Posted 4 years 286 days ago ago by FrancisMeyrick 3 Comments
That which biteth helicopter pilots in the butteth
To the novice, the learner pilot, the new Commercial Helicopter jockey, that which he (or she) (or it) regards as “bad” is indeed really, really bad. What does a student or low-time pilot worry about? Let’s see. Engine failure? Hydraulics seizure? Running out of power crossing high voltage lines? Fire. Explosion. Earth quake? Training bills? Rotor blades falling off...??
Sure, that’s all “not good”. Even, all bad. Very bad. As you are learning to hover, or the art of flying straight-and-level, you can be forgiven for thinking that such nightmarish cataclysms define your future aviator humanity. As the Chinese I worked with would say:
“POOH-how!” Very, very bad.
(Screwing with the Holy Religious Ceremony. Described elsewhere. Developing entirely novel ways of flushing the shitter. Described elsewhere. Very bloody “pooh-how”….)
But here’s a funny thing: ask the old timers. Ask the Vietnam vets (being measured up for wheel chairs), ask the forty year plus chopper jockeys, ask the wrinkly old rickshaw pullers, this one simple question:
“What, pray, are the things that tend to bite choppy pilots on the nether cushion?”
And you might be surprised at the answer. I bet you a lot of them will say, simply:
“The little stuff”.
As I reflect on this, my diseased mind scopes back (haltingly, like a Walmart check out queue on Holy Food Stamp day) over many decades of being around helicopter (and hairplane) catastrophes, career terminating indiscretions, and any number of red faces of fellow helicopter brothers. And, indeed, I see the truth. It’s the little stuff. Believe me. Don’t worry about engine failures, hydraulic seizures, saying bye-bye to your left rotor blade, and sundry other ghastly mechanical outrages. Brother, worry about the little stuff.
In “Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual” ( www.moggystunaboathelicoptermanual.com) some derelict hobo named Foggy tried hard to caution newcomers to the world wide Tuna Flying business about the unfortunate and frequently fatal consequences of trying to take off whilst still attached (via the famous right rear tie-down strap) to 1200 tons of unsympathetic Taiwanese Steel. Here’s the link: http://www.writersharbor.org/work_view.php?work=361
You are NOT going to lift the Hsieh Feng 707 purse seiner fishing boat with your little flying bubble, no matter how hard you try. If you think that’s crazy, hell, I know a former Sea King Captain who tried to lift Her Majesty’s aircraft carrier Ark Royal with HIS bird. Nope, it didn’t work either. But lest you think the Brits have a monopoly on tie-down stupid, despite Foggy’s best efforts, every year for the last however-so-long, somebody, somewhere, tries the same neat party trick. What can be more simple than undoing a tiedown? Before take-off? It’s the little stuff that biteth you firmly on the cheeks…
I once read a truly awesome list of items that have rained down from the sky, on the unsuspecting public, courtesy of well-meaning little Air Ambulance helicopters. Taking off in a hurry. On noble Missions of Mercy. Hand held radios are a firm favorite. Followed by medicine bags, packs, cushions, blankets, syringes, and, on one occasion, a rather unlucky Teddy Bear. There is a reason the medicine packs are now colored BRIGHT –BLARING- RED… Yo, HELLOOOO….!! And they still get left behind in unmentionable places. It’s the little stuff that biteth you firmly on the cheeks…
Lest I sound judgmental, haughty, condescending, sneering, and henceforth forever doomed to invoke the mighty wrath of vengeful Karma to my eternal damnation, I confess to my share of near disasters. I don’t think it’s possible to go through an entire helicopter career and NOT be able to look back on heart stopping moments…
One such moment occurred on a sunny day, and I was happy and relaxed. That day was destined to become etched in day-glow psychedelic orange amongst many, many cerebral memory lanes.
I too came SOOO close to a whole HEAP of truly horrible paper work. I tell the sad, demented, typical helicopter jockey story elsewhere, and it’s called “Pilot-not-in-Command“, and here’s the link, http://www.writersharbor.org/work_view.php?work=461 if you don’t mind becoming depressed at the awful depravity of Homo –so-called- Sapiens. Where, if you remember your Latin, “sapiens” stands for “wise” or “knowing”. Ha!
I could write (scribble) (blog) (rabbit) fifty pages on the same exact technical subject, to wit the ghastly consequences of ignoring the little stuff, but it seems sometimes we chopper addicts will simply never learn. We always seem to step in it, no matter how hard we try. See as further evidence, the story entitled “A certain rich Aroma”. Here’s the link: http://www.writersharbor.org/work_view.php?work=463
So there I was, working over at another EMS base. We had enjoyed ourselves, done some good flying, and I waved a cheerful goodbye. I was almost out the door, when the incoming pilot asked:
“Where’s the pilot’s hand held?”
“Here!”, I said, confidently, walking over to the pilot’s desk. Expecting to pick it up.
No radio. No diminutive, cheapo, small black Motorola.
I searched. Everywhere. I walked back out to the helicopter. And searched it. I went and searched my car. I searched the hospital cafeteria. I repeated the process. Multiple times. I drove out to where I had refueled, some twelve miles away. I searched everywhere. On the ground, in the hangar, in the grass. The fact that everybody was real nice about it, and they all said “Don’t worry about it” didn’t in any way help. Not in the slightest. I wanted to find that radio. Professional pride. That night I lay awake, worrying about it. Where in HELL was that thing? Nightmarish visions floated by, of taking phone calls from the public, about hand-held radios crashing through their roof. I NEVER place an object on the skids. EVER.
I remembered my buddy Peter’s story, about a five gallon container of Jet A (and Mrs Muehller) (described in the story A Blip on the Radar (7) “Routine and Sudden Terror” ), (http://www.writersharbor.org/work_view.php?work=402) and I worried and fretted where in heck’s name I’d gone and dropped that blasted radio. And who I had maybe bombed. The following day I even drove out to the airport again, during office hours, to make inquiries. No luck. I departed for home, professional pride in tatters.
Unloading the trunk of my car (the boot, to you Limeys) a flash of black under a fold of the carpet caught my eye. One black Motorola radio. One unbelievably devious gremlin, laughing his butteth off.
I was left to wonder, how in hell’s name I had gathered the radio in my flight bag, (which I had searched) (Twenty times) and how in bigger hell’s name that ONE item had contrived to fall out in my car, and sneakily slip UNDER a fold in the carpet. Awesome. “Murphy” in over drive.
The next day (and 90 miles driving), the object was returned to its home base.
Truly, it’s the little stuff. That defines your career. Your professional pride. And the fate of the trees in the Amazonian rain forest. Which are gonna be chopped down, to provide the reams of paper required.
If you –and I- don’t pay attention to the little stuff…
A Little About Moggy - Francis ‘Moggy’ Meyrick (www.chopperstories.com) admits to not
being terribly bright, but he did first grace the skies (more or less)
totally on his own some forty-five years ago. He is rumored to have
solemnly intoned these memorable words on the downwind leg.
“Holy Crap! NOW what have I done…?”
He is working dutifully on his eighty-sixth incarnation (he does,
admittedly, get sent back a lot – for another try) , and he describes
himself as a ‘chopper jockey’. He says it’s basically a case of a nut,
hanging under a nut. (BIG nut, though). Compared to trying to attain
Wisdom (he was a Buddhist monk once) (before he got demoted to galley
hand), he reckons it beats working for a living. It ranks right up
there with being a happy penguin, and spending all day sliding down icy
Moggy loves spinning a good yarn, and his greatest reward is simply
your enjoyment. His many friends caution you he does tend to tell his
bar stories with verve and gusto, and much arm waving, so you are
advised to move your pints and other drinks safely out of his way.
Peace. Got a pickle sandwich?
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4 years 274 days ago
Aircraft carriers weigh in the neighborhood of 100,000 tons. That's about 200,000,000 pounds. Now in one of Moggy's Royal Queen's native homelands, that's a lot of quid and bob. But in the USN, that's too much floating steel for even the strongest carrier based jets to lift out of the water. So what happens when they try is, the offending aircraft is plucked unceremoniously out of the sky in a process called an inflight engagement or arrestment. The aftermath usually isn't pretty. Most of the time the aircraft retains a minimal structural integrity and doesn't get ripped apart. But what's left isn't always worth pushing over the side. So the moral to that story is, no in close own waveoffs, and no in close over rotations on hook skips. Sometimes the LSOs will make a bad call and talk a pilot into one, but who do you think gets the blame. I'll give you a hint...not the LSO. As for Moggy rooting around for his handheld like a honey badger clawing at a well placed honeycomb, I am reminded of a FOD walkdown I once attended. They were unofficially nicknamed FOD walkarounds for obvious reasons. I managed on this particular FOD walk around to spy my shipmate on my left shoulder purposely walking around a large piece of FOD which was a ringer for causing calamity. I asked my shipmate why he didn't bend down and pick it up. He replied "I have no place to put it". I said, "If you can't find a place to put it, you could always put it in your mouth." He ended up putting it in his pocket. So with much affection for Moggy, the next time he can't find a place to put down his handheld, I have a place in mind for him.
4 years 274 days ago
Fat chance. I lost my handheld Motorola, not what's left of my mind. If you think I'm sticking that potential FOD in my mouth, and risking the permanent sobriquet "Motor(ola)mouth", then you keep rooting like a honey badger. With equal affection, I'm sure. Eh?
4 years 282 days ago
Thank you kindly. Well-turned, eh? Hmmm.... I have a vision of a spit? This gargantuan sausage/banger being slowly turned to juice dripping, mouth watering, saturated fat oozing perfection? Or, alternatively, the unlucky white man, on his visit to Hottentot land, being served as the main entree? Regardless, we appreciate you visiting the helicopter industry's premier helicopter portal, JustHelibangers.com. Fly safe!