Seven Things You Probably Don't Know About Me

Michael tagged me for this some time ago, and I'm just now getting around to it. (See number 2.)

Okay Bob B, I'm tagging you.

1. I started dating my wife in 1973. We broke up when I went into the military following high school. We reunited and got married in 1994. Our son was born in 2000, twenty-six and a half years after our first date.

2. I'm not one to rush into things.

3. I enjoy trading emails with folks, but I'd rather take a beating than chat online.

4. I'm apparently known by friends and coworkers as an easy-going, affable guy, but I have a decided mean streak. I control it, but it's there.

5. When I was fourteen, I signed up for roller derby training school. I did it because I had a crush on one of the skaters in L.A. Her name was Peggy Fowler. I had to drop out before I even started when my parents found out I'd forged my dad's signature on the release form. Life was not pleasant for me for a while after that.

6. I took my first flying lesson in a Cessna 150 when I was thirteen. I ended up getting about fourteen hours of flight time before the money ran out. My instructor back then, a gentleman by the name of Bob Gililand, had been a nineteen year-old civilian instructor for the Army Air Corps during World War II, flying Stearmans. For years, I was the youngest student he'd ever had. During the eighties, he had a couple of eleven year-old students, so my "record" with him fell. I still hold another record with him, though. At the age of thirty, I started flying with Bob again, and seventeen years after my first lesson, I got my Private fixed-wing add-on rating. Thus, of the thousands of students he's had since World War II, I hold the record of the one who took the longest to get a rating.

7. I'm eligible to join the Sons of the American Revolution, but since I'm not planning to look for a job in D.C., I haven't.

Dreams About No Smiles

I've had some funny dreams this week. One was about the guy who always worked the meat counter at Ken's Market, the place nearby our home in Oxnard where my parents would occasionally send me to pick up meat for a barbecue. The guy would never say anything more than necessary; he'd hand me the package of meat and go back to what he was doing. He never smiled. I never had a conversation with him.

I flashed from age twelve to age twenty. I was stationed at Fort Ord, and visiting my favorite place to pick up lunch, a German deli near the airfield in the town of Marina. It was run by a German couple and the wife's sister. The women were friendly and outgoing, but the husband just carved the meat and made the sandwiches. He never smiled. I never had a conversation with him either.

I was puzzled as to why I'd see those two guys again in my dreams, but then it came to me: there was magic in those places. Ken's Market had the old fashioned type of meat counter, where you'd give your order to the guy and he'd prepare it and wrap it just for you. The German Deli in Marina had the magic, as evidenced by the number of guys in military flight suits waiting in line at lunchtime. Maybe that's why those two taciturn men were featured in those dreams: it was my week to revisit magicians.

Soon after Rhonda and I got married in '94, we spent some time in Monterey, and I took her to look for the German deli. Although Fort Ord had closed down, the deli was still there. The German couple and the sister were still running the place. I told them that I hadn't set foot in their place in fifteen years, but that I'd been a regular in the late seventies. The wife smiled. "We get a lot of people coming by who were customers when stationed at the base," she said. I wasn't surprised. I took my first bite of the Reuben, and I knew the magic was still there.

The husband? He still didn't smile, but I did get a nod from him. I would never ask more of a guy who works magic.

It takes a lot of hard work and dedication to make an eating establishment a long-running success, to be sure. But the most important ingredient, I'm convinced, is magic.

Damn, now I'm hungry. I wish it wasn't a five-hour drive to Monterey.

Hurricane Dean and the Evacuation Fandango

I'm away from home again, and back at work. This is the fifth day of my hitch ("hitch" is what we pilots call our seven or fourteen-day stints at work), and a hurricane evacuation is underway, sort of. I'm half the crew of a Bell 412 that one of the major oil companies hired to help out with the evac, but for the most part, I've simply sat here at the base, waiting for the word to launch offshore. So far, that word hasn't come. As hurricane evacs go, this one has been fairly easy for most of the crews coming on this hitch. For one thing, many non-essential folks out in the Gulf of Mexico had already been evacuated from offshore facilities. That happened last week due to the formation of Tropical Storm Erin, which formed right in the Gulf, instead of moving into the Gulf from the Atlantic and Caribbean as is more the norm. For another, since the fateful storm season of 2005, the oil companies seem all the more cautious about getting people out of the offshore oil fields once a storm shows the slightest risk to the Gulf region.

The oil companies weren't always so cautious. In August 1980, I launched from Cameron, Louisiana, in a seven-seat Bell 206L-1 Long Ranger, for the waters off of Galveston, Texas. My job was to evacuate the four remaining men on an offshore jackup drilling rig as Hurricane Allen moved westward through the Gulf of Mexico. Then, as now, we had radio communications--"flight following"--while offshore. There was a key difference then, however. Now, we have remote transceivers located about the Gulf, which link to a central communications center in PHI's company headquarters in Lafayette, Louisiana. If a transceiver becomes inoperable, or we're simply going too far out for effective radio coverage, all of our larger aircraft have satellite links to the comm center; we can tell them where we're going and when we'll be there without ever using the radio, via text flight plans. Then, however, satellite links were nothing but fantasy in our aircraft, and offshore communications were provided by a real-live offshore "communications specialists" who were also certified weather observers. The problem was, our offshore comm folks had been evacuated. About sixty miles offshore from Galveston, I had no one to talk to except another pilot, in a Bell 212. His destination was about twenty miles from mine, so after landing, we'd lose contact with each other. We agreed to give each other twenty minutes after landing to load passengers, take off, then climb enough to re-establish radio contact.

It was a lonely feeling, being out there over the Gulf of Mexico--in a single engine helicopter--while a hurricane approached. I passed a production platform about 30 miles from my destination, and noted that the waves were breaking several feet over the boat landing of the platform. Most of the boat landings were about fifteen feet over the water, so that meant the seas were running about twenty feet or so. On a typical summer day, we pilots tend to view the Gulf as a big, tranquil forced landing area. But at that moment, it hit me with a wallop: if the engine failed, the inflatable floats mounted on the skids wouldn't keep the aircraft upright for long. Also, in those days, many if not most of our smaller aircraft didn't have life rafts on board. Mine didn't. If I had to ditch, I'd soon be in the water with my life vest, praying that someone could spot me as a speck in the turbulent sea.

Something else: few of our smaller aircraft had Loran C (sort of a predecessor to GPS) installed in those days. My only navigation aid was an NDB receiver (which tended to be nearly useless with lightning in the area), but the rig I was flying to didn't have a beacon installed. I was navigating by dead reckoning: hold a heading, guess the ground speed, fly that heading for a given amount of time, then look for a place to land.

Visibility had been good early in the flight, but deteriorated as I got further offshore. As I came up on the end of my dead reckoning time, it was down to about three miles. I saw nothing ahead, nothing to the right, nothing to the left. Hoping I'd underestimated the wind speed, and thus overestimated my ground speed, I decided to continue on the same heading for another five minutes. However, after only a couple of additional minutes, visibility quickly deteriorated from three miles to less than a mile. It was time to turn around, to give up, to leave those four guys on a mobile drilling rig to face the storm. But then, halfway through my 180 degree turn, a jackup rig appeared in the windshield. It was "my" rig. If I could get the helicopter on the helideck, those guys were going home.

It turned out that landing was one of those big ifs. The helideck, in terms of wind direction, was on the leeward side of the rig. The wind was whistling through the structure of the rig and the derrick, and my helicopter was getting tossed around on short final--I was making large adjustments in power just to maintain an approach path. I glanced at the airspeed indicator about 100 feet out. It was bouncing between fifty and sixty knots, and I was barely crawling toward the landing site.

I landed, and the four guys immediately started walking toward the helicopter. I shook my head, trying to convey one message: "NO!" I wanted to make sure the helicopter would stay in place on the wet deck with all of that wind. I leveled the rotor system, only to find that the aircraft began inching backward toward the edge of the helideck, and toward the ocean. I tilted the rotor system forward, essentially flying the helicopter onto the deck. I didn't dare take my hands off the controls, because I might have to take off rather than be blown into the ocean. I tried to motion with my head that the passengers should approach from the side. Instead, they took my head motion as a message to "come on," and walked toward the low part of the rotor disk. I shook my head violently, trying to convey one message: "STOP!" They continued forward, oblivious to anything I tried to convey. As they neared the rotor tip path, I partially leveled the disk. The helicopter began shuddering backward again. Once the guys moved safely inside the tip path (there's more "guaranteed" head clearance as you get closer to the helicopter), I returned to "flying" the aircraft onto the deck.

The landing had been difficult, and just short of downright scary. With the extra weight of the guys and their baggage on board, I didn't figure the takeoff would be a piece of cake. It wasn't. The aircraft lifted easily enough at first, but once I got to a couple of feet off the deck, it felt as if a giant hand was shaking the airframe. When I finally got clear of the rig and through a heavy shower in my takeoff path, my passengers actually cheered. There were only four of 'em, but it sounded like I had twenty people on board.

About three minutes after takeoff, the 212 pilot called me. Man, it was good to hear his voice. "It's getting bad out here, Hal. Let's go back to the ranch, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee." "Scott," I answered, "I could use something stronger than coffee when we get back." He chuckled over the radio. "I know what you mean."

***

This is the morning of my fifth day back at work, and it's been the most boring hurricane evac I've experienced. We made one flight my first day back. Then, it became apparent that Dean wouldn't likely prove a threat to the Gulf of Mexico as it took a southerly track. The oil companies put the offshore evacuations on hold for the most part. We then sat around until yesterday, when we flew our aircraft from Morgan City to Lafayette. It seems that the training department needs our aircraft to do annual training on the pilots heading down to our Antarctica operation. Last night, I had a good time dining at a local Mexican restaurant with the guys from the Antarctic crew.

Yep, it's been a boring hitch so far, but I'm not complaining.

S'Long, Bill

I've seen him around, now and then, for the better part of three decades. I can't claim to know him that well, but damn, I'm going to miss him anyway.

His name is Bill Uhl. He's been a helicopter mechanic with our employer, PHI, for thirty-eight years. Tomorrow is his last day at our Houma, Louisiana base. He's retiring.

I had a hellacious day out in the Gulf of Mexico today. We dodged thunderstorms and the occasional waterspout through most of our day, and when I got back this afternoon, I felt as though I'd been beaten with canes. My plan was to go back to the quarters, eat something, shower, then fall into the bed. But then, the area manager told me we were putting on a barbecue for Bill. I couldn't miss it.

Bill, for good reason, is one of those people who nearly everyone likes. He seems perpetually cheerful, conscientious, capable, and enthusiastic. He's just one of those who can walk into a room and put folks in a better mood. If you act in a bad mood around Bill, you soon feel like an asshole. I suppose that's why I'll miss him so much, even though we've only been friendly acquaintances, not friends in the true sense: people like Bill are just so valuable to a workplace, in ways both tangible and not.

Everybody wanted a piece of Bill this evening, but I was able to chat with him for a few minutes. I asked him what he first planned to do upon retirement. He answered, "Y'know, I've always been a procrastinator away from work." (That was surprising, considering his reputation as an aircraft mechanic.) "Thirty-six years ago, I started working on a rocking horse for my son. I drilled a hole in the wrong place, and I just put it away. My son found it while visiting one day, and told me what my first retirement project should be: finishing it for my two year-old grandson. So yeah, that's my first project. I'm going to finish that rocking horse for my grandson, thirty-six years after I started it."

Something about his story just hit me with a wallop. I felt a big lump forming in my throat. It was just so sad, happy, remorseful, and celebratory at the same time. It just got me. Bill won't be spending half of his time away from loved ones any more, and he's going to finish that rocking horse.

Bill, I'll miss your smiling face, your cheerful demeanor, and your unflagging patience with we sometimes trying pilots. Have a wonderful retirement, and God bless you.