation. I’m more at home in the outlying fields, harmlessly nibbling away on a dandelion. But my infernal curiosity being what it is, half blind or not, I’m curious to know what lies on the other side of that noisy Freeway. So I started trundling across, nose sniffing in the air, my tiny feet laboriously dragging my carcass over unfamiliar concrete. Unusual noises notwithstanding, I aim to continue my quest. Some kind soul hinted to me I was -and am- way out of my league. Well, I already knew that. But that won’t stop me. A less kind soul told me the unusual noises were called “tires”, and that they were doing a thing called “screeching”, and that was apparently an indication that they were not happy with my plodding presence. Oh, and those other noisy things, apparently they also communicated displeasure at my obstinacy. They were called… what was it again? Oh, yes, “air horns”. But I don’t care. I shall not be dissuaded. Half blind and slow I may be, but my curiosity shall not be frustrated. What did he say again? Oh, yes.
“Moggy, you don’t half dribble some sh…!”
(a very loud… airhorn)
I had to stop and start this video many times. And go back. Make a cup of coffee. Half drink it. Lose situational awareness (the coffee went cold), and drag my thoughts back to what this fascinating man was actually saying. Google, I have to say, has been amazing for me. Kurzweil is so right in things he says. It is indeed, so hard to imagine now, what life was like before Google. Before the Internet. Before Social media. If you took it all away from me now, you would be cutting my tiny mole legs off. Right in the middle of the Freeway. Please… don’t do that.
Some things change dramatically. Others stay the same. Great progress is made in some areas, and a bitterly disappointing status quo persists in other human endeavors. Never before have we simpletons had so much technology at our disposal. So much information. So much creative opportunity. So much self education potential. Has this led to a happier society? A better human race? More empathy, more unselfishness, more peaceful coexistence?
I have always scribbled. Always. Pen on paper. The overwhelming bulk of all that stuff lost, molded away. Then along came computers and the Internet. I scribbled more, and more. And posted stuff here and there. I got feedback. Encouragement. As well as screeching tires and (loud) air horns. I didn’t care. I just plodded on. I joined a website called…
“Writers’ Café”
…and I was initially very happy there. But I left eventually, disappointed at the unkindness I saw everywhere. Writers everywhere seemed to have bloated egos. Haughty spirits. Few exhibited the gentleness I sought. And admire. I departed, to set up my own little website. And this is where technology came to my aid. I contracted with an enthusiastic young coder, called Max, from Jordan, and told him what I wanted, and within short order, I had a working website. Now I could post stories. Receive feedback. And I could try and keep the trolls and the hateful spirits out. I kept adding stories. Not, I hasten to tell you, out of some conviction that I was a great writer, who needed to shine his light out into the world. Not at all. I just wanted to blog & scribble, as a means to ventilate my spirit. As a method of coping. And as a form of therapy. For my brain would fill with racing thoughts, and I would be unable to sleep. If I wrote down how I felt, and expunged the Darkness, I could then rest.
Strange obsession.
But technology had come to my rescue. I was able to draw on amazing resources, made possible by gifted scientists and engineers. You know who you are, and this half blind mole thanks you most sincerely. For you have helped me live a much more interesting, fulfilling and creative life. From stuff on paper moldering away in a shoebox, I have gone to stuff moldering away on forgotten hard drives. And from there, to stuff appearing on my own website. It is at this stage I have to refer to one of the best pieces of advice I was ever given. A guy called Andy Warhol gave it to me. I know, he doesn’t know me from a half blind mole making the Freeway unsafe, but he still gave it to me, personally, through this amazing medium called the World Wide Web. Here is his advice:
Andy, I just want you to know I have faithfully abided by your advice. I got her done. I’m still getting her done. Mind, those air horns do make my ears hurt.
My point is that technology, as pioneered and envisaged by these visionary people, was seized upon by this simple mole, and hugely enjoyed. Initially I could only place text on my website. But Max soon added, at my request, the ability to add photos, videos, color, and hyperlinks. Time and time again, I was excited like a five year old. And off I would go, and play with my new toy. One amazing experience stands out, and I would like to recall that one for you two regular readers. (Jimmy hit the bottle again).
I realized that the website was becoming a jumble. All kinds of stories mixed up together. There was a need for organization. So I opened a page as a listing of all my aviation related stories. I bought the domain name www.chopperstories.com. And I then proceeded to laboriously post hyperlinks to each story. I thought of it as a room in a large house, with all my aviation paintings collected together. I was pretty pleased with myself. I added in some images, and the results seemed respectable. A few weeks went by, and then I googled “chopper stories”. Disappointment. My humble little ‘cyber portal’ into my website came in at the bottom of page 97 or something. I had picked a bad name. All the searches for “chopper stories” led to some sadistic dude down in Australia. He was in jail for murdering people. Apparently his specialty was chopping off their fingers and toes. Nice, warm sort of fellow. Well, people being people, some moron had decided this guy was actually a Robin Hood figure, all misunderstood like, and they had even made a heroic movie out of Mister Mark Chopper.
All the search results were about this murderer, including people defending him as basically a good guy, who only chopped of body parts that belonged to bad people. Uh-huh. The fact that, on his death bed, he confessed that he hadn’t actually killed twenty-eight, but only four, apparently was overlooked by his devotees. Strange values some people maintain. Anyway, I decided I had picked a poor choice of domain name.
After some thought, I picked a new domain name www.helicopterstories.com and cut my losses. I didn’t cancel the first one, but I kind of forgot about it. Well, here comes technology for you. Eighteen months went by. On a whim, I googled www.chopperstories.com again. I was shocked when it came in number one. Out of 22 million results. I guessed it had to be a mistake. Probably, I reasoned, it was just something to do with my own laptop. I called my son in London. I was in Texas. I asked him to do a Google search. Same result. My coder in North California? Same result. Really?
I know that a percentage of hits are “bots”, and I wonder how many people landed and left after just a few seconds. But still, it was interesting. As a simple, half blind mole, Technology was trying hard to give me wings. I wasn’t sure how safe I would be in the air, or how clumsy a flying mole would look, but -hey!- Andy Warhol would have approved of me. So would Ray Kurzweil. It was a long way from moldy pen-on-paper efforts, moldering away in an old shoe box.
Which brings me to… the future. Emerging technology. Artificial Intelligence. What is coming down the road, that I can use? Explore? In my life time?
I know I wish I could create something that looked more like a mixture of text and flowing movie. With different elements woven together: music, spoken word, written text… but in such a way that it all blended together seamlessly. Some of that technology is already available, and I need to apply myself to study what’s out there.
Three Dimensional writing? Holograms? Imagine you could have your readers wear a 3-D headset, and they could look around at a whole universe. A Moggyverse. With sunrise and sunset, trees that spoke poetry, and streams that told a story. Imagine you could interact with historical personalities, and watch History unfold. Imagine you could see and hear me sitting on a rock, and imagine you could argue with me, and tell me to get off the damn freeway.
Imagine we could access knowledge and databases with exceptional ease. Imagine we could bring up the battle of the Somme, or the sinking of the Titanic, in astonishing technicolor detail. Imagine if Science and Technology could put at our disposal some form of Artificial Intelligence, with whom we could communicate easily. Imagine I could say: “Suicide among young people seems almost unstoppable. How do we help these people want to live?”, and the A.I.would search its knowledge of me, and my scribbles. The A.I. would reflect on my psychological make up, my experiences. Imagine the A.I. would be capable of feeling sympathy, exercising kindness, applying humor, and would try to follow the meanderings of my mind. The A.I. could present to me a succinct summary of suicide prevention strategies for young people, and link these to some of my stories already written. An A.I. that was a billion times more intelligent than me, might be a guide, a mentor, and absorb some of my humanity. It is a matter of access. I may not need probes in my brain. As long as my mind can download and upload between myself and that A.I., we have the event horizon unfolding these people are talking about.
The future will be vastly different. My brother Paul is helping me e-book publish my stories. The first e-book should be available in a few weeks. I wonder if we sell 1 a month, or maybe even 2. But courtesy of Andy Harhol, quoted above, I don’t care. My little scribblings, and my half blind mole thunkings, will be interesting in three to four generations time. When my great grandchildren will look back on an epoch so profoundly different from their own times, that we will appear quaint, and naively funny, in our simple -dangerous- flying contraptions. Our helicopters, and our biplanes. Not to mention our motorcycles, our short & dangerous lives, and our pollution. I write to express something, and I do not write for an audience. If they read, great. If they don’t, great. The Expression of what is inside, is a goal in itself. One day, in the far future, people will likely be amused by my stories. Technology, marvelously, will keep them available.
I would be amiss if I did not point out that I personally embrace all this emerging technology, but that I fear those who will -inevitably- seek only to abuse it. In that respect, the price of Liberty is Eternal Vigilance. As much as things change, they also stay -disappointingly – the same. I have not crossed the Freeway yet, and I probably never will. But I feel pumped. Motivated.
And for that, I say “Thank you” to so many of you, who have tried to give me wings. And who are sympathetic to my clumsy airmanship.
Scribbling Moggy
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 6, 2015, 7:35 am
Alternative Reality – Moggyism Rising
October 6, 2015 in Uncategorized
Alternative Reality – Moggyism rising
10/6/15
I often resent Big Media.
I don’t think they do our society too many favors. Sure, they may wrap themselves in the mantle of righteousness and truth, bringing us vital information, with which to allegedly better our understanding of the world around us. Their faces (and their legs) occupy hundreds of millions upon millions of busy, flickering screens all over the world. Their sincerity, wit, wisdom and insight is beamed unwaveringly full into our faces -if we allow it- and the impact of their messages is -without a doubt- beyond powerful. They can do more than report the news. They can make it. Or, if you are of a more cynical disposition:
They can fake it.
From taking fire in helicopters, to stirring up racial hate where little existed before. From manufacturing grievances, from ignoring normality, to elevating the exception.
They can -and do- often fake it, and, what is worse, present a Reality that is harsh, materialistic, cynical, and lacking in humanity and compassion.
+++++++++++++++++
What is Life? Our Life, as we gaze at the stars, and wonder where our steady journey around the sun is taking us? Back to the same place in our solar orbit, after a year? No, for our Galaxy is moving. The Universe is expanding.
Where are we going? Why?
As the noise of Television fades away, the yakking heads, the intrusive advertisements, the appeals to consumerism… what do we find ourselves tuning in to? An alternative reality, perhaps. I, in my innocence and simplicity, fall back on a word I made up from my nickname. Many know me as “Moggy”, and the word I made up is “Moggyism”. I even checked it online just now, in the Urban Dictionary. It doesn’t exist. So, here we go:
“Moggyism” – defined
“A mindset pertaining to a form of internet blogging, which amply exhibits several or all of the following tendencies:
1. a cheerful disregard for conventional wisdom, coupled with a mischievous, anti-authoritarian streak
2. Zero claim to the possession of prior qualifications, education, experience or wisdom, that allegedly would make the blogger highly worthy of respect and admiration.
3. Simple, raw, unsophisticated honesty
4. a ‘Heinz 57- Moggy- mutt- alley cat’ willingness to survive in the concrete Cyber Space jungle, and feed from the trash cans of so-called Modernity. Knocking those same hallowed garbage cans over, on occasions, for the sheer unadulterated satisfaction of exposing smelly scraps.
Example: “Theresa has been blogging a lot recently, and you can sense her Moggyism rising”
http://www.clarionproject.org/analysis/aki-muthali-critics-islamism-must-have-bigger-platform
Scribbling Moggy
Bashing John Lennon
October 3, 2015 in Uncategorized
Bashing John Lennon 10/3/15
I’ve noticed that over the years.
People beating up on John Lennon. For being a selfish monster. On October 3, 2015 there was a pretty condescending article in Britain’s “Daily Wail “.
The accusations cover multiple failings, but a recurrent one is “self absorption “. Being obsessed with himself. Elevating himself above all others. Seeing himself as the Center of the Universe. When you looked at the comments below the article, you saw a very one-sided litany. Furiously contemptuous and anti-Lennon.
Me being me, I submitted a differing view. But, not surprisingly, the Daily Wail reviewers did not accept my input for publication. I guess I didn’t toe the line. The power of the Media…
So, I just thought I’d post here, because I know the reviewer, and he’s (mostly) a friend of mine.
Comment:
1) seems kind of easy to bash a dead man, who is not around to stick up for himself….?
2) People who sit around in glass houses, bitching and moaning about everybody, and throwing stuff around… might go a little more easy on chucking stones.
And last, but not least:
3) Self absorption? Self obsession?
Aren’t we ALL guilty of that, to some degree…?
4) John Lennon is not my hero, but I would have bought the dude a beer, anytime, in a (human) heartbeat.
Just sayin’….
Scribbling Moggy
Of Helicopters and Humans (42) “Hey Moggy! All that stuff you used to TEACH? “
September 14, 2015 in Helicopters and Humans
Of Helicopters and Humans
Part 42: “Hey, Moggy! All that stuff you used to TEACH?? “
( “do YOU know it…? “)
I taught Fixed Wing, Helicopters, Instrument, Night, Aerobatics and Tail Draggers (the aeroplane variety and the human sort) for many years, and there comes a point you maybe start thinking… what? That you know it all? No. It’s not that arrogant. Every accident you see, or read about, or hear about, somehow reinforces caution. It’s like a cautionary pin prick. As the years rotor by, there’s hundreds of them. Tiny pin pricks. I don’t think I ever really lost sensitivity to those frequent needles, those mental “Ouch!” moments, but… I was a professional, right? I had never scraped, bent, or crashed a helicopter. At the time of this occurrence, I had… six thousand helicopter hours? It wasn’t that I knew I was GOOD. But at some level, I probably thought I wasn’t TOO BAD.
(Ah, the pleasant scenery -downhill- on that slippery slope…!) (Wheeeeee…!)
Africa. Hot, baby hot. Busy, busy Airport. African chap in the Tower, doing his honorable best, but overloaded. Hordes of Fixed Wingers and Rotary Slingers, big and small. Dozens of them. Rush hour. Good English, Dubious English, Downright terrible English. And, just to really help the congested frequency along, always some Native Pilots, who insist in gabbling away in their local African tongue. Talk about confusion! Even the African Boeing 727 drivers have no standard R/T tongue, and they might know what they are doing, the Tower might conceivably know, but the rest of us have no clue. I had already witnessed, several times, actions and near misses that would have resulted in an FAA Great White Shark feeding frenzy back home, (justifiably!), but here those truly extraordinary pilot actions just seemed doomed to mindless repetition. If the Tower dared remonstrate (he often sounded borderline hysterical), he ran the risk of a fluent telling off.
We Helicopter truckers, five ships, at various stages, always just wished to make our soonest escape from the madhouse. You quickly learned you got ONE chance. In the stream of radio calls, pleadings, shouts, whimpers, curses and annoyed protestations, there would be ONE infinitesimally brief transmit “Helicopter Zulu Alpha, cleared taxy to holding point Alpha!”
You react immediately in glorious Bi-step. You jump on the radio, and you PULL PITCH. Pronto. If you didn’t reply at that very sub-atomic nano second, The Great One in the Tower just moved right along. No second call. Are you kidding? You could be sitting there for another fifteen minutes. Your punishment. Pay attention next time.
Turning and Burning. HOT. Miserable…
However, the immediatamento radio reply was just the first step. If you then hesitated to jump/explode/erupt into the air, the next recipient of a Tower call, upon merely hearing his call sign, would start moving. The African pilots were really bad at this. No matter that the tower was going to say:
“King Air Niner-Two-Echo, AFTER the taxying helicopter, you are cleared…. etc, etc.”
Impatient as hell, King Air Niner-Two-Zero was already moving at twenty five miles an hour. You just missed your chance. Wait another fifteen minutes. Gawd…
I once saw a Big Old Russian Mil helicopter duke it out with a Boeing 727. Ignoring the demented screams from ATC. The Russian pilot was obviously displeased about his treatment, so he vehemently expressed his Russian “IS NO GUD!” unhappiness, and proceeded to methodically sand and gravel blast the Boeing. Say what!? The Boeing pilot’s voice was up an octave (or three), and I remember seeing the various control surfaces taking a stimulating beating. Awesome. I couldn’t hope to match that naked Soviet Machismo in my Bell product, and my Boss would never have approved, but I enjoyed the show.
In this way you learned to 1) reply immediately and 2) Bounce into the Air a nano-second later.
The “Air Bounce” was an aerial ownership claim.
Then one day…
Hot, baby, hot. Africa hot. Perspiration pouring down into unimaginable places. Uniform soaked. Turning and burning, 100% RPM, instant Bounce-into-the-Air capability. Unhappy passengers. Complaining on the intercom. Beside me, two buddies in the same predicament. Wanting to go. We would exchange the odd glance with each other. Can you believe this?
The same big bullies were duking it out, and the row of diminutive American helicopters had now spent fifteen minutes W-A-I-T-I-N-G. Perspiration running into my EYES. Then: the call!
I responded with alacrity. Like somebody yelling “Free Beer!” in an Irish pub. A recipe for being stomped to death in the rush. Stage two: HAUL INTO THE AIR!
It was at that stage a strange thing happened:
The control tower fell over…
Well, it fell a long way. A Longgggg way. A nano second later, the control tower righted itself abruptly, and the cockpit was full of dust. And unprintable commentary. Heart-in-mouth.
“Your skid’s stuck!”, yelled my buddy over the radio. He had -of course- witnessed the whole drama.
I looked out my right door. At the whole length of the skid. There was no sign of any sinking in the tarmac.
“Your LEFT skid!”
Sure enough, the out-of-sight left skid had sunk deeply into the soft African tarmac, on that HOT African day. It actually left a shiny black trench, which was clearly visible against the lighter grey top surface, and for months afterwards. My fellow pilots, with that peculiar, brotherly love, and sympathy for the reputation (and pride) of their suffering comrade, promptly christened it “Moggy’s Mark”.
And, especially if I was on frequency, would delight in stating the information that they were taxying from “Moggy’s Mark”.
Sigh. I should have known better. I taught Dynamic Roll Over. I lectured about it. I showed students accident reports. I told them it could happen in all sorts of conditions. I warned them about skids stuck against rocks. The fulcrum. The pivot point. I warned them about one skid being stuck on ice. I warned them to always assume the risk was present, and to take off smoothly and gently. Every time. “Feel your way” off the ground. Never “rip your way” into the air.
Hey Moggy! All that stuff you used to TEACH? Err… Do YOU know it?
(Shucks…)
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 14, 2015, 5:26 pm
I stand on a Mountain Top
August 20, 2015 in Short Story (spiritual quest)
I stand on a Mountain Top, and cry to the World
An old Yazidi man, a patriarch to his people.
A moment in time. An event that took place. Already forgotten. In the West, we shrug our shoulders. In the USA today, somebody, reliably, affecting an air of wisdom, will utter the usual platitude. The customary escape from an uncomfortable call of conscience.
“Well, they’ve been fighting like that for thousands of years…” As if it’s their own fault, in a way. The Comforter-Ignorer’s listeners nod gravely, in relieved assent. Those crazy Middle-Easterners HAVE been fighting and killing like that for centuries. There’s nothing that can be done. Too bad. You want regular fries with that, Sir? Oh, and make it a double Cheeseburger. Extra cheese. Yes, Sir.
* * * * *
I stand on a Mountain Top, and cry to the World.
It is dark, it is cold, the night is full of unspeakable horrors. I am surrounded by many thousands of my people. In the shadows, without shelter, or basic food or water, they shiver, despair and die.
And you, oh World, where are you?
We are an ancient and gentle people, and we are peaceful and non-threatening. We have co-existed with other races and religions since Jesus walked in the Holy Land.
Why do you lament the plight of the people of Gaza, but you ignore us?
Are we not human? Do we not deserve our chance at happiness? Will you let us be dragged into the night, like beasts to the slaughter? Will you turn your backs on us? Are we an inconvenience to you? We have seen our unarmed sons killed, mowed down like the ripe corn before the scythe. We have seen our children massacred, and our daughters raped, and dragged off in chains to slavery. We have seen our ancient home towns looted and burned, and laughing jackals have sprayed us with random and indifferent bullets.
And you, oh World, where is your heart?
In my younger days, I visited for many years in America. I graduated as an engineer from a prestigious University. I know how you are. I know how you think. Or do not think. How can you not see the shallow nature of your caring? Your President has turned away from us. Your leaders have declined this challenge to human civilization. Your hearts are withering, even now.
And Great Father above, the Merciful One, where are you?
I still see the faces of my fellow students in America, all those decades ago. The Atheists, the Doubters, the hardened cynics. The way they would mock my sincere beliefs, the way their eyes would barely conceal their contempt for my simplicity. Great Father, in all my thoughts, and all my efforts, I have never forgotten you. I have tried to honor you with every breath I took. Each day, my heart has soared to feel your Patient Wisdom and Presence in my life. But now, Lord, where are you? Your people need you as never before. Tears flow like rivers, and our hearts break. Our chests heave in pain, and a rock resides where once our hearts beat warmly. Stifled, shocked into a dazed trance, I gaze up at the stars, and still, in my own simple way, I give thanks and praise to you, heavenly Father.
Am I a fool?
Am I deserving of those contemptuous glances I suffered, all those years ago? When I was young, educated, and full of energy? Were my fellow students, those Atheists, right in their cold rejection of any notion of your existence?
So why does my heart -still- cry out to you?
Why can I not be like Job, and curse you before I die? Why does my educated mind easily see the logic of the Atheist? But why are my mind and my education , my intellect and my reasoning, feeble, overwhelmed, and as nothing when exposed to the cutting edge of the sword of your Presence? What manner of madness is my awe for you? Here, high up on the Sinjar mountains, alone in the night, surrounded by wolves and the beasts of Darkness?
I still believe, Lord. I still believe in your Kindness. The Madness is deep, ingrained, and You cannot be denied. I hear the cries of my people, and I see the mockery in the glances of the Atheists. I know their reasoning, and I know the power of their Science.
I shall die on this mountain, alone, tonight. Uncomforted by my family. I harbor, strangely, no bitterness or anger. The beasts in the valley below, I hate them not. Their cruelty saddens me. But they have not destroyed my heart. And my God above, who has seemingly forsaken me, I curse Him not.
What madness occupies my heart? Is it written in my DNA, that I must venerate a mythical deity? Is it simply comforting, and a crutch for feeble minds? Is it foolishness, and a denial of sober rationality? A denial of Science and Physics? A mental illness?
Here, with the unrelenting wind of the fearful night clutching like cold fingers at my throat, is a place to truly know my heart.
And I know. With a strange, unrelenting, unquenchable certainty.
That there exists, unbelievably, illogically…
A Great Cosmic Kindness. An Awereness. Even, of such a small, insignificant a creature…
As I.
The stars are bright tonight…
Francis Meyrick
References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sinjar_massacre
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 20, 2015, 1:23 pm
A Blip on the Radar (43) “Vertical Flight without a Helicopter “
August 8, 2015 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters), Blip on the Radar
A Blip on the Radar
Part 43: “Vertical Flight, without a Helicopter”
In my dreams, in common with many people, I have achieved amazing feats of levitation, and flying under my own power. Sailing through the sky, accepting that my spontaneous flying abilities were perfectly normal. Invariably, these experiences were pleasing and relaxing. They seemed to occur a lot early in the morning, as I was slowly beginning to emerge from a deep slumber. That was also when I seemed to experience Out of Body Experiences. I would find myself looking down at myself, and my gaze would wander around the room. I would see the clutter, the open books, the reams of scribbles, and even the dust on top of the cupboard. I would gaze at the sleeping figure, thinking in a kindly sort of way, that it was actually about time the lazy blighter got up and did something useful.
It never crossed my mind, that one day, I would actually achieve (albeit briefly) pure -sustained- vertical flight, by myself, without the aid of a noisy helicopter. I know as always there will be the doubters and the cynics, the disbelievers and the heretics, so let me state right up front that there were TWO witnesses. Both Helicopter Pilots. I doubt if they are still plying their trade in the Tuna Fields. They have probably moved down, poor fellows, and will now be flying Corporate or Oil and Gas. Medevac, or Longline. Where ever they are now, it is bound to be tightly regulated, and nowhere near as interesting and spontaneous. Or, if you prefer, off-the-wall. Nothing beats the Tuna Fields for a spontaneous freedom. Believe me, I’ve tried most things.
Well, these two gentlemen can vouch for the scientific and technological truth of what occurred, one night, off the coast of… the Solomon Islands? Or was it Truk Island? It might even have been Wewak, in Papua New Guinea. Those two pilots will tell you on oath that what I describe, took place, and defied all known Laws of Nature…
We had been out on the town. A few beers, a sing-song, and the swopping of wild tales. The latest gossip, with a pinch of Blarney thrown in for good measure. We had returned to my ship, for a few beers and more Blarney, and we were in the process of clambering aboard in the semi half darkness of a slumbering ship. We were beginning to make our way forwards, when I nearly ran into some pallets. Stacked, carelessly, vertical.
“What dozy bastard left this lot lying around?”, I commented.
Since my cabin lay ahead, and I was leading the way, I swung a leg over the pallets, and hopped on over.
At that precise moment, somebody unseen, some filthy Asiatic pervert, who must have been hiding in the darkness, disrespectfully grabbed my leg. I was wearing shorts, so it was full flesh contact. What was worse than the sudden grabbing, (which was disconcerting, to put it mildly) was the emerging -explosive- fact that he followed up the grabbing by a somewhat more heinous act. A furious kissing of my leg. (I appreciate the crew liking their pilot, but there ARE limits). And if you think that’s bad, you don’t know anything. The yellow pervert, whoever he was, was running his tongue (which must have been huge) right UP my exposed leg, in the general direction of parts which I value. In what seemed a split nano second, he had moved his salivary attention past my knee to under my shorts. He was coming up my inside leg. Oh, and for good measure, he was making truly rapacious sounds. Heavy breathing on steroids.
The combined effect of near Darkness, and the sudden, wholly unexpected application of a frenetic wet Chinese tongue on my naked Irish leg, the unmistakably enthusiastic, upward direction of exploration, the assault on the integrity of my old shorts, and the truly explosive excited breathing, engendered in me considerable alarm. I’ll admit I lost my usual calm composure. Well, that’s maybe a slight understatement.
Okay. I confess:
I screamed like a little girl…
Well, what would YOUR reaction be?? With a randy Chinaman unexpectedly kissing your leg? Stoic composure?? Yeah, right. I-don’t-think-so…
It is at this stage I managed to achieve Vertical Flight. Without a Helicopter. Seriously. Up and up I went, 150% torque, and I would have landed thirty feet up on the helideck, if I could have. I’m sure I made it past the half way point. The vertical thrust vector was a sharp pointed arrow, believe me.
Unfortunately, my levitation ability was finite. Back down I came, still dragging the collective lever UP, Rotor Rpm drooping, Horn blaring, still screaming like a little girl.
I was back out over the wooden pallets in a VNE dash. I don’t know how far I legged it, but I didn’t stop in a hurry. Put it that way.
Strangely, my two compadres, far from heroically rushing to my aid, to fight off my lecherous, sex pervert attacker, were totally useless. Too busy splitting their sides, laughing their buttocks off.
Say, what!?
I remember trying very hard to recover my torn and tattered composure. I didn’t think it was funny. At all. I was not amused. A man has his dignity, you know.
“What the fu-fu-fu… was THAT!?” I asked the question from a safe distance. Like, half a mile away. Perplexed. Wondering which member of the crew had passed out drunk in the shadows, and had awoken to the irresistible temptation offered by the passing of my virginal leg. And my shorts.
In between hysterical laughter, sobs of breathlessness, and fists beating the floor, tears-pouring-down-face sort of thing, I could barely make out these words:
“Moggy! You ain’t EVER going to live this one down! IT’S A PIG! AND SHE SURE LIKES YOU…! ”
Catering supplies…!!?
* * * * *
And that is the night I swear, I achieved vertical flight, with-out the aid of a helicopter…
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 9, 2015, 6:04 pm
Of Helicopters and Humans (41) “The Fame Gallopers “
August 7, 2015 in Helicopters and Humans
Of Helicopters and Humans
(part 41) “The Fame Gallopers”
A topmost peak
lacks any people
Higher. The west wind pierces
All night: chillier. You ride the snow
To pass a hanging cliff,
Cross a cloud to watch
The torrent spew.
Remember
The fame gallopers. It’s hard
For them to find the road
Among blue
Clouds.
Pao Hsien (9th century Buddhist hermit)
It’s a quiet night, and I am at home, sitting outside on the porch, relaxing under the emerging stars. A cool Guinness has hit the spot, and I am mellow, full of dreams, and silent thought. I have been pondering a simple question…
How much apple pie can you eat?
Isn’t life “more than money”? Filthy lucre? Doesn’t there come a point you’ve had enough? Or at least a sufficiency? Our Modern World seems to create people who never -ever- have enough. They crave more. And more. Constantly. Not just money. They want fame, and power, and to remembered in the History Books. To “cement their legacy…” To what??
Will they ever be happy? Content? When is enough – ENOUGH?
And what is fame? It’s an illusion…
On freezing nights
You arrange to meet me often
Silent talk beyond
Human space.
Silent talk, beyond human space? What’s that?
I don’t know, I’m just a chopper jockey, but I can guess. And my mind, flying down ancient airwaves in my mind, crossing ridges, and cautiously testing canyons (wires, my friend, watch the wires), sees old shadows, old flames, and old loves. Writing/scribbling is good. But it should be just a modest side show. Something done gently, with feeling, but also with a simple humility. There are more important things in Life. Much more important. Silent talk. Beyond human space. The essence of a Man trying to understand his little place. Trying to relate. Comprehend. The unfathomable.
I read the same guys on the forum that feel they are absolutely OWED to be paid 6+ figures to be a Helicopter Pilot. Others are happy to have a stable job and work hard to do a good job. They mean well by their employers. They are thrilled with the position of trust their company puts them in. And they know more money would be nice, very nice, but profit margins can be tight, rainy days might be coming, and no helicopter company makes a small fortune. That only works if you start with a huge one. And besides, for every pilot steadily employed, how many thousand resumes are stacked on the H.R. desk? How many guys are driving trucks, working in offices, and would give anything -just anything- to start at a fraction of my salary?
A quiet Guinness has passed my lips, smoothly, and I gaze at the stars, and reflect on ‘Silent talk’, ‘beyond human space’. And my mind takes me, logically or not, at warp speed, back to a small, seemingly primitive and undoubtedly impoverished village in Papua New Guinea. And myself, standing there, tongue hanging out. Desperate. Craving. I-want-it-so-bad-I-can-taste-it.
I remember sighing. The stylish couple, Rolex-and-Gucci, had beaten me to it.
The object of my affections? Of my unbridled lust? A crocodile…
Yes. It’s an ancient native ritual in remote parts of Papua new Guinea. To be initiated, you have to sleep with a pubescent female To-oro Ma’ori crocodile.
Uh-huh.
No, I’m just kidding.
It had all started some months earlier, when a brother pilot had shown me this absolutely drop-dead gorgeous wooden crocodile. Hand carved. Open mouth, teeth, “I’m hungry” scowl, and all. He told me where he had bought it. In a small, native village, a few miles from one of our regular ports of call. I had to wait a month, but then, full of fish, our boat put into that exact same port. Awesome. I spent that night at the local hotel, and the following morning, I got a ride out to the village concerned. No dice. Either the wood carver was out of village, or he was sold out. No crocodiles. Rats. I would have to wait until we next docked here again.
Months went by. Our next offloading took place elsewhere, to my frustration, and thus it was multiple months before I landed at this port again. Same routine. Spend the night at the local hotel, have a good steak, and chin-wag with any tourists wishing to engage me.
It was in this manner, that the hobo helicopter captain (straggly beard, sawn off shorts, exhausted once-white T-shirt, white socks and sneakers) met Mr and Mrs Rolex-and-Gucci. Tourists. Gracing the locale with their distinguished apparitions.
That, admittedly, was not their real name. Their real names I have long since forgotten, but I formed the impression they were Italian. Suave, sophisticated, immaculately presented, Rolex-and-Gucci, and dining at the table next to me. How we struck up a conversation I don’t know, but I can guess. I probably knocked a beer glass over, and drew their sympathy. Or else I just hollered across, the way I do: “Bongiurno! You are liking Papua New Guinea?”
We then got engrossed, and he-with-the-Rolex lectured me about a variety of subjects. That was kind of him, ‘cos I’ll take all the heducation I can get. I need it. And I know he had strong views of the local populace. In particular, when it came to haggling prices, he was quietly adamant that they were all thieves and crooks, and you just had to beat them down mercilessly. Her-with-the-Gucci nodded grave assent. Thieves and crooks. Something about his prosperous, well oiled exterior told me that he had a lot of experience haggling for every last Lira. It emerged that they were going shopping the next day, targeting local arts and crafts. I mentioned I was doing the same, and that drew a further exhortation from him to be sure to haggle tenaciously. I promised I would haggle like I was fisting my last Dollar.
The next morning, I was up early, ate a hurried breakfast, hired an old jalopy taxicab, no brakes, no air conditioning, no suspension, driven by a sixteen year old maniac, and set off purposefully on the Great Expedition. To retrieve -hopefully- a fine pubescent female To-oro Ma’ori wooden crocodile. I couldn’t wait. The countryside sped by, my crazy driver would honk like crazy going through villages, chickens would squawk and scatter, and Life was good. I was bound to bag me a crocodile. Even his blood red, betel nut juice spit, fired carelessly out the window, from whence it would blow back all over the side of the car, was unable to dampen my spirits. That’s why the sidewalks in PNG are all stained red. Chewed betel nut. A mild narcotic.
We arrived at the village of my quest, and I legged it over to the shop. Such as it was. Several plastic sheets staked to the ground, and all sorts of amazing stuff spread out for sale.
Including… one wooden crocodile!
But… bummer! Oh, no. Mister and Missus Bongiurno Rolex-and-Gucci had beaten me to it. And Signor Rolex, even now, haughtily, was haggling over the price for the crocodile. My heart sank.
He was offering twenty-five dollars. (twenty-five?) (Is that ALL?)
The saleswoman, an older, large lady, (all that coconut milk, they say) with a quiet dignity, was countering with sixty dollars. Down from Sixty-five. (Sixty-five? Is that ALL?)
Twenty-six, from Rolex.
Sixty, from Mrs Coconot.
Twenty-eight, from Rolex.
Fifty-eight, from Mrs Coconut.
Minutes went by. I was pretending to look at everything else. But I was afraid my tongue was making slobbering noises. I wanted that crocodile, so bad.
More minutes went by. Rolex was up to thirty-three, and Mrs Gucci was frowning, thin lips, shaking her head, as if she was saying that was FAR too much.
Fifty-five, from Mrs Coconut. She seemed tired. We were the only customers. Maybe she had not enjoyed a good day. They were kind of way off the beaten track.
Daddy Rolex would make as if he was moving away, and I would take a hidden deep breath, ready to pounce like a Muslim on a Bacon Cheeseburger. After Ramadan.
Nope. He would move back a bit, fiddle-faddle about, and come up one measly dollar.
To my way of thinking, it was absurd. The crocodile, 28 inches of him, was beautifully carved. The detail was outstanding, and it must have taken some local craftsman weeks. The cash income of many families was about a hundred dollars a YEAR. They survived in a subsistence style agrarian way. Hand-to-mouth. Some chickens and goats. Coconuts and berries. That crocodile represented somebody’s dedicated work, a very important source of income, and was worth every cent of sixty-five bucks. Besides, he was mine. If Signor Rolex would budge over just one more foot…
Ah…
His mistake. Finally. He stepped aside just a smidgeon of a butterfly’s wing, to look at something else. He would have stepped back a bifurcated, dissected second later. And bid another measly buck.
Too late, Spaghetti…
Quick as a flash, like an Irishman hearing the siren call, the song of the Ages, the ultimate poetry, i.e. the statement “I’m buying”, I pounced. I almost shoulder butted him, as he tried to step back. He’d maybe already figured I was hovering…
“How much for the crocodile?”, I asked, breathlessly, as if I didn’t already know.
“Sixty-five dollar!”, the mature, nice lady spoke, amusement in her wise eyes. She hadn’t missed much either.
“Deal!”, I spoke. Pulling out four twenties. The fastest negotiation & haggling session ever.
Beside me, I sensed laser hot eyes of loathing and contempt burning into me. If I had been flying at night, Signor Rolex would have dazzled the cockpit. Good thing I wasn’t on NVG’s.
I handed her the four twenties, and she started counting out the change.
“I think he’s beautiful!”, I said, clutching my newly acquired, hand carved Papua new Guinean crocodile. And then, on an impulse, I added: “Keep the change!” She stared in surprise, then her tired but dignified face lit up. Beside me, I sensed the laser burning, cockpit dazzling intensity go up another magnitude of Lumens.
She nodded and smiled, and then she said:
“Here! Please, you take this as well!”
And she handed me some carvings.
“Here! Please, you take this as well!”
And she handed me some sea shell beads. And more carvings. A statue. A shield. More stuff. And more. And yet more.
“Oh, no”, I gasped, delighted but embarrassed all at the same time. “I can’t possibly take all that!”
But she politely insisted, with dignity, and, laden down, arms full of good stuff I wasn’t remotely expecting, I suddenly realized she too, was making a statement. For the benefit of Rolex-and-Gucci. I realized that somehow, her quiet pride was coming to the fore here. Her matriarch standing was in evidence. I guessed she packed a wallop back in the village. And I guessed she was fed up with the likes of Rolex-and-Gucci.
Her statement? With which I totally agree?
Money is just a tool. A necessary convenience. That’s all. It should never be the be-all and end-all. A religion. An obsession. How much apple pie can you eat? Eh? Dumb ass…
Life is simply NOT all about fighting and clawing for that last, measly, hard scrabble, dirty dollar.
Filthy lucre…
Rolex and Gucci had plenty. Expensively dressed, dripping gold. Oozing self satisfaction and pretentious ooh-la-la. But they would always want more. They would never, ever be satisfied. And they would never, ever take any of it with them. That mature and thoughtful lady from the jungle of Papua new Guinea knew and saw all that. She wanted just enough for her family to live on for the next few days. They had no running water, no indoor plumbing, primitive electrical infrastructure. They lacked all the mod cons that Rolex-and-Gucci took for granted, as theirs by (alleged/assumed) superior birth right. But the Matriarch had pride. And insight. And I think she liked me. The bearded galoot, with the tattered shorts, the worn sneakers and the dirty big grin.
Amen, ma’am. I applaud you. I concur with your sentiments. I like you too.
Thank you for Isaac, my crocodile.
He occupies, all these years later, a place of honor in my sitting room.
In fact, here he is…
Francis Meyrick
Of Helicopters and Humans (40) “The Fermi Paradox “
August 6, 2015 in Helicopters and Humans
Of Helicopters and Humans
Part 40: The Fermi Paradox
Some things have long intrigued me. Understanding, despite my best efforts, eludes me. No, I’m not referring to Woman. Although in that area too, my L-plates are permanent. What I am referring to is the great “Fermi Paradox”. If there are billions of stars, more stars than grains of sand on all the beaches on this minor planet, then there are multi-multi-billions of planets, and if just one in XXXX thousand houses intelligent aliens, then that amounts to ga-zillions of intelligent civilizations polluting the Universe out there. And doubtless, somewhere, somebody has long since discovered the recipe essential to my personal contentment in this Universe: a simple formula.
Lift = ½ x rho x V(squared) x Coefficient of Lift x S
Somewhere, somebody has perfected the art of rotating blades, and the smooth attachment of laminar airflow to composite airfoil shapes. There have GOT to be good old Chopper Jockeys elsewhere in the Milky Way alone, never mind planet Nabiru in the Pleiades or where ever. Now I sure would love to meet them. It would be real swell to exchange notes, and maybe they could have a shot at my Bell 407, and I could have a quick whiz in their UFO. A barrel roll over the White House, and inverted under London Bridge. Just for fun. It would be great. I just know, seeing as we all belong to the I.Q. challenged genus “chopper eejit”, we’d hit it off fabulously. Call it the instant collective “sense of belonging” so common amongst the lower castes. Hey, wanna see my rickshaw?
Which begs the question: Where the hell & Nabiru IS everybody?
If “they” are about town, why don’t they extend a hand in friendship? Or a paw, a tentacle or a scaly fin? An electron or two, a binary greeting, or even a modulated sinus wave? Why the reticence? What’s wrong with auto-rotating in spectacular fashion out of a sudden rainbow, and landing neatly on the White House lawn? I think maybe, where Fermi’s Paradox is concerned, I could venture an explanatory guess…
* * * * *
You see, I have flown where I was totally alone. A stranger. An alien, if you like. Maybe even an intruder.
A thousand miles offshore, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Where I could see only waves. No land, no ships, no oil and gas platforms. Nothing. Just me, in my Hughes 500 Charlie model, whistling low over the endless marching waves. My mothership long since out of sight, way over the horizon, fifty miles away.
And all of a sudden, unexpectedly, truly in the middle of nowhere, I have seen an amazing sight. I have seen Nature at work, powerfully, with a timeless rhythm. The song of the Seas. A turtle perhaps, swimming along, purposefully, steadily, in obedience to a Law that we, simple ones, have barely even begun to grasp. And I have orbited that turtle, until my fuel ran low, and marveled at The Design. I have wondered at the risks ahead, the predators, the longliners, the miles of baited hooks. And, even more menacingly perhaps, the waiting dark shadows of plundering egg thieves. I have asked myself how such a small creature, kind of bulky and gauche, swimming along at such a slow speed, could possibly traverse such astonishing distances. Thousands of miles. To arrive at the exact same beach of birth, to repeat the Great Cycle. Who… designed that? An accident? Evolution…? That brilliant? Some accident…
And I have stood, silently, on one such a beach, (*1) and gazed in a sad reverie at the destruction left behind by Man. The abandoned turtle nests, plundered, the long tunnels, dug by avaricious human hands, and the rotting signs. Pleading. In different languages. To respect the turtles’ habitat. In vain. And I have wondered at the finality. A cycle of tens of thousands of years, brought to an abrupt end, a permanent end, by Man. I understand, war torn Angola, how a man would resort to anything to feed his starving children, and I judged him not for it. But to think of that beach, with its rotten signs, and the empty tunnels dug by human hands, and to dwell upon the awful finality of what had been perpetrated there, was disheartening. If I could have done something to ameliorate the situation, to intervene, I would happily have done so. But there was nothing I could do…
You see, I have flown where I was totally alone. A stranger. An alien, if you like. Maybe even an intruder.
I have banked, blades slapping hard, over the beach on Tarawa, in the Republic of Kiribati, a former Pacific World War Two battleground. Today covered -teeming- with litter, not American blood. With only faint -but resonating- echoes of the screams of the dying Marines. Sailing into hell, on their vulnerable landing craft, at the most fortified point of the island. Thanks to extremely faulty intelligence, or, alternatively, extraordinarily arrogant planning by some back-room General. Who, sure as hell, was far too important (the euphemism is ‘senior’) to place HIS favorite neck in one of those flimsy landing craft. How many young, well meaning men were rhythmically slaughtered there, RAT-TAT-TAT, by well entrenched Japanese? How many young men gazed their last at the Blue Sky that day? On both sides? I subsequently walked that beach, thoughtfully, that before I knew only from my beloved History Books. Past the remains of War, the remains of slaughter. The fortified killing towers are still there. From which the Japanese defenders steadily disseminated a hail of lead. Slaughter on an industrial scale. Efficient. Well planned, rehearsed. Bloody.
I remember standing on that beach, alone, and imagining those young Americans. The desperation. The helplessness. And those young Japanese. Far from home, all of them. And all of them bombarded. By marching, drills, music, the patriotic speeches by emotionally withered old men, and the ringing appeals to serve Flag. The Empire. The Emperor. The folks at home. Alone and despondent, what, behind the facade, did they really think of? What did they miss? Mum’s apple pie? The girl in the flower shop? With the down-cast doe eyes? And the pale blue Kimono? Or just going fishing with Dad?
You see, I have flown where I was totally alone. In my mind. Detached. A stranger. An alien, if you like. Looking down, sympathetically.
As sick as the patient was, the Med Crew were working overtime. You can tell by their voices, even if the technical jargon is lost on a humble pilot. In between their frantic labors, they would ask: “Francis! How long to go?” And I would reply, and study my GPS, and plan ahead. And I would think of the smashed pickup truck, the leaning utility pole, and the flock of attending emergency vehicles. A single vehicle accident, young driver ejected, no seat belt. And a smell of alcohol that wafted even into the front cockpit, despite the air flow through the helicopter, and the oxygen mask over his bloodied face. Doing my job, my part, I was detached, an automaton, making automaton decisions, pushing buttons and watching gauges. Radio calls and navigation observations. All on auto-pilot. But another part of me was free. A hovering spirit if you like, floating above, watching sympathetically. Wondering. Wondering about the truly gargantuan effort that had been made, and continued to be made, to help this one accident victim. The technology being brought to bear on this patient, the combined crew training and experience, the gi-normous cost of the helicopter and the attendant maintenance burden, all this and more, brought to bear on one suffering human. It was tempting to think positively of the human race. Hopefully, even. I tried not to reflect on what was occurring elsewhere during the forty minutes we had been airborne. The carnage, the hurt, the savagery, the babies shaken, wives beaten, innocents assaulted, people robbed, beaten and stabbed. As the Air Ambulance helicopter drones noisily over, with two highly experienced Medical Staff working flat out on a severely injured young man, (and we might mention -foot note- the humble jockey at the controls?), whilst all the drama is unfolding at a thousand feet and a hundred and thirty knots, down below… Down below, they are also working real hard. On the next two thousand nine-one-one calls… Humans hurting humans. Humans hurting themselves. Humans being daft, silly, irresponsible, and, occasionally, out and out evil. Very odd. Trying to help? Or swimming up a waterfall?
And the noise of the helicopter disappears, clattering rhythmically, over the horizon…
You see, I have flown where I was totally alone. A stranger. An alien, if you like. Looking down, sympathetically. An intruder, perhaps?
There was that time, Papua New Guinea? Or was it the Solomon Islands? Working as a Pilot-mechanic. Proud of my new A&P License. But limited skills. Learning. And now… Rabaul, maybe. Or was it Madang? They blur together. I was doing a new tail rotor gearbox check. Well, that was the excuse, anyway. Blasting down the beach. Honking her over around the bends. Palm trees and sand. Going by like the clappers. Testing. My new install. Me. Mechanic. Uh-huh.
Met these local guys, coming the other way. Walking down the beach. I could immediately sense hostility from their movements. Maybe they thought I was the biggest, fattest, juiciest flying chicken they’d ever seen. Noisy, too. Put it this way, you don’t have to be Einstein to figure out they don’t like you. They think you suck. Or maybe you would taste yummy good.
When they are pointing bows and arrows at you…
I had already increased my stand-off, out over the water, and eased back on the cyclic, when the one fired his missile. The sun caught the pale wood, as it curved up, and then dropped harmlessly far below me. Hard, luck, my fellow human. I wouldn’t have tasted too good anyway. Too much exposure to Jet A fuel, WD40 and transmission grease.
And the noise of the helicopter disappears, clattering rhythmically, over the horizon…
You see, I have flown where I was totally alone. A stranger. An alien, if you like. Looking down, sympathetically.
There was another, dream-like occasion, surreal in its beauty, during which my awe of Nature held me utterly spell bound. And I was in such a seemingly remote and deserted location,
that I really never expected to see a human. I was crossing a small and pristine atoll, head down and hammering along, blades slapping and hot gases flowing, in the middle of the truly enormous Pacific Ocean. Thousands of miles from what passes for civilization. Peaceful. Not a hut, not a tree, not one sign of the frenzied labors of Man. And the deepest, clearest, most translucent blue water inside the atoll I had even seen. And to my astonishment, three men in a dugout canoe, fishing. I was shocked. Amazing. They must have rowed for miles and miles over open, treacherous Ocean to have gotten there, perhaps a favorite, hidden fishing spot. As the helicopter burst forth, they greeted me with undisguised delight. Waving, and jumping up and down, with big friendly smiles. Here they are:
I hauled down and around them, tight turn, the obligatory air show, waving like a mad man, and the trio were delighted. Big Smiles & happiness. Strangers meeting strangers, and only smiles & happy waves. Had we been able to meet face to face, over a cold beer perhaps, we would have shared our stories. Shared our cultures. Our values. And our smiles.
And the noise of the helicopter disappears, clattering rhythmically, over the horizon…
You see, I have flown where I was totally alone. A stranger. An alien, if you like. Looking down, sympathetically. An intruder, perhaps?
I first saw the outlying Scottish isles from the cockpit of a Super Puma, nineteen passengers in the back, plowing the groove up to Sumburgh Airport, in the Shetland Isles. From the air, they look barren, rocky, with brave cattle and determined little houses putting on an almost never-ending defense against cold, rain, squalls, and low, grey clouds. I was curious, as always, what sort of folk survived down there. What made them tick.
In the event I was to get more than I ever bargained for, in the form of a gentle lady, with a huge big heart, who lived on one of those little islands, and who has been in and around my little life for a long time. Even now, separated by continents, we still share. In the fullness of time, after having flown over those barren, windswept islands for many hours, I got to visit. And even stay in a small cottage, on a small island named Flotta. With a seal colony down the road, an endangered Puffin bird nesting site up the cliffs, (I would spend hours watching them, lying in the grass). Oystercatchers wheeled overhead, and sea gulls quarreled with anyone who was game. In the background, constant, the music of waves crashing ashore. I ended up writing a simple story about one such Oystercatcher. (*2). A distressed Oystercatcher. An odd telling, not remotely pertaining to helicopters, but 100% factual. Sheep and cattle far outnumbered the island’s residents, who totaled to less than one hundred souls. But what struck me, apart from the characters and the inevitable local politics, was the ruins of so many countless cottages. It was clear to me that Flotta had once been a thriving mini metropolis, with several thousand busy residents. Making their living the Old Way, from fishing and farming. Everywhere, old cottages, ruined. Who once looked out those windows? Who once swept that broken down porch? Who was once proud of that house? There was only one shop on the island open, but, in the past, there had been several. What… had happened? A visit to the local cemetery, told me the story. Grave after grave, mossy and overgrown, marking the final resting spots of the island’s young men. Cut down, in the prime of their youth, by industrial era killing systems. The battle of the Somme, Flanders, all the World War 1 bloodbaths were present. And chiseled into cold, rain and windswept stone. The futility of war swept over me, as it has many times since. Here lay the cream of the crop of their age. All the marriage ready bachelors, marched off to war. Bands and speeches, flags and cheering. “For King and Country”. And not to forget: “We’ll be home in time for Christmas”. Here, in this cold cemetery, there were no bands. No speeches, no flags. No cheering.
And the noise of the helicopter disappears, clattering rhythmically, over the horizon…
You see, I have flown where I was totally alone. A stranger. An alien, if you like. Looking down, sympathetically. An intruder, perhaps?
In my mind, sometimes, I get tired of Man. I get a little discouraged. When you offer an olive branch, and they rip it out of your hand. The better to beat you over the head with it.
Pointless. I hate fighting. But I’m no door mat. If I have to dig my heels in, they go in. Hard. There is this line. Cross it, at your peril.
But it’s not my preferred stance, the fighting one, as it seems to be for many in our Society today. I encounter many at work and off duty, who seem hair-triggered towards NOT getting along. Experts in assuming the guise of indignant righteousness and outraged morality, when in fact… It is they who wear the beam in their eye. Or is it I? I look in the mirror, squinting hard. Is that a beam, I see before me? Growing out my eye?
When I’m down a bit perhaps, I scribble. My editor asked me once why I write? Why? Duh…
To entertain, perhaps? Hopefully? And, in the case of Moggy’s Tuna Manual, (*3), to educate, for sure. But even there, not from the lofty heights of some purported superior knowledge or alleged excellence in the field. Not at all. Even there, more from the point of view of a friendly, chatty, brother pilot. Relating his mistakes and near disasters. The cock-ups and the many “Holy Cow!” moments. In a conversational, person-to-person tone. Not from the heights of dazzling brilliance, passed down haughtily to the unwashed masses. Not at all. More of a chinwag in an old Irish pub, down in County Kerry, with the mountains throwing shadows as the sun going down. And in the background, the eternal, comforting roar of the sea. Reliable, as an old friend. And if you can imagine a cozy, open fire, and the smoothing flavor of a well poured pint of Guinness. And the half crazy old dude, waving his arms, illustrating all our story, with warmth and enthusiasm.
Perhaps it wasn’t ever the story. We’d heard it before. But it was the telling. The light in his eyes, the infectious enthusiasm. A story teller of old, whose like has restlessly trampled his way across moors and mountains, raw fields and lawns, for as long as Man has roamed this planet.
But if I was to be honest, I confess to a third, almost hidden reason. After entertaining. And after (ahem) education. To write is to think things through. Or, if you feel that word ‘write’ should be reserved for the real McCoy, then let me call it ‘doodling with words’. Regardless of the label, it’s about feelings. Deep feelings. And it’s about those feelings bringing back memories. Perhaps, a way to unburden. To vent memories. To remember shadows. To remember past kindnesses, and re-live the best moments of a Life that once was. With a quiet contemplation. A gratitude. Still, after all these times, a loving. And the desire to soar above all the ugly. If that makes sense.
Can you imagine flying thousands of miles offshore, and many hundreds of hours, looking for tuna? Beside you, exhausted and fast asleep, a Taiwanese gentleman friend with a good heart. Adona. Whose Fishing Master (Captain) was a thundering, screaming bully. My friend worked ridiculous hours, with nowhere near enough sleep, and then (when others were retiring for some well earned siesta) he would be sent up in the helicopter as an observer, to search for fish. He would turn to me, in the helicopter, eyes blood red with exhaustion, and his face would ask the question he always did. I would smile, and nod. Poor fellow. His relief was touching. He would curl up like a baby, fold his hands, and before we were climbing through two hundred feet, he would be fast asleep. I would assume both roles. The flying, and the spotting. If I saw an interesting log drifting, I would descend for a look. The pitch and timbre of the slapping blades would change, and he would wake up, just as we slowed down for a close look. We would make a determination, and if there were a lot of frightened bait fish present, maybe clinging in a tight ball, (indicating predators -maybe Tuna- lurking below) we might drop/attach a radio buoy and inform the ship of the latitude/longitude. My friend would sound incredibly awake and forceful on the radio. Doing his job. Thirty seconds afterwards, as we climbed out, he would be stone cold unconscious again.
I liked Adona. We would chat for hours. He showed me photos of his beautiful girl friend, waiting for him patiently, back home in Taiwan. The Fishing Master for some reason hated Adona. And made his life absolute hell. The crew looked up to Adona, who was skilled in many fields. I wondered if the Fishing Master was secretly jealous. The verbal abuse at times was off the charts. Adona would keep his peace, say nothing, and work like a crazy man. It was the Chinese way. Their work ethic was extraordinary. I felt sorry for Adona sometimes, and one day, I saw the opportunity to maybe brighten his day a bit. In the event, I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations…
We were flying along, at a thousand feet or so, Adona unconscious, when I spotted white splashes in the distance. It could be Tuna. I headed over there, and came upon a fairly rare, but truly spectacular scene: a migration of hundreds of dolphins. The weather was blustery, with a stiff wind blowing and the waves running six to eight feet. In these conditions, I think Dolphins, when they are travelling, prefer to spend less time under water. I have seen them many a time, when the water was calm, swimming mostly underwater. Then erupt-breath-splash-down again. Erupt-breath-splash-down again. Erupt-breath-splash-down again.
But when it’s more blustery, they seemed to spend less time between eruptions. The effect of course, of so many dolphins travelling together, is of an extraordinary aerial ballet. Every so often, most of them are under water, and then… suddenly seventy of them erupt out of the water, gracefully, seemingly effortlessly, all at the same time. An aerial ballet. Beautiful.
Well, I thought I’d give my good buddy a treat, and I performed a smooth spiral descent, very gently, so as not to wake him up. Down we went, and down, until we were just coming up behind the dolphins at fifteen feet. I knew from experience that the dolphins paid us no attention. The wind played a role here as well, because the dolphins were heading into wind, and our sound was thus being blown away from them. At the exact moment Adona woke up, alerted by the change in helicopter sound, some eighty or a hundred dolphins rose -majestically- all together out of the water in front of us. As if on cue. They sailed through the air, spraying water, in a brief but indelible picture of Nature at work, the sun bathing their sleek bodies, and then all disappeared from view. Truly spectacular. I had seen it before from a helicopter, loved it, and knew what to expect. For Adona, it was his first time. His tired, grease streaked face (he had come to the helicopter straight from working the nets) lit up instantly with the power of ten thousand candles. He positively beamed with a beautiful, child like delight. Sounds came out of his mind, that were a mixture of delight and intense emotion. It almost sounded like he was crying. I looked across at him. He was entranced. Like a child. He was gurgling, he was so happy. He looked at me, his eyes shining. Then he would point at the dolphins, leaping out of the water, and gurgle. Look at me. Laugh, and laugh. I had never seen him so happy. It was touching. How man can love Nature. Truly, love.
But if I was to be honest, I confess a third, almost hidden reason. After entertaining. And after (cough!) education. To write is to think things through. Or, if you feel that word ‘write’ should be reserved for the real McCoy, then let me say to ‘doodle with words’ and bring back memories, is a way to unburden.
* * * * *
So if you ask me about the Fermi Paradox, and the question “where are they?”, I would dodge the answer. I would mumble something quiet and evasive, the way I often do, about ‘maybe they feel helpless’. Say, what? Maybe they feel helpless, I say. Stunned, by the beauty of this, our planet. Our only home. But flabbergasted about what Man is doing with it. The extremes, of Goodness and Gentleness, Compassion at its finest. And a vicious, malevolent, ISIS style, medieval Darkness that tolerates no Light. And targets us all. Craving weapons. The worst possible weapons. Those that destroy compassion.
* * * * *
Somewhere out there, against all the odds, in this hurting world, allegorically speaking, there is a curious turtle, (*4) yet emerging from All Our Mother’s nest. (*5) Maybe, just maybe, Man needs turtles like him. A thoughtful turtle. A quiet leader. You know him, perhaps? Is it you?
I wrote a story about that, but it’s got nothing to do with helicopters. And a casual reader would call it irrelevant, of no consequence. And that it reveals nothing, at all, about why I love to fly. Dreaming on. The simple way I do.
High.
Up in the sky.
Francis Meyrick
*1) “Red Dust (2) “In the Shadow of the Turtle, Meditation “”
*2) “The Oystercatcher who silently cried out for help”
*3) “Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual” (technical, helicopter)
http://www.moggystunaboathelicoptermanual.com
*4) “The Ugly Little Turtle”
http://www.writersharbor.org/work_view.php?work=5
*5) “All Our Mother”
http://www.writersharbor.org/work_view.php?work=821.com
My buddy, Adona the Great
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 6, 2015, 1:09 pm
Of Helicopters and Humans (39) “Does High Intelligence equate to a Safe Pilot? “
July 11, 2015 in Helicopters and Humans
Of Helicopters and Humans (39)
“Does High Intelligence equate to a Safe Pilot? ” FIRST PUBLISHED ON JUST HELICOPTERS ‘BLOG’
It’s a puzzling story. Have you heard it? It’s a recurrent theme…
A highly intelligent man. Who learns to fly. Helicopters or airplanes. And amasses plenty of flight hours. Plenty of experience. Yet insists on doing truly extraordinary things. Stupid, stupid stuff. Pushing it, pushing it. He gets warned. Many times. And he just laughs it off.
And then… catastrophe. Another shocking statistic.
And you think: Dude!? Brother pilot! Whatdafu-fu-fu… Were you THINKING?
The indistinct, blurry images of several (many) long gone pilots and friends come to my mind. I still remember…
1) the dude with the high performance, low wing monoplane. Low-level loops. Boy, did he like the low-level loops. Pulling out at the bottom… maybe 100 feet? Maybe. But I could have sworn I could SEE the pre-stall buffeting of the wings. Can you see that, from the ground? Pilots say you can’t. But if that’s true, I could at least SENSE the air struggling to maintain a smooth flow. He was LOADING up those wings. Stall speed increases with the square root of G’s? If your wing ordinarily quits flying at 52 knots, but now you’re pulling +6 G at the bottom… Amigo, have you thought about where you are heading, pulling like crazy at a hundred feet off the ground? How about a private BOX? I tried to talk to him. Several times. I wasn’t the only one. After one air show, he literally laughed in my face. He had a pretty girl hanging on each arm. I asked him, very discreetly, if I could talk to him privately. He laughed. Couldn’t I see he was busy? The girls giggled in delight. I upped the ante, and said could I talk to him in private, “pilot-to-pilot”. That, in pilot parlance, is a very polite way of saying: “Dude! We NEED to talk!” Or, another way of saying: “I’d like to keep this between you and me. That is my FIRST choice…”.
But no, he just wasn’t interested. Brushed me off. He knew what I was worried about. He’d heard it all before.
Three months later… he was playing the heavenly harp, and checking out his personal cloud. And the snazzy new wing feathers. Removed from this happy place. And so was his passenger. Low-level loop. High speed stall. At the bottom. Duh! Here was a highly intelligent man, well educated, successful, with his own business. Everything to live for. Just-not-listening. But WHY?
2) the dude with the Master’s Degree in Mathematics. IQ through the proverbial cathedral roof. Brains to burn. University lecturer at the age of twenty five. Gave it all up, to fly. Was always the guy who got in, when everybody else turned around. IFR to him meant a guaranteed means to get there. It was just a matter of flying the needles. I’m one of those cautious IFR bunnies. If the weather is “certifiably reported as piss-poor” (a.k.a. “CRAPP”) then I’m much more in go-around frame of mind than in “I’ve gotta land” frame of mind. With an ILS Decision Height at 200 feet, I’m starting to dribble in/advance throttles at just under 300 feet. The decision is actually already pretty well made well above 200 feet. Put it this way, I’m certainly not waiting until 200 feet, then having a quiet think, (ho-hummm… what will we do…?) (finish my sandwich), and maybe start getting into go-around decision mode at 150 feet, resulting in a descent in IFR to 100 feet. Or lower. Like some.
I was present at some of the airfields our hero contrived to land in, and I can vouch for the IFR weather. Horrible. On one really scary occasion, I flew with him, as a passenger. I couldn’t see squat until we were below eighty feet. But he was all happy, chatting away with the Tower like it was all one big joke. I remember I wasn’t laughing.
He met his match one day, many moons ago, heavily IFR in a twin fixed wing. When a partial power failure on one engine gave him a nasty assymetric thrust, during a “super low” attempted go-around. It was too much, even for him. A more cautious pilot, dribbling power on earlier, instead of all in one great hungry (desperate) gob at the very bottom, would have had a much, much better chance to figure out the problem incrementally. All the previous aircraft had gone around. Our hero HAD to prove his brilliance. He did. He went down in History as the brilliant guy, who analyzed his situation, (Oops!… stall-ling…) and then coolly informed ATC that he “was crashing”. Say what? BOOM! And then he burned. Brilliantly.
3) But the cake goes to… the man that nearly killed me deader than a door nail. I wanted so bad to engage in a politically incorrect action. To wit: surgically stab the SOB (Slightly Obtuse Buffoon) right in the head. Or smack him in the kisser. But it would have looked bad on my resume. Can’t do that sort of thing.
Here was again, a really brilliant man. Ran a very successful company. Owned his own helicopter. Plenty of flight hours. Employed lots of people. And everybody in local Law Enforcement for miles around knew him. Imagine a guy who goes to visit a friend, and lands in the friend’s driveway. In a residential area. Not once, but multiple times. And just can’t understand why everybody gets upset. 500 foot rule? What rule? He was at least fifty feet from the neighbor’s house! And his tail rotor was at least fifteen foot from the sidewalk! So? What’s the beef? The kids love me! I watched him one day doing aerobatics in his helicopter. Endless really steep turns and push overs. Negative G experiments?? Right over the middle of the town. I watched him for ages. Why would you DO that?
Another time was really bad. He couldn’t wait a few seconds in his pickup truck for me to depart, and just drove onto the apron. Flying past the turning, burning helicopter. He sped past just as I was lifting off the dolly, and turning into wind. The last thing I was expecting was a bloody big Ford F3500 to come blasting past. We damn near collided. Only a frantic collective snatch by me averted total disaster, as his truck narrowly sped under my skids. The point is that everybody was convinced he was going to die in his helicopter. The local cops, the DPS chopper pilots, everybody. Apparently, even his wife said so. Well… he could still have been with us today, but he’s not. Courtesy of a cable across a river, strung out at a height of twenty feet. Took a passenger with him, as well.
So back to the question:
DOES INTELLIGENCE EQUATE TO A SAFE PILOT? OR IS THERE ANOTHER INGREDIENT REQUIRED?
To my mind, there IS another ingredient required. An essential ingredient. Some people call it “judgment”, or even “wisdom”. Or “Airmanship”, or “common sense”. I (being a simple soul) prefer to flat out call it “Fear”. I recommend Fear. A most outstanding virtue.
Fear, coupled with a good Imagination.
You know what it’s like coming down in free-fall, pulling the ripcord, twelve seconds to go, and absolutely nothing happens? I do actually. Been there. It’s no fun. It sucks. Do you know what it’s like looking down the wrong end of a very, very angry person’s firearm? I do actually. Been there. It’s no fun. But even if I had never been there, I think I still would be a careful Sky Diving student. And I would also be very polite to angry people with guns. Very-very polite. Because I have an imagination. I am capable of being afraid.
Some helicopter pilots… have no fear. No imagination. They may be endowed with brains by the bucket load. They may well understand Einstein’s theory of Relativity, Quantum Mechanics, Particle Physics, and even (I whisper this in awe) “Women”. But without Fear, they are vulnerable.
Like the Old Irish Chopper jockey said, when he was asked to look back on his long life, and to state the most terrifying moment of his whole career. Thoughtfully, eyes half closed, he mused out loud:
“The most terrifying moment? Oh, that’s easy…”
His audience hung on every word.
“That would have been a few seconds after I had said ‘I DO’ for the second time in my life…”
Fear. And Imagination. Strongly recommended.
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 11, 2015, 6:17 pm