Francis Meyrick

Of Helicopters and Humans (38) – “That beam in my eye “

July 9, 2015 in Helicopters and Humans


Photo: Steve Apperley

Of Helicopters and Humans (38) FIRST PUBLISHED ON “JUST HELICOPTERS “

“That Beam in my Eye “

(With thanks to Med crew member Dave Giles for the peanut butter recipe, and Med crew member Jon Fowler for the adipose tissue) (yeah, I know, slow day at the Base)

There’s an interesting old book floating around out there, which has been read by many people, and it conjures up some interesting cerebral (and optical) challenges. One of the passages refers to people who are obsessed with splinters. They seek these splinters in the eyes of others. They do so minutely, with a ferocity of inspection, hair triggered towards wagging an accusing finger: “Hey dude! You’ve got a SPLINTER in your eye! What is your PROBLEM!?”

You can imagine such a confrontation taking place in public, and the accused, the worm with the splinter, recoiling in embarrassment and guilt. He might be thinking: “Merde!” (he could be a Frenchman). “I have been found out!”, or “How do I explain this to the wife?”, or maybe “If only the ground would open and swallow me whole – I can’t stand the humiliation.” However, this passage I refer to then continues on, and severely cautions against being the nit-picky accuser with the wagging finger, humiliating a transgressor in public, when in fact, fancy that, YOU might be carrying a BEAM in your own eye. Speaking
Now I first came across this story when I was very young. I think my Irish mother read it to me. She read all sorts of stories to me at bed time, and I believe the constant exposure to story telling had a permanent deleterious effect on what passes today for my mind. A bit like the effect of trying strawberry jam on your boiled eggs. It might not taste very good, but it sure is an original experiment. Well, the whole beam business in-your-eye, well, heck, that fascinated me. I remember wondering how on earth you would get around with this beam protruding from your eye? How would you get up the stairs? Or into your pyamas? It would be a struggle. Maybe it wasn’t a really big beam? But surely, ANY sort of beam would be a bloody nuisance, to say the least. The hidden, deeper meaning, was lost on me for quite some years.
I was reminded of this allegorical beam recently, discretely watching a very nice young lady. She was in her early twenties perhaps, wore the obligatory skin tight jeans, a very hard working, stretched T-shirt, AND she sported some truly gargantuan mammary glands. I think I’m allowed to say that in polite company? It’s a respectable statement of simple fact, right? Anyway, wearing red high heels, purposefully striding towards a steep staircase, I confess my mind shot to the potential conundrum we helicopter jocks refer to under the heading of “weight and balance”. Did she consult the Ops Manual, and do a written weight and balance check every time she went up the escalator? Or did she figure it out on the hoof, so to speak? How about the trampoline at the local gym? Was she on the volley ball team? Did she drive a Segway? I mean, scientifically speaking, how does one work with the rapidly alternating momentum? The kinetic energy aspect? A half times Mass times Velocity squared? I’m just saying. Check out this video if you don’t believe me I’m on to something potentially very nasty:

Weight and Balance Computational Failure

In order to exercise gender neutral, politically correct (PC) editorial even-handed fairness, let me quickly assert to the fair-minded reader, that such escalator driven visual conundrums are absolutely NOT the preserve of females only. Thus there was the case of an EMS pilot, whom Nature had configured in a slightly unusual manner. The gentleman had small feet, a small head (gleaming bald), narrow shoulders, but his waist line… well, to phrase it in PC talk, Nature had decided this was the best and only place to store excess “adipose tissue”. (You can tell I hang around with EMS folk, right?). This excess “adiposity” (oh, okay then, “b-l-u-b-b-e-r” to you uninitiated plebs) combined with his tight flight suit, produced for all the world the exact semblance of a fat sausage parked -with difficulty- vertically. Some wit nicknamed him “Banger” (as in Bangers/Sausages & Mash), and Banger’s annoyed protestations only assured the handle stuck. Permanently. Hey, you’re in EMS. They are cruel. Get used to it.
Now the same thing happened when ‘Banger’ navigated staircases, escalators, and -oddly- bar stools. It drew everybody’s attention. The pilots in the audience automatically computed the (major) weight & balance challenge. The ladies simply tittered. It wasn’t helped by Banger’s unfortunate habit of placing his hands under his (bulging) adipose tissue, and lifting his tummy up, on departure or arrival at his favorite LZ. To wit: the bar stool down at “Smokey Joe’s”. I’m serious.
Well, these scenes always reminded me of that beam in the eye business. Same issue. How do you walk around, and climb stairs, and get into your pyamas, with a beam in your eye?
The answer appears to be, if you observe Homo Sapiens at work and play, “quite easily”.
Which is a pity, if we fall into the trap of nit-picking everybody else’s splinter.
In the Choppy industry, we have our nit pickers, and we have our beams as well. How to tell ’em all apart? How to get along? For my part, if I feel aggrieved about somebody’s actions, words, or pontifications, in person or on the Web, I try (heck, I TRY) real hard to hit the PAUSE button, and reflect on the fact that what some might call “loquacious”, others might label “humbug”. That what I might think of as “helpful & well meaning”, others might regard as “trivial, bombastic and self-serving”. That’s not to say we anti-authoritarian and discretion-challenged bloggers should cower in a 100% politically correct, but also 100% bland and tasteless silence. Heaven forbid. Come now. Some pepper & jalapeno irreverently thrown in the apple pie mix can produce new flavors. And, doubtless, some heat. Like strawberry jam on your egg sandwich. Wanna try some Peanut Butter on your Bacon Buttie? Poke fun at Big Grab-a-Mint? Secretly stick a slightly mischievous… fender sticker on our (seriously conservative) Worship Captain Dalek’s Cadillac? As he sets off on his 200 mile drive home to Florida?

(the FURIOUS phone call afterwards…!!) (a whole new dimension to “spluttering indignation”) (how come he instantly knew it was ME?)

(“Dammit to hell, Moggy! Don’t EVER do that again! I had every weirdo and skinhead, and loopy-ass FREAK hanging out the window waving and cheering at me, cutting me up and honking like crazy, and there’s me in my uniform, with the company sticker on the back window, My Purple Heart and my Veteran’s plate, and I didn’t have a CLUE what the MERRY HELL was going on…”)

(Ho-hummm…) Winkthumbs

As a blogger, the sky is the limit. Even if it does fall on your head sometimes.
I also try real hard -before I open my squawk orifice- to reflect on the possibility that I’m about to try climbing up a steep stair case, with this massive big beam in my eye. Minus the mammary glands and the red high heels, thankfully, but still a challenge. And that I’m maybe blind to that beam, which isn’t too surprising, when you think about it.
The old optical nerve -between beams and mammary glands- is taking a pretty hefty hammering along the way…!

Fly safe, my friends, talk softly, and carry a big beam.

(no, that’s not quite right. Noooo I just mangled somebody’s adage. What did I mean? Heck, I don’t know…) Fly

Peace.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 11, 2015, 5:13 pm

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My new avatar – maybe

June 28, 2015 in Other Authors

MY NEW AVATAR? TO UPDATE THE PRO-FESS-ION-AL IMAGE A BIT?

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 28, 2015, 9:57 am

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Steps on my Road -Tunnel Out #18- If at first you don’t succeed…

June 26, 2015 in Steps on my Road – an Epidemic of Suicide

Tunnel Out #18 Speaking

If at first you don’t succeed…

YOU CAN ALWAYS BLOW UP ANOTHER ONE…!!! ClappingClappingClapping

I like to follow the antics of a certain guy, who is variously regarded as a visionary, a fruitcake, or a Professional Freeloader, gorging himself on hundreds of millions of dollars of Government and State happy handouts. What fascinates me is the audacity and the originality. From wanting to send a fully loaded greenhouse to Mars, (well, why not?), to wanting buy Russian Rockets off the Russians (well, you’d have a job buying them at the local flea market), to beating giants like Boeing and Lockheed at their own game (milking the nipples off the suffering tax payer, so many say), this character is blazing a path of mischief and destruction. I love it. We all have bad days, and BLOWING STUFF THE HELL UP must be a brilliant stress reliever.
Now you may well ask, why does this feature as “tunnel # 18” on a suicide prevention web page? What’s it got to do with choosing Life?
Everything, I maintain. Here, check out this video, and afterwards I’ll explain my reasoning for including this whammerooni “Oops!”

Cool, eh? Now I have included this video on the site today, Friday June 26th 2015, for the simple reason, that this quirky chappy is going to try it AGAIN this coming Sunday. And, frankly, there’s a whole bunch of us who can’t wait to see the next nail-biter. I’ll be watching it live, you can bet, sitting on the edge of my chair, uttering strange strangled noises, muttered invocations to the Almighty, and, generally, I shall be glued to my screen. Reason to live? Heck, yeah! And what ELSE is this Musk chappy going to entertain us with? You just KNOW he’s going to send that greenhouse to Mars, one day, and THAT I want to see. Tomatoes on Mars. Cucumbers and celery. The world’s on fire, but first things first, we gotta get that ripe melon to land softly beside the Face on Mars. Outstanding.

Stick around, folks, it’s gonna be another fun ride…

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 26, 2015, 3:09 pm

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Steps on my road -17- Forgiveness of Self

June 19, 2015 in Steps on my Road – an Epidemic of Suicide

www.stepsonmyroad.org

17) Forgiveness of Self

How hard are we on our selves? If a friend addressed us in the manner in which we address ourselves sometimes, how long would we keep that person as a friend? Why so harsh? Why do people who find it in themselves to be compassionate towards the Universe, compassionate towards others, why… do they sometimes find it so hard to extend even a modicum of that compassion towards themselves?

The old Triangle of Loves clearly indicates a triple focus. At the top, if you are a believer perhaps, then “The Love of God “. If that is troubling for you, as it is for many, then that apex can be simply “The Love of the Universe “. A reverence, an awe, for something so large, so old, so dynamic, that we little ones cannot hope to grasp much of it. Such love, or awe, or deep respect, such an admission of how little we know, can deservedly be enshrined at the top of the triangle. You don’t have to believe in ANY form of deity, ANY form of the supernatural, to still feel admiration, awe, empathy with the stars at night.

At the base, on the right, Love of Man. No matter how cruel he can be, how destructive, how sadistic, how short sighted, how ruinous of the fragile gift to Man that is our planet, he can also be a humanitarian, acutely aware of the Dark Side of Man, but nonetheless a staunch supporter and seeker of the Light. Surrounded by the cesspit of Man’s worst atrocities, many people have soared to the greatest heights. Persecuted, they nonetheless exhibited an unselfish love, that sought no reward. Pure love. Informed, wise, patient, not naive, not gullible, and not pointless.

But at the base, on the left…? Love of self?
I have watched people drive themselves in a manner that seemed cruelly at odds with their other two loves, amply demonstrated in their lives. Why? Why so intolerant of self, so angry with self, so self sarcastic and belittling?

Come now. A softer voice, a kinder voice, might (if given the chance) point out that there are reasons we are where and how we are. Surely, we had control over some of these shaping forces, but many other influences or driving nails of failure were such that we, understandably, humanly, were hard pressed to deal with them effectively. We are far from perfect creatures. To try and make ourselves out to be capable of so much more, if only we tried harder, seems often a recipe for a strange kind of treadmill. The torture wheel of a trapped hamster. Screaming silently in his head.

I read about suicides, and one University is rumored to have about one a week. These are not statistics that we will readily find published anywhere. No Institute of Higher Learning wants to be known or listed in the context of such a pitiful league table.

How many of these suicides of the young, the best, the brightest, are partly a result of lack of Gentleness with Self?

I don’t know the answer. I just ask the question…

go back to list of possible Stepping Stones Across? Fly

go back to Index? Smile

Last edited by admin on February 29, 2016, 5:40 am

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Of Helicopters and Humans (37) “Zen, and the art of Flight Instructing “

June 16, 2015 in Helicopters and Humans


My alternate uniform, a constant source of problems

Of Helicopters and Humans (37)

“Zen, and the Art of Flight Instructing “

First Published Feb 23, 2015 on the “Just Helicopters ” blog

Throughout History, both recorded, and (thankfully) not, men have chosen to instruct men. And women. And, (I hasten to be poli-tickle-ally correct) women too have instructed men. (and mostly bent them to their iron will). Thus, the Art of Instruction is nothing new. Nor, we might add, are the foibles of Masters and Instructors…

Whether it be pottery, laying tiles, calligraphy, computer graphics, Einstein’s Theory of how-it-all-works, or simply scrubbing the commode, men have lectured other men on how to do it properly. (And women) . It’s nothing new. Does it all work just hunky-dory?

Hmmm…

Ever looked at a Flight Instructor, maybe one working on your staff, and wondered? If maybe his head was about to fall off? It was getting that big? Ever been under the thumb of a Check Pilot or Examiner, and suppressed an almost irresistible urge to commit a career blemish? To wit, kick the SOB (Slightly Obtuse Buffoon) in the vital area? Unreasonable, sarcastic, belittling, nit-picking Sky God? I bet you have…

Some of the Eastern philosophies, notably Taoism and Buddhism, in my hopelessly biased view, have a unique way of pointing out age old truths, in a manner that we can easily grasp. If we make even a small effort to mold our brain path in a slightly different direction. Thus it is often said:

“Man glorifies the Way. The Way (the Tao) does not glorify Man.”

So what does that mean, you may ask, drily, one eyebrow raised sardonically. What ya been smokin’ Moggy? Um. Let’s paraphrase it.

If we simple men, in our latest incarnation, happen to become Flight Instructors or Check Airmen, then, frankly, we are real lucky. Put it this way, it’s just a whole lot better than that last gig. Remember vaguely pulling that damn rickshaw through the suburbs of Calcutta? All those lousy tippers? Fat, heavy, and endlessly demanding? Remember all those sticky cow poops? Yes, I bet you do. Bare foot and breathless. They say it’s hard at the top, eh? How about trying to sidestep-hurdle-tap dance-around the holy cow poops all day long!? Not easy.

So, having climbed the hierarchy, having reached dizzying heights of career defining brilliance, having achieved the uniform and the gold bars, that brass plaque on your desk, in the full knowledge that you are hellish ‘portant, and that people are in awe of you, what, pray tell, kind of chappie are you going to be? In your latest incarnation? Are you going to be a modest fellow, soft spoken, happy to point people in the right way? Are you going to share your joy of aviation? Will your eyes shine, when you talk about flying? Will you encourage, share the love, and adhere to the fundamental principles of flight instruction, as defined in that multi choice written test, you took long ago? You remember, don’t you? Positive reinforcement, avoiding the use of belittling sarcasm? Or are you going to be different? A nit-picking, unreasonable, emotional, sarcastic bully perhaps?

So I was Chief Flying Instructor a long time ago, and we taught helicopters and airplanes. I had all kinds of different instructors working there, and all kinds of different personalities. One of the nicest guys was an airline captain. Experience up the ying-yang, yet coupled to a soft spoken, cheery style of teaching. Very positive. He just did it in his off time, for the fun of it. All his students loved him, and I could see why.

We also had… other Instructor types. One young fellow had (until I fixed that) a strange disposition to (“accidentally”) try and make his students air sick. Especially the older ones. Then he would re-live the glory at the bar later, in full technicolor. I did sort that one out eventually, and the methodology used is described in another story. Then I had a new gentleman in his late twenties, heading for an airline career, building time. I’ll call him Aloysius. Now Aloysius wasn’t a bad chap at all, but he seemed often to get very exasperated. He seemed to always get the dumb students. The worst of the lot. The unteachable morons. The idiots who wanted to be spoon fed. Or so he said. I picked up on that apparent fact, as he would sit at the bar, and lament his fate. I also noticed he had a much higher student drop-out rate than the other instructors. And it was getting worse. So, in due course, after his first few days, I had him take a Cessna 172 SkyHawk for a training detail, instead of a Cessna 152. That meant I could quietly slip in the back. We occasionally swopped between the 152’s and the 172’s anyway, because we felt it gave the students a welcome change. Many seemed to get on better in the 172 as well.

So, off we went, for a session in the pattern. Training technique is similar-with-differences, so much of what I will describe below has equal applicability to both airplane and heli-whopper.

Aloysius’ mouth moved into gear almost from the git-go. A high gear. Lots, and lots of words. A continuous talking. A positive torrent of elocution. Damn, could that guy talk.

“Watch your airspeed!-you’re out of balance!-more power!-WHAT YOU DOING??- level the wings!-okay, turn around that tree onto the downwind!- you’re losing height!- watch the runway, you’re drifting in!”

I was getting dizzy just sitting in the back. It was a helluva rough ride. It got worse on finals. Much worse.

“You’re TOO HIGH!-watch your airspeed!- come back right!-MORE POWER!- watch the slip ball!-watch the airspeed!- HOLY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!- RAISE THE NOSE TO COVER THE HORIZON!- LESS POWER!- You’re TOO HIGH!- SLIPBALL!- Man, pay attention!-TOO LOW!- LESS POWER!” (aaaarrrgh…!!)

We landed with a controlled crash, very flat, and the front oleo seal doubtless got another testing.

I’d seen and heard enough. I had them pull over, and we swopped around. Aloysius in the back, me in the front. I grinned at the student. He looked pale, and nervous.

“Okido”, I said, “you’ve heard it all before! Take me ’round the pattern!”

There was silence on the intercom, as he laboriously taxied into position, forgetting his announcement.

“How ’bout that pink Jumbo Jet on short finals?”, I asked, feigning alarm.. He started: “WHAT!?”

“The Pink Jumbo Jet on short Finals”, I repeated, breathlessly.

“Oh!”, he said, “guess I forgot the radio call!”

I looked behind, ducked exaggeratedly, and said: “Phew! It’s okay! He just went around!”

(student laughs)

And off we went. I said very little. A bit wobbly, not too bad. He’s gripping the controls like the vice of Death.

“Relax on the controls, brother!” I get this non-comprehending stare.

“Here, let me show you!” I demonstrate holding the control column lightly, between thumb and two fingers. “Feel what she’s trying to tell you…” He tries it, and does better. I sense him relaxing.

By now, we are heading off over the horizon. “Um”, he remarks, “Should I turn cross wind?”

I look around, feigning puzzlement. “Heck, I don’t know. What do YOU think?”

I wear an expression of bewilderment. He laughs, and turns cross wind.

Soon we are downwind, climbing through some dizzying altitude. He doesn’t seem to realize it. Without saying anything, I start looking down, out of the window, eyebrows raised, and then I look at him. Then back out the window. He gets it. “Oh, I’m too high…!” And he adjusts.

Base leg. Finals. I say nothing. Nada. We are WAY too high. He doesn’t seem to notice it. I say nothing. The runway disappears under the nose. “Um”, he says, “I think we’re too high…!”

“Oh!”, I say. Trying to look past the nose. “Oh, dear! What do you think we should do??”

He initiates a go around, and we both fall about laughing. We try it again, and again. I remind him of the simple admonition: “Airspeed by Pitch, Glideslope by Power”. After that, silence on the intercom, a calm cockpit, and I let him work it out. I bid him give ME a running commentary of what HE is thinking.

This he does, fairly intelligently. He’s now flying the AIRPLANE, not the instructor’s MOUTH. Plus, he is having fun. FUN. Interesting concept. If he forgets a radio call, I start jumping around in my seat, squirming, looking out all the windows. He gets it. “Oh, it’s that pink Jumbo jet again!” Exactly.

If he’s too high or too low, I say nothing, but I look down and out the window, then I turn and look at him, then down and out the window. He starts laughing, and figures the glideslope out. Soon he is telling himself “Airspeed by pitch, glideslope by power”. Pretty quickly, he has the final approach nailed.

Calm cockpit, very little input from the Instructor. Hummmm…..

Next thing is to sort out the round out. “Raise the nose to cover the horizon”. Whoever dreamed that one up? It’s a recipe for chaos. Running out of airspeed at an unsafe height. I do it differently. Simple way. Simple fellow.

“Aim at airspeed 65 to 70 knots. But never, ever, go below 60 knots. Unless you’re right above the runway. Okay?”

“Okay”

Now we play the “explosive runway” game. The runway, I tell him, is wired with explosives. The moment we even touch a wheel, we’re gonna blow up. So the trick is to get as low and as slow as possible, six inches above the runway. But we mustn’t touch. Use power as required, but DO NOT LAND. Okay?

“Okay”.

The first pass is twenty feet, 75 knots. “Excellent!”, I say. “Try it again, a little lower, and a little slower”.

Next pass: 10 feet, 70 knots. “Excellent!”, I say. “try it again, a little lower, and a little slower.”

Calm cockpit. Very little talking. Banter. Fun. Hummmmm……

Pretty soon, he is in a nice nose up attitude, speed right, down to four feet. Now the fun begins again.

“Don’t let it land now! Don’t let it land! Remember, we’re GONNA BLOW UP!”

He applies a trickle more power as required, and we float all the way down the runway, four feet, nose up in a nice landing attitude, and he’s getting used to being there. Comfortable.

I tease him down. Lower, but DON’T LET IT LAND! He learns to play tunes on the stall warning. The stall warning JUST starts coming on, and he squeezes on just a bit of power… stall warning goes away. On…OFF… good control. I show him how, as the aircraft slows down, he will need more and more back pressure, to hold it off. But that he needs to be very cautious with FORWARD pressure on the control column, because the wing is already struggling to fly, and if you move the column abruptly forward, you are in effect, dumping much-needed lift. So it’s more a case of “relaxing the back pressure”.

“Oh!”, he says.

Eventually, there is a very soft “Screeech…” as the rubber briefly kisses the runway.

“BOOM!”, I say. “We just blew up!”

He laughs out loud. He’s figured it all out. We go around, and he starts acing the landings. One after the other. Aloysius has gone real quiet.

In the helicopter world, the same thinking technique applies. Rather than saying:

“You are too fast! ” or “you are too high!” or “You are WAY out of balance!” (implying: “Dumb ass!”) You could say: “Hmmmmmm……”

Meaning: “is this right?” And let the student figure out what isn’t right. The vital ingredient is that the student has fun, relaxes, learns, and flies the HELICOPTER, not the INSTRUCTOR’s MOUTH.

Autorotations can terrify students, if taught improperly. The way I do it, is to show the first few with a very GENTLE entry. Concentrate on showing them the needle split. The upcoming air flow driving the blades.

“Wow!”, they say. “Is that all there is to it? – Cool!” Now we have built up confidence in the machine, and the workings of Mother Nature. Gravity works. The flow of gases works. All sorts of forces work. Just fine. Happy? Cool! We LIKE happiness! Now, obviously, Bloggsy-baby, if the engine REALLY quits, we can’t just MILK down the collective, right? We would get that violent nose left yaw we talked about on the ground, right? Rotor RPM decaying rapidly, right? So then we’re gonna have to be more POSITIVE on the lever down, okay?

Okay, so we have now shown you four real gentle OLD FART auto rotation entries. Ready for a rapid one? Yes? Confidence is up, right? Cool! So now I’m going to demonstrate a normal kick-ass entry, exact same aerodynamic principles are at work here, but we’re pretending the engine really DID quit. Okay?

Happy? Cool! HERE-WE-GO!!! WHEEEE-EEEEE-EEEEEEE…!

THAT, to my, admittedly, simple mind is an example of” Zen, and the Art of Flight Instructing”.

Calm is good.

We instructors and Check Airmen merely humbly POINT OUT the way to what is fun, safe, interesting, enlightening. The “Way” does not point to US, instructors and check airmen. We do not bask in its light and glory. WE are nothing.

“Man glorifies the Way. The Way (the Tao) does not glorify man.”

Simple, really.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 16, 2015, 10:36 pm

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Moggy’s Tuna Boat Helicopter Manual

April 29, 2015 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters)

NOW AVAILABLE IN E-BOOK FORMAT CLICK HERE Fly

Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual

(excerpt from www.chopperstories.com or www.tunaboathelicopters.org)

(Note: maybe a little technical in places for the lay reader; where there is an “icon ” Laughing it’s probably readable even for the armchair pilots)

Click on any link
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual – Introduction
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual -Alternative Introduction – “An Ancient Chinese Poet “
Reading MTM?…Shhhhh! Keep it Quiet! Laughing
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual – Feedback
An Interesting Letter ref MTM – #001 – Jon Wagner
An interesting letter ref MTM – #002 – Richard Grills
An Interesting Letter ref MTM- # 003 -Jon Wagner
An Interesting Letter ref MTM – #004 Richard Grills
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.1-A “What’s it all about? – Finding Fish! ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.1-B “Skipjack, Yellowfin, Bigeye, Albacore, Bluefin ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.1-C “Foamers and Breezers ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.1-D “Radio buoys, Bird Radar, Dirty tricks and Sculduggery ” Yes
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.1-E “Herding, and the tow-line ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.2-A “Your job offer: legitimate questions ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.2-B “Your job offer: Pay? How Much and When?
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.2B-1 Potential Employers
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.2-C “Your Cabin and your room mate(s) ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.2-D “Other duties? Humping fish? ” Noooo
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.2-E “Food, food, glorious food! ” Shiny
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-A “Different techniques for landing ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-A Landing Video discussions
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-B “Wind, waves, and wild decks ” Steam
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-C “Take-Off “


A good take-off adds style – (sometimes)

Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-C Take-Off Video Discussions
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-D “Tie-downs and Blade Socks ” Steam
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-E “Runaway Blades ” Steam Steam
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch. 3-F “Herding (2) ” Clown
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-G “Descending to a Log “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-H “Attaching a Radio Buoy ”
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-H-1 “Drawings “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.3-I “Reducing speed quickly-Scrubbing “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual “A Word to the Wise “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.4-1 “The Long, Dark Tunnel “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.4-2 “Almost outta gas! “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.4-3 “Digital Select Calling “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.4-4 “Limitations and Failures “
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.4-5 “Hey! It sure is getting dark! “
Heads Up! “The 15 Most likely Scenarios for a Tuna Chopper Crash “ keep scrolling down, there’s more…Speaking


Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.5-1 “Observer Happiness Basics “

Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.5-2 “A bit of Theater ” Yes
Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.5-3 “Keeping your Captain Happy ” Laughing
Reading MTM?…Shhhhh! Keep it Quiet! Laughing
(to be continued – blog in progress)


Errr… nope, I haven’t called John yet…

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 29, 2015, 8:21 pm

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Of Helicopters and Humans (36 ) “Unpopular Decisions “

February 24, 2015 in Helicopters and Humans

Of Helicopters and Humans

Part 36: Unpopular Decisions

(First published on “Just Helicopters – Blog ” on Dec 7th, 2014)

It is impossible to please everybody all the time, and sometimes it is impossible to please somebody anytime. That’s life. Or the rolling decks of slippery Matrimony. You wanted to be a sailor, and see the world, right? Grin and bear it, son, you’re seeing the sea.

If you are a chopper jockey, and you want the world to love you unconditionally, you are in the wrong career. Try Politics. No real work experience required. If you get elected, good pay, great fringe benefits, Private Health Care System not available to the greasy Plebs who voted you in, and, above all, wildly enthusiastic groupie followers who will cheer your every word. They will worship you, and you can do no wrong. Their applause and adulation is a great tonic, and the roar of approval sweeps you along on the crest of the popular wave. There is a story told that Barack Obama once stopped the Royal Presidential Grand Pooh-bah motorcade outside a Burger King, on the way to the Golf Course, because he was hungry. All that speech making and teleprompter reading, damn, I’m sure it tires you out. Well, the Secret Service wouldn’t let him go in by himself, in case he got lost, so they went to go in, to place his order. He shouted out to them what he desired, but the crowd on the pavement thought he was making a speech. So they cheered and clapped and swooned and waved American flags. The President, frustrated, shouted again to the Secret Service, but he couldn’t make himself heard over the roar of approval from the ever swelling adoring populace on the sidewalk.

The next day, all the local newspapers and ‘Gliberal Media’ carried photos and headlines about Obama’s stirring impromptu speech outside Burger King. There were lots of photos of people cheering enthusiastically. Some were teary-eyed. If the truth be known, all he said was: “Two double Cheeseburgers and Fries, please… “, followed by:

“TWO DOUBLE CHEESBURGERS AND FRIES, DAMMIT…!”

But everybody clapped and swooned and thought it was wonderful, and all were so glad they voted for him – twice.

So that’s the career I recommend if you want unquestioning puppy love. In the choppy world, the real rotary world, not so lucky, I’m afraid.

Thus, one dark night, I was comfortably tucked up in bed with my Teddy Bear, fast asleep, and I got called out. I was flying for the Sheriff’s Office, and I was told there was a serious emergency, and they needed the helicopter. Sure, I’m on my way. I did my usual rapid dressing, recovered expertly from two limbs down one trouser pant leg, and comforted the cat after standing on her tail. Oh, and apologized to Mama for elbowing her in the eye.

Soon I was racing through darkness to the hangar, where I found two of the Patrol Sergeants waiting impatiently. Agitated. We launched quickly, and the issue at hand was this: a head on car crash, somewhere, out there in the desert darkness, with several children ejected out through the wind screen. No seat belts. Problem was, they were on a dirt road somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, and the Fire Department couldn’t locate them. Meanwhile, the frantic 9-1-1 calls kept coming in.

It was a dark night. Really, really dark. Low overcast, no moon, no stars. We had already applied for a so-called COPS grant for Anvis 9 NVG’s, but they were still a far-off dream. This was still Mark One (sleepy) Eyeball. I tried to inquire what kind of area we were going to be searching in. It was a really large county. The two sergeants, one of whom had a large family of young ones himself, were focused on finding, not flying. Tunnel vision. I tried to drop a hint that this might just not work out. Zero response. With misgivings, I flew along in the general direction. It was all right at the start: city lights, street lights, good orientation. I had a respectable amount of night flying under my belt, including in mountainous areas, and I searched in vain for some kind of natural lighting. Nothing. That damn overcast. Soon we left the town behind us, and now it started to get harder. And harder. At first, there was the odd house, with maybe a security light. But eventually, and fairly abruptly, I was faced with… nothing. Black. A void. Zero surface references.

I turned around.

“Sorry guys, this is not going to work. No ambient light…”

Instant eruption. Two emotional passengers. All sorts of classic EMS pilot-challenge comments:

“We have GOT to get there!”

“We have no choice – we HAVE to find them!”

Somewhat tougher in mindset than I perhaps sound, my silent thoughts were ice cold:

“Yes, we DO have a choice, and I’m NOT going there…”

I had by now turned back towards the distant city lights. To humor them, I turned back on course, towards Zero Dark Thirty, and, with no intention of pressing on, I explained, nicely but firmly, that I could not safely fly due to the lack of any visual references. “And”, I ended up, “I don’t know what’s out there. Hills, mountains, wires, God knows…”

To this, one of the Sergeants angrily interjected: “Well, I KNOW that area! It’s flat land!”

I kept the cool. I wasn’t pleased, but now was the time to show reasonable, not irritable.

“Well, that’s fine, I believe you, but I can’t just blast on and take your word for it. I need to be able to ascertain that for myself, to be safe, and I can’t. So, I’m sorry, but we are turning back…”

And I did. Temperature in the helicopter: Minus two hundred and forty Kelvin.

Tough titty… Yawn

“Well”, they said, in total exasperation, “there’s a Fire Station three miles West of here. Can you get us there???” The intonation of the question seemed to imply severe lack of faith in my brain, judgment and skill power

I said I thought I could. They got on their radio, and in short order we had the offer of one of their vehicles to continue the journey by road.

We landed there safely, and I wondered if they would even wait for me to cool down the engine, or if they would just blast off and leave that useless excuse for a Pilot behind. But no, they waited for me, irritably, and I ended up packed in the back amongst Fire Department equipment, like so much obsolete baggage. Off we sped through the darkness, tires squealing, to continue the search by road. I made myself as comfortable as I could, sighed philosophically, and decided that seeing as I was not the flavor of the day/night, and not being involved in any way in their conversation, perhaps I might get some sleep. I was just dozing off, not easy when you are hitting every bump and rut in Creation, when my attention was drawn to a comment from the front. One of the dark shapes, peering out the side window, was saying to the other dark shape:

“Well, I’m surprised. It’s quite mountainous here, isn’t it?”

Mountainous?? Hey, buddy! I thought it was supposed to be FLATLAND. Speaking
I peered out the window myself, and with great difficulty I could just about make out some decidedly NON-FLAT, vertically undefined, remarkably CRAGGY shapes. With indistinct tops.

I was sorely tempted to open my uncouth, undiplomatic, irreverent, Irish cake hole. Several comments rose to my lips. Pungent. Biting. Venomenous. How nice it would have been to vent. But my dear old Irish mother used to tell me to count to ten. I tried. I think it took me to seven hundred and forty-something. But I kept it buttoned. With difficulty. My mindset was kind of the mental equivalent of arms-folded, foot tapping, hard -eyed, blood-spitting indignation. But now was not the time.

Later.

Then, finally, in the distance, we saw blue flashy lights. The State troopers had gotten there first, and were guiding everybody in. They had also called for an EMS helicopter.

“I hope he’s got NVG’s”, was all I could think.

It took us a while, but we got there. Somebody yelled at us:

“Do you guys have your pilot with you?”

“Yes?”

A Medic came running over to me, thrusting a radio into my hand.

“Quick! He wants you to talk him down!”

“What!? Who!?”

“The Pilot! The EMS Bird! There he is!”

I looked up, and there, high above us, and (hopefully) well above the unseen mountain tops, came the EMS helicopter. He started an orbit, presumably focused on the blue lights, far, far below.

I was dumbfounded. “What do you mean, he wants me to TALK HIM DOWN? It’s pitch black out here. Doesn’t he have NVG’s?”

Apparently the aviator over our heads did not. I stared from the agitated (breathless) Medic’s face to the circling helicopter, high above, and back again. Everybody was looking at me. Eventually, I found my voice:

“No! In fact, HELL NO! I have NO CLUE what’s out here. I can’t see Jack. NO! I’m not taking responsibility for that. No way!”

Minus Two hundred and forty Kelvin. For the second time that night. It just wasn’t my night to feel the love. Disgusted, the Medic stomped away. He communicated to the EMS Captain that the Sheriff’s Pilot was refusing to talk to him. (Lead Balloon). Then…

It took them at least ten minutes. An extraordinary approach. The EMS bird parked as best as he could vertically overhead. Zero airspeed, I’m sure. And then, very slowly, he just let on down…

Down into the Black Hole.

“You’re going West a bit… come back East…”

The helicopter slowly responded, as best he could. Lights wobbling. Unstable.

“You’re about a mile South of us now… Come North a bit…”

The helicopter slowly responded, as best he could. Lights wobbling. Unstable.

“Hold it. Hold it… you’re drifting way too far South-East…no, South WEST I mean…”

I held my breath. You could tell by the abrupt, jerking movements in the search light beam, that some of the pitch inputs were hurried or rough. Not surprising. Coming down from a great height with zero airspeed?? Wobble-wobble?? And what’s your rate of descent? How far do you know you are from the mountain tops? Especially drifting off “South-east… no, South-WEST I mean…”??

Awesome. I wouldn’t want to do that in a fit. What happens if something QUITS?? What are you going to do NOW, Gunga-Ding? No airspeed, no visibility, no clue what’s below you… Engine failure, tail rotor failure, settling with power, etc, etc…??

He made it. Patients got loaded. Off he went. Everybody happy. Outstanding team work, guys. Except for that sorry-ass Sheriff’s Office Pilot.

* * * * *

So you’ll see my point maybe. If it’s love you want, unconditional applause, maybe the Nobel Peace Prize, then you must invest in a good teleprompter, and a good make up artist. Next step is to get somebody to secretly write your autobiography for you. Finally make sure you learn how to bow deeply from the waist. It pleases real Kings.

Above all else, do NOT go in to helicopters.

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 24, 2015, 9:07 am

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Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual Ch.5-4 “Packing your Bags “

February 6, 2015 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters)

Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual

Ch.5-4 2/2/2015

“Packing your bags for the Tuna Fields”

A cheerful morning ramble to include some simple thoughts on “Packing your bags for the Tuna Fields”

1) Moggy’s Muddlings
2) Human Relations
3) Mindset, and middle digits
4) “instant walls”

1) Moggy’s Muddlings

It’s a quiet early morning here on the lake shores of Toledo Bend, Texas.
Yummy. Yawn. Another awesome day. A chance to cause chaos and confusion, chin-wag with interesting total strangers, tick off the Haughty Ones, especially the many self-elevated Sky Gods, scribble more outrageous Moggy Bloggings, and pollute Polite Society. Stir the… brain porridge.
Poor old Cyberspace. Wide open, sunlit fields. Unlimited potential for Light. Littered. With trash.
As I look out the window over the distant waters, soft music plays quietly in the background. The sun is still a good half hour away, and I see just the first few playful rays, probing the silent, dark, terminally confused world of Moggy.
Errr… The confused world of MAN, I meant. I shiver, sipping a hot coffee. Nonetheless, I am eager to get going.

Another Moggy on the roll…?

I have recently enjoyed another bunch of interesting emails from some MTM and ‘Chopperstories’ readers, and that’s always fun. I really enjoy you guys enjoying the mad ramblings. ‘Cos I enjoy rambling on. And on. Keep the emails coming. It’s a good stimulus. Writers get lazy sometimes. As for low-life bloggers like me, the head-shaking scum of the earth… if they’re not scraping foot rests on big old motorcycles, they’re off somewhere yapping away enjoyably with total strangers. Those bums definitely need a kick up the derriere to return to the tortured coffee-stained keyboard…
I have this funky thought funkey-ing and composting in my mind, you see. It’s like an itch. A cerebral rash, that won’t go away until the laptop is opened, the lights glow on, the two fingers start excitedly tapping, the coffee starts working, and a theme starts roughly taking shape in my well abused brain cortex. Frontal lobe. Anterior scribble area. Heck, I don’t know where it all starts. Just an urge to blog something out of my head. A hunger to wander the hills of Ireland. And watch the sun come up. And listen to the silence. Savor it.

You can do that as a blogger, you see. You can go everywhere and anywhere you like, in your (tiny) little mind. You can float back, in almost a meditative trance, to a rocky cliff top on the West coast of Old Ireland, and see the ferns blowing in the Atlantic breeze, the rain dumping incessantly on the distant Blasket Islands. You can feel the gale force wind tugging at your wet anorak. You can hear the seagulls, and the dark, deep, thundering roar of waves obliterating themselves against the headland. You can still see that little bird, that brave little heart, that you described in one of your favorite stories, struggling against overwhelming odds, across storm tossed waters, to come ashore. Or, if the fancy takes you, you can go back to the Tuna Fields, and still see the far distant horizon. You can still fly a slow circle, at two thousand feet, in your beloved Hughes 500 ‘C’ model, and realize you are alone. Totally… alone. Not a boat, island, oil platform, or a soul in sight. Only Ocean. And Sun. Light. Adventure. Searching. Ah! For what…?
And you can also reflect back on the personalities you met. Some are dead now. Long dead. You can still hear, and see, kindness mixing it with harshness. Respect duking it out with contempt. Arrogance and condescension. Futile exercises in outreach, where the effort to establish a human bond was -hopelessly- stillborn. A waste of time. Contempt. Only contempt. You know you are wasting your time. Pity. Another failure in the matrix of human compassion. A stitch gone wrong in the fabric of kindness. Go back nine, Moggy.
Oh, well…
Hey-ho…
I enjoy, in a very simple way, the fact that some people enjoy my scribbles. I don’t think it’s vanity. I just have these two regular readers, (Lucy joined a Convent – pity) (I’m on the blacklist in the nuns’ library) (that debauched love session on the Sugarloaf, I believe) and I just get a big reward from their enjoyment. I get some super nice emails, and even (hard to believe) requests for more of the Moggy Musings. Editor Lyn Burk (of ‘Just Helicopters’ and ‘Rotorcraft Pro’ fame) recently asked me to write for his website. If you go to the ‘Just Helicopters’ opening page, and look top right, you will see “Blog”, and if you venture there, you’ll see more of what Lyn and Lynette decided would be called…

“Moggy’s Musings”.

Not my idea. But I admit I laughed out loud when I saw it. My first mischievous thought was that, perhaps…

“Moggy’s Muddlings”

…would have been a better title, myself. Anyway, so far there are six stories up there, which is kinda cool, and I found myself staring in amazement at a Just Helicopters check for $500 the other day. Must have been a mistake. Maybe it’s a contribution towards Psychiatric Remedial Therapy. A gentle hint I should go see a white coated Quack, and quit barking at black cats in public, or sumthin’. Well, heck, piffle and blarney, I spent it on motorcycle tires, so there! Tough titty. I’d scrubbed the last pair to hell and back (Honda VTX1300R) (Black, baby, black…) (Vance and Hines exhausts… yummy!) and I was urgently due for a new pair of rubbers. No, tires. (Not those rubbers, dammit.) (you have a scruffy mind…) Oh, maybe the next check he sends could buy new footrests. I’ve scraped them to hell and back, as well. Taking 45 mph curves at 95 tends to do that.

2) Human Relations

I sip more coffee, and I find I’m grinning. Must be a sign of incipient senile decay, but I derive quiet amusement from all sorts of things. People, the world, politicians, myself. Oh, and Hillary-come-worship-at-my-feet-Clinton. Not to mention Barack-I’m-so-full-of-it-Oh-BAAAAHHH-MA. Constant entertainment. How serious people can take themselves. The pathological need for applause. Adulation. Same-same from noisy ‘Tuna Head’ bars in the back streets of Honiara, to the hallowed (maybe) corridors of Power in Washington. Big Ego needs mucho stroking. When a mite of humility might just be a blessing. The admission that maybe, just maybe, we DON’T, as the Scots say, “ken it all”. We may in fact, “ken” very little.
Incoming emails. Some super nice emails. This time from some young guys in New Zealand. One from Panama. For some reason, I have a lot of derelict, psychopathically unstable, readers in New Zealand. Well, they read my stuff, don’t they? What does that say about their I.Q.? (Tisk, tisk.) But I enjoy it. That’s the reward, you see. People enjoying the scribbles. The Moggy Muddlings. That’s the bit I like. Make people smile. Chuckle. That’s the real reward. Being published one day… nice maybe, but peripheral. Getting a check for $500… nice, but not motivational. Then again, a Harley Road King would be… now, now. That would be extravagant. Dream on. Not gonna happen. Not even a white one. With a Mustang seat. And Air Horns. Unless Harley Davidson would lend me one, in return for Bloggings? And fund me a ride to Peru? Go visit the Incas? Eh?
Seriously, Mogster. You’re wandering. Playing. Get with it. There IS a theme here.
I know…

A Timeless Expression of…?

Okay, seriously now. (kind of…)

3) Mindset

People have often asked me this question:
“what should I take with me on my first Tuna Helicopter flying job?”
I have had that question asked dozens of times. I’ve never properly addressed it. Recently I had two super nice emails from two young Kiwis, days apart, and it seemed time to try and deal with that question. So let me try and give that recurrent question my best shot.
(“FORE…!!”)
WHAT SHOULD I TAKE WITH ME ON MY FIRST TUNA HELICOPTER FLYING JOB…??
*** Long life milk (you can store outside a fridge). Lots of.
*** Cereals. (hard to buy in many ports)
*** Books. Lotsa books. Buddhist poetry. Moggy’s Muddlings. (Oh, maybe not…)
***Helmet. Definitely. I wore one. Loved it. Expensive. Employers should provide, (my current one does, flying EMS here in Texas) but the Tuna Cotton Mill Operatives worship only the buck, not your safety. So they don’t. And remember, don’t read “Moggy’s Tuna Manual”. Or admit to it. It’s frowned upon. Makes some of ’em spit blood. Hits too close to the bone, maybe?
Just remember one thing: A buddy of mine will tell you from experience (he crashed and rolled over) that the helmet can kill you. If you try and egress, and your forget your headset, chances are it will fall/slide off. If you try an emergency underwater egress, and you FORGET to unplug your HELMET CABLE, I guarantee you will discover Religion very quickly. That attached helmet cable damn near drowned him. Until he figured out what was going on. I am one hundred and ten per cent positive that forgotten helmet cables HAVE caused pilot drownings. Another reason for a “Spare Air” scuba bottle. Sure, “they” can call you a cissy. Yo! I’d rather be a live cissy, than a dead hero. A live chicken, than a dead duck. I can tell you about lots and lots of dead heroes. Including ones who had previously mocked me in backstreet ‘Tuna Head’ bars for trying to tell ’em they were gonna get hurt.
“Ah, Moggy, you’re getting too old for this shit. You need to retire, man!” (loud, drunken laughter in the bar, from his noisy cohorts) (tough men) (bullet proof) (shark proof) (stupid).
Moggy shrugged…
(circular mental ‘middle digit’ wafts in the air… upwards motion…)
(Guess what? Uh-huh. Twenty plus years later, Moggy el Chicken Cissy rides on. Flies on. Still breathing…) (and talking) (and scraping foot rests). Lock up your daughters!
***Life jacket. I would play it safe. Take my own. New, serviced, good shape. I’ve seen “life jackets” provided that I wouldn’t trust a Pot Bellied Pig to be safe in, sleeping, riding a flat bottomed canoe. On my local pond. With the ducks.
***Scuba Spare Air bottle. Provided: you do at least a basic Open water Scuba certification, so you KNOW in a panic even, you WILL use the blessed thing. You can get yourself hurt bad trying to use a scuba bottle without training. Mess up your lungs if you don’t know how to exhale during the ascent.
***personal ELT, as cheap as they are today, I think should be provided by the employer. They don’t. In true, cynical fashion, one of my readers (who took one) was treated like he was an idiot, when he asked for his ship’s telephone number. (so an ELT alert would be communicated to his ship, including Lat and Long of downed pilot & crew) They wouldn’t give it to him. They said, haughtily and condescendingly: “What’s your problem? Nobody wears an ELT!! The boat knows where you are!!”
“You must have been reading Moggy’s Bullshit!”
No, they often don’t. They don’t have a clue. Even if they have (in theory) the technology on the bridge, in theory, in practice it might be the junior-junior guy on duty, who hardly speaks English and who is petrified to touch too many buttons. El Capitano is sleeping in his cabin. And Junior sure as hell doesn’t want to make the Monster up! You can MAYDAY-MAYDAY-MAYDAY all you like, he’s gonna think you’re singing an Aussie beer drinking ditty. And if you are 50 to 60 miles away, the boat is at least five hours plus hard running away. In rough seas, a lot more. If you are in the water, in that time you will have drifted for miles and miles. And miles. No worries, the sharks will keep you in company.
Get my “drift”???
(I know, terrible joke)
But in true tradition of worshiping the Mighty Buck, and to hell with these expendable sub-contractor pilots, some employers basically don’t give a rat’s. (“Next!!”) They might be all charming on the outside, until you sign up, but underneath… it’s all about the Mighty Dollar.
(“You must have been reading Moggy’s Bullshit!”)
All the above is good stuff to pack in your bags, and, understandably, that’s the sort of stuff newbie sprat Anchovy Heads tend to focus on.
But, Amigo. But. Most importantly… You know what I would pack? Seriously? In gallons, pounds, and Hecto-Pascals?
*** Mindset.
***Mindset.
And, definitely…
***Mindset.
What?
Yep, “mindset.”
What do I mean by that?
What you take in terms of equipment is something you will pick up as you go along. Not a huge biggie. I would be thrilled if you told me you had taken the trouble to read Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual” (MTM), and maybe “Blip on the Radar”, and even more happy if I knew you thought it interesting. It can’t all be wrong, and there might even be a flicker of light in there, eh? (Just keep it quiet. Don’t advertise the fact you’ve ‘read Moggy’. The Sky Gods, the Loud Ones, they don’t like competition/criticism approaching their holy self-elevated altar, you know. Just pretend to worship at their holy tabernacle…

“When I grow up as a pilot, can I be as haughty and condescending as you, Sir? “

…and then do your own quiet -cautious- decision making.)
But the most important thing?
***Mindset.
You see, flying helicopters in general, to include flying ’em off tuna boats, or being a mechanic on a tuna boat, is like a cup of tea. A Thinking Man’s Game. Or, served in a rice bowl, it’s like a bowl of tea. It’s all in how you make it.
I’m always -really- disappointed when I read in emails (I’m francismeyrick@yahoo.com) how certain people in certain places habitually dish out this type of admonition:

“They’re all a bunch of monkeys, basically. The Chinese, the Koreans, the Philippinos, the Indonesians, they are useless piles of crap. The quicker you realize that they are sub-human, ignorant, and totally stupid, the better it will be for you. Just go out there, make the money, don’t take any shit of anybody, stand your ground, and you’ll be alright…”

Wow. People say that? Yes, people say that. A lot. Or imply it, with their actions. It’s common. I know a “Chief Pilot” who habitually hands out that deep and meaningful philosophical learning. Do people ACT on that advice/ take that seriously? Yes, impressionable people act on that advice, and take it seriously. All the time. It’s not good…
Whole libraries have been written about psychology, human relations, the dynamics of personality and group leadership. It would be presumptuous for me to portray myself in any way as an expert. I’m barely competent to stand trial in the appeal court in Heaven, never mind wax forth knowledgeably about… a bunch of monkeys. Nonetheless, with apologies in advance, let me try and suggest a ***mindset*** for you to take with you, if you are a “First tripper”, or a sprat “Anchovy Head”…

4) “Instant Walls”

People are… people. Humans are… well, human. What you are confronted with, very often, is a legacy of past experiences, trials and tribulations, carried forward to today. The man you meet may be carrying many monkeys on his shoulders. He may be… awesomely biased.
Time and time again in Life, including my five years on tuna boats, I have encountered “instant walls”.
Borderline, instant “hostility”. It’s called, technically, “prejudice”. But no mind, how does it manifest itself? Well, here’s an example. I had learned one of the first of many hundreds of Chinese words, and it was “Hello!”. “Nee-how”, if I remember correctly. So, I was on my first boat, causing unintentional chaos, (something to do with a refuse barrel) and this assistant engineer wore this permanent scowl. Boy, can these Chinese scowl! They must invest a lot of muscle effort. Smiling takes a whole lot less muscle power, they say. This guy was ALWAYS pissed orf with everything and everybody. Most of the crew that I would greet with my elementary Chinese would smile, and reply.
“Hello!”
“Moggy! Hello! Nee-how!”
Hey, now we’re buddies. They would learn some more English. I would learn some more Chinese. Frickin’ hilarious. Endless stories. We got along like a house on fire. Lots of joking. But the second engineer? He wanted none of it. Scowl. Scowl. Scowl. I kept trying. I was always pleasant. The later incident in the toilets, truthfully described elsewhere, was terrible unfortunate, but totally accidental.
“Hello!”, I would say, as I passed Number two Engineer.
Scowl. Silence.
I would look at the bystanders, quizzically. They would look at me. I don’t think they liked him much either. I would try again, eyebrows raised, questioningly.
“Hello…?” “Nee-how…?”
Scowl. Silence.
Titters of amusement from the other crew. Slight helpless shrug of shoulders from Moggy. Hey, I’m trying!
But what does that communicate to the others? Humanity. Just trying to be pleasant. Not taking offense. Light heartedness.
Who knows… what a guy like that has been through? Sure, he may be a certifiable ass-hole, with no hope or redeeming qualities. There are plenty of those about. Plenty. But he may also be a guy who is carrying a whole bunch of monkeys around on his shoulders. You just don’t know.
I talk to everybody. At Fourchon base, in Louisiana, some poor fellow came in to clean the toilets. Older gentleman. Seventy years old. New hand. He -shyly- had to ask us pilots where said toilets were. I picked up on a French accent. “Parlez-vous Francais?” I asked. His face lit up. Beaming. Two hours later, after a fascinating and animated (much arm waving) conversation in French (he told me how they had lived in the last settlement on a barrier island, before rising sea level and a hurricane forced them to abandon their old way of life) the old boy had to excuse himself. He had some toilets to clean. Those messy pilots are lousy shots. “Sure!”, I said, having really enjoyed myself. I went back to my book. Some of my fellow pilots spoke up.
“Francis…!”
“Uh-huh…?”

“We were just saying amongst ourselves… you are the ONLY guy we know who can have an animated two hour conversation with the guy who is trying to clean the toilets!”

There was a strong hint of disapproval. Maybe I was talking below my presumed status…
I laughed. “Don’t be like that! The guy was fascinating…!” And I proceeded to translate some of the old boy’s life story.
Dazed looks. Head shaking. Amusement.
I talk to everybody. Everybody has a story. I intensely enjoy solitude. A quiet morning, with the early sun beginning to sneak in over the Sabine National Forest tree tops. And I intensely enjoy conversation. Crowded places, like crowded bars, I hate. I go quiet. Too much talking. Not enough listening. Everybody focused on holding forth, strutting, expressing themselves, making out how good and knowledgeable and brilliant they are. Twenty four pilots in a bar, and twenty-three of them talking, loudly, all at the same time…?? Is anybody l-i-s-t-e-n-i-n-g? Not my cup of tea. I like to talk, and I like to listen… to people, or the wind, sighing through the pines.
Caution: People pick up on your mindset. If you hold people in contempt in your mind, try as you might, you can’t hide it. People will know. And why should you? Who are you? Really? Better? Are you sure?

I was flying in Africa. We had local -National- Pilots, who flew as First Officers. American Captains. Oh, and one dysfunctional Irishman. Some of the American Captains were great. A few were highly condescending towards the locals, and they didn’t bother to hide it. It led to animosity and entrenched. Put it this way, if your last name is “Semen” and your nickname is “Steaming”, it might just be a hint that not everybody loves you? A hint? Not that Universal Love is ever achievable. You’ll always tick somebody off. But we oughta try? It took me a while. When you first walk over to a bench which is an entirely occupied by a sea of black faces, scowling darkly, and you say “Hi!” and plonk your butt down, and start yapping as if it’s all in a day’s routine normality… well, it raises eyebrows. Conversation is strained, superficial, polite. They wish you would go away. But if you persist, chat-chatting away, after a few weeks, it’s a normality. “Here comes Moggy!”. “Got any spare ear plugs?”
Thus we soon got along like a house on fire. I speak French, (and German) (and Dutch) (and American) (and Moggy-bullshit, apparently) and we could gab away in a language not understood by my fellow pilots, and pass irreverent jokes about John Wayne and ‘pregger’ American Hamburger bellies. As they strutted (or waggled) past, nose in the air, looking slightly ridiculous, not paying us low-life giggling dudes any attention. In juvenile fashion, we passed off really crude jokes, falling around laughing.
There came a day we had a conversation, that mimicked, almost word for word, conversations I had been part of elsewhere in the world. Including, on tuna boats.
“Ah, Moggy!” (smiles)
“What’s up, you funky AAAAAh-freak-AAAAh guys?”
“Ah, Moggy, sit down!”
And I would sit down, and we would banter, and Bee Ess, and pass around the latest gossip. Then:
“Moggy, you okay! We like you! Some American pilot we not like. But you, crazy Irish man, you okay!”
“Well, that’s good. I like you too! Will you lend me fifty dollar?”
(laughter)
“Fuck off, Moggy!”
“See? See? See how you are…?”
Etcetera, etcetera.
Mother Nature -all Our Mother – is awesomely beautiful. We, her children, should revere her, and respect her many children. They come from widely different backgrounds, cultures, and are blessed with all kinds of gifts, talents, and varying degrees of tolerance and compassion. Some are more heavily burdened than others with hatred, bitterness, contempt, pride, prejudice, or a cruel and predatory outlook on their fellow creatures.
(photo of blue earth)
Now the trick is to tell ’em apart. One day, when I’ve figured that one out, I’ll let you know the technique. Uh-huh…
Meanwhile…
The most important item to pack for your first trip on a Tuna Boat? Seriously?
***Mindset***. Open mind. Speak softly. Be slow to judge. Reach out.

“They’re all a bunch of monkeys, basically. The Chinese, the Koreans, the Philippinos, the Indonesians, they are useless piles of crap. The quicker you realize that they are sub-human, ignorant, and totally stupid, the better it will be for you. Just go out there, make the money, don’t take any shit of anybody, stand your ground, and you’ll be alright…”

The “Chief Pilot” who is famous for regularly imparting that advice to his new recruits…
…and (some) of his obsequiously loyal (loud) suck-up devotee lootenants in the Tuna Fields…
I pity their hearts’ blindness.
That speaks of a stunning poverty of the spirit.
* * * * *

In Conclusion:
Adventure calls! All sorts of funky people out there. If you like to laugh? Go explore the world, fly helicopters off Tuna Boats, keep the spinny side up, meet strange people, see strange places.
Respect your fellow Man. Respect Nature. Nature is “All Our Mother”. Threatened and fragile. But, oh, so beautiful. Write Your Own Life’s Manual.
If you are well educated (many Tuna Heads are!), don’t look down or sneer at those less fortunate.
If you are poorly educated, and have maybe suffered grievous humiliation in the past on account of that fact, don’t therefore carry forward a chip on your shoulder. Trust me, (and lend me fifty bucks?), the world is full of academic morons and intellectual imbeciles. Give me the good hearted ditch digger, the cheerful truck driver, the conscientious toilet cleaner, for company on a castaway desert island. Keep your brilliant (but cynical) walking Brain Box. How many times have you met people who are academically and intellectually brilliant, emotionally immature, and spiritually DEAD…?

To any new Tuna Pilot, to any new sprat “Anchovy Head”, I would say, simply:
“Awesome! Be careful! Remember that little amber caution light! Rock on, laddie! Take an open mind! Crank up the volume! Never quit…”
“Drop me an email, and let me know how it works out!”
Fly Safe & Peace.

Mogster


Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 15, 2015, 11:28 am

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Tunnel #15 – One Step beyond the Greatest Failure

December 24, 2014 in Steps on my Road – an Epidemic of Suicide

Tunnel #15 One step beyond the greatest failure

Those who contemplate suicide, in essence contemplate giving up.
The two saddest words in the English language are: “if only…”
Survivors, those left behind, like myself, can only marvel at the waste of opportunity.
Indeed, if only…

If you think again about the stepping stone entitled “The wood cried out to the chisel”, and you mix that thought with this current tunnel, you will maybe see the point I’m trying to make:

Life at times gives us hell. But that hell carves out great reservoirs of understanding, the ability (if we so choose) to exercise understanding and compassion. Can you really understand pain if you have never been there? Can you really understand loneliness if you have never been there? Can you really understand injustice, if you have never been played like a pawn by a corrupt legal system?

It’s hard to welcome hell. But you know, it’s definitely character building stuff. It’s only with the benefit of hindsight, that we slowly start realizing that the chisel shaped us (painfully) into what we are now. It is only with the benefit of hindsight, that we slowly realize that our greatest success was born out of abject failure, misery and loneliness. Our strengths were forged in the fire.

go back to list of possible Tunnels Out? Fly

go back to Index? Smile

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 24, 2014, 7:40 pm

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Tunnel 17 – Being hard on yourself again?

December 24, 2014 in Steps on my Road – an Epidemic of Suicide

Tunnel #17 Being Hard on yourself again?

Everybody probably does it at some time. But the artistic, feeling amongst us… we’re the worst for descending into a self judging morass. It gets worse, and worse.
Me, bad.
Me, very bad.
Me, very-very-very bad.

Like the image of the greenhouse (tunnel # 11), the shutters of the soul go up. Light can’t get in any more. Input dies. That tiny little cubicle of darkness, that cold cell of self destructive introspective judgmentalism, becomes the world. Becomes everything. What looms large in that tiny cell, IS now the world. It IS Reality. Everything looms large. Things get ugly, fast.
Here’s a thought that maybe addresses that:

And again:

I have a feeling this area is very overlooked by seriously depressed people. Their sense of self worth is biased.
Upbringing, culture, peer pressure, life experiences… it all goes into it.

go back to list of possible Tunnels Out? Fly

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 24, 2014, 7:01 pm

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