Dylan and Alice

Once upon a time, we had three dogs. We had Lucky, a Vizsla/Rhodesian Ridgeback mix; Wanky (Rhonda named him), a Daschund/Wire Terrier mix; and Gomez, a Chihuahua/Miniature Pinscher mix.

Lucky was a big girl, weighing seventy-five pounds. She died two weeks before Dylan was born. Like many animal lovers, it pummels me when I lose a pet, and I go through a period of thinking stuff like, "I'll never get another dog (cat, llama, chicken)." That's natural; pet lovers want to avoid going through the emotional grinder of losing a pet again. But sooner or later, a sort of amnesia takes over, and many of us change our minds. I was starting to change my mind when Wanky died three years ago.

Dylan had been telling us for a few months that he wanted a puppy for his ninth birthday. Rhonda felt the time was ripe, so we gave Dylan a book on dog breeds. It didn't take him long to narrow the field down to a couple of lifestock guardian breeds. (He's preferred everything big since he was a baby.) He started agonizing over whether he wanted an Anatolian Shepherd or an Akbash.

I was away at work when Rhonda called me excitedly. She'd found a breeder in Cottonwood who bred a cross of Akbashes and Anatolians. Dylan would no longer have to agonize, and that appealed to me because I've never been particularly taken with purebreds. I'm a mutt; I like mutts.

We wanted to wait for Dylan's birthday in June, but the breeder told us that the litter had been nearly devoid of human contact. He said he'd be glad to hold the dog for us, but he recommended that we start the socialization process soon if we wanted the dog to be a pet instead of only a guardian.

So, Rhonda and Dylan drove to Cottonwood. Dylan picked out a female. He named her "Alice" about five minutes after they left the breeder's property.

I got home a few hours after Alice's arrival at our place. I noticed that she seemed confused about being petted. Sure enough, she'd had almost no human contact. She freaked out the first couple of times I picked her up.

Alice is now well on the way to being a socialized puppy. She's decided she likes being petted, and she doesn't mind being carried now either. I'll let you know how that goes when she's fully grown.

She's nine weeks old in these pics.

Other People: Greg Neer

When I began my career as an offshore helicopter pilot in 1979, I was told that about ninety-eight percent of our pilots came from a military background. Well, things have changed a lot. First, it got harder to meet the flight time requirements for a civilian job after serving a few years in the military. As the helicopters used by the military got more expensive to operate, flight times went down. At about the same time, a visionary man by the name of Frank Robinson designed the Robinson R-22. The R-22 had lower operating costs then any other existing production helicopter, and it created a more feasible path for those who chose the civilian route to a helicopter rating. I think it's safe to say that had the R-22 not arrived on the scene, the helicopter pilot shortage the industry has endured in the last several years would have been more severe.

In 2000, the starting pay for a helicopter pilot in the Gulf of Mexico was about $24,000 a year, matching the starting pay for a bus driver in Indianapolis. There were two problems with that. One, the bulk of bus driver applicants weren't spending $60,000 or more to get a bus driver's license, and two, the cost of living in the Gulf Coast region was considerably higher.

In 2001, things changed. Pilots for the two largest Gulf Coast operators voted in a union. Also, supply and demand influenced the operators to sweeten the pot for new applicants. The synergy between those two factors saw starting pay go up significantly.

With better starting pay came a change in the typical offshore helicopter pilot applicant. The usual story was, "I went through military flight school, spent x years in the service, and got out to find a civilian job." We were, in a sense, a rather homogeneous bunch. With more civilian-trained pilots came folks who'd had prior careers before getting their helicopter ratings. Thus, we've seen folks who've been lawyers, truck drivers, business owners, nannies, CPA's, world-class mountain climbers, and chiropractors. For me, it's been fascinating to hear the stories of people who had lives before helicopters.

Despite the old joke, "Please don't tell my mom I'm a helicopter pilot; she thinks I'm a piano player in a brothel," I don't think we've had any former brothel employees. I'm not sure about that, though.

So, today marks the start of what I plan to offer now and then: stories from other people. Just within the ranks of PHI, there are loads of folks with more interesting lives than mine. That's one reason I decided to start a fiction blog: I can take stories about my life and do the embellish/exaggerate fandango without feeling like a damn liar. I think.

**

Greg Neer, during his time as a tour pilot in the Grand Canyon.

Meet Greg Neer. Greg is in his third month with PHI. He's flown helicopters since 2003, and has flown them for a living since 2006. Before that, he made his living as a musician.

Me: Greg, welcome to my blog, and please remember to watch your damned language in case children are reading.

Greg: I’ll do my best…

Me: So Greg, how long did you make your living as a musician before making the career change to flying helicopters?

Greg: I began performing professionally after leaving Indiana University in 1986. I’m fortunate to say that I enjoyed consistent employment in the music industry throughout my career before pursuing flying full time in August 2006.

Me: Which instrument did you play?

Greg: God’s instrument…the trumpet!

Me: Wow. I've heard it takes much more frequent practice to stay proficient on the trumpet than say, guitar or drums. True?

Greg: While I would never want to be accused of diminishing the effort and dedication needed to remain proficient on any instrument, playing the trumpet is very physically demanding, requiring a daily routine of exercises structured to improve tone quality, range, endurance, flexibility, etc. So to answer your question, I believe a trumpet player’s performance would suffer more from a lack of practice than some other instruments.

Me: Where did you work during your musical career?

Greg: The bulk of my career was spent in two places…aboard cruise ships on the high seas for eight years; and an eleven year stint on the famed strip in Las Vegas.

Me: Wow, not exactly an ordinary life. So Greg, I have to ask on behalf of my single dude coworkers: Did you meet lotsa chicks?

Greg: I gather this is the part where I have to watch my language. Well, everybody knows that the main reason people choose a career in music is to score chicks right? I mean, we love the music but let’s face it…the benefits aren’t bad. Seriously, there are some incredibly interesting people in the entertainment industry. I enjoyed single life on the cruise ships for quite awhile before eventually settling down with a British dancer. But as is the case in most shipboard romances, the marriage was short lived. However, the story has a happy ending, as I met a wonderful woman while in Vegas and we’ve been happily married for 5 years now.

Me: What lead you to a musical career? Was that your dream as a kid?

Greg: I guess it was my Mother who provided the inspiration and introduced me to music at an early age. She was a music educator for a short time and exposed us to many different styles of music growing up. My foundation began with piano lessons which proved to be a blessing as it developed an understanding of music theory I likely wouldn’t have achieved as quickly otherwise. Believe it or not, by the eighth grade I had already decided to pursue a career in music.

Me: Who are some of your favorite trumpet players?

Greg: I love Doc Severinson’s rich sound, the high note mastery of Maynard Ferguson, the genius of Miles Davis, and the perfection of Maurice Andre.

Me: How long has the trumpet been around?

Greg: The trumpet is a very old instrument dating back to ancient times (2000 B.C.). The development of the modern version we recognize today dates back to the 1300’s, and is still evolving as trumpet builders continue to modify its design in search of the perfect horn.

Me: Who are some notables you’ve played with?

Greg: I have had the good fortune to perform with Stevie Wonder, Luther Vandross, LeAnn Rimes, Elton John, Gloria Estefan, The Temptations, The Four Tops, Lee Greenwood, Frankie Vallie, Wayne Newton, Clint Holmes, and many other acts performing in the main showrooms of Las Vegas.

Me: Lots of folks dream of a career in music. What made you decide to make such a big change in your life, and switch to flying?

Greg: Flying has also always been a passion of mine since I was a young boy, begging my neighbor to give me a ride in his Cessna. Establishing myself in Vegas afforded me the time and resources to finally pursue the dream of flying. I wanted to avoid asking myself one day why I never chased down that dream, so I found a flight school and got to work.

Me: I've known other musicians with PHI who've kept up the occasional gigs while on time off. One mechanic who's a jazz pianist comes to mind. How about you?

Greg: I haven’t pursued playing professionally on my off time largely due to my own perfectionist behavior. I couldn’t possibly maintain the level of playing I once achieved with my current schedule, therefore I’ve chosen not to perform. I don’t feel that I’d get the same satisfaction and enjoyment out of the experience if I’m not playing my best. Someday I will find a balance and return to playing on some level.

Me: You've been flying helicopters since 2003, full time since 2006. So far, are you glad you made such a major change in your life?

Greg: I am very happy with my decision. I had a great career in music but always wanted to experience flying too. While still in Vegas, I was able to realize both dreams flying Grand Canyon tours by day, and performing music by night. Although music has taken a back seat for now, I truly enjoy the many exciting experiences and new friends I’ve gained through aviation. I would do it all over again.

Me: Greg, I don't know whether to be thankful or resentful. I could be thankful because you've given me something really interesting to write about, but I could be resentful because you make my background seem pretty dang boring. But hey, I'll take the high road and offer my thanks for sharing your story. Thanks very much, Greg.

Greg: Your background is anything but boring in my opinion. Compared to seasoned pilots like you, I will always feel like the “FNG” (Oops…I mean, “the new guy”). There’s so much to be gained from your experiences of which I hope to learn more about in the future. For now, thanks for allowing me to share some of mine.

Stuck in the Tread of the Wheel of Justice

I'm thinking about a criminal trial that happened a few years ago, here in Shasta County.

A woman was accused of altering her child support checks. Her first court-appointed attorney yelled at her that her only choice was to plead guilty. She sought the advice of another attorney. Her new attorney believed her story. She had a polygraph administered, and the client passed convincingly. The attorney hired one of the top handwriting analysts in California to determine whether the alterations had been done by the client. She determined that the alterations almost certainly weren't done by the accused, and probably were done by the ex-husband, who was unhappy with the child custody arrangement.

The attorney presented the polygraph results and the handwriting analysis to the D.A.'s office. She was dismayed to learn that the D.A.'s office had every intention of going forward with the prosecution of her client, even though the D.A.'s office had used the same handwriting analyst to prosecute cases. The case went to trial.

The jury came back with a "not guilty" verdict after thirty-five minutes in deliberation. The judge stated, on the record, that he was surprised that the jury had taken more than five minutes.

The Deputy D.A. was unmoved. "Your client is guilty," he hissed at the defense attorney. Our tax dollars at work.

Still, it all came to a happy ending, right? No, not really. The accused woman was a teacher. Simply being accused of a felony is enough to have a teacher's credential stripped away in California, and a "not guilty" verdict isn't enough to prompt the restoration of the credential. No, the accused must be found "factually innocent" of charges to resume his or her livelihood.

As far as I know, the woman was never declared factually innocent, and is thus still banished from her chosen career.

Today on the website A News Cafe, there was an article about the former CEO of our local Haven Humane Society, who is accused of taking money from the animal shelter. I wrote a comment: I hope the guy gets a fair trial. I often think that publicity can create some really rocky detours on the path to justice.

Perhaps in response to my comment, another reader wrote: . . . It’s about time that Mr. Ryan faces the charges against him. The wheels of justice move way too slow in metting out a sentence against the accused.

That sentiment disturbed me, because it provides one more example of how many in our nation feel that the notion of innocent until proven guilty is just a pesky impediment to slamming people in jail. I thought about responding to Mr. Law and Order, but thought better of it. My gut feeling is that nothing I could write would sway him. I feel reasonably certain that the wheel of justice will always turn too slowly for his liking.

Sadly, he's only likely to be swayed should he find himself or a loved one caught in the tread.

Night on Shasta Lake

I was a day later than usual getting home from Louisiana, due to water survival training. Rhonda and Dylan were chomping at the bit to go camping on Shasta Lake, so the day after my return, we loaded up our forty year-old pontoon boat and headed for Greens Creek camp, a boat-in only camp located up the McCloud arm of the lake.

The plan was to spend one night. The lake was just beautiful. The big "bathtub ring" is still there due to the low water level, but at least many of the inlets have water in them again. The temps reached a record for the date, in the high nineties, and Dylan and I spent quite a bit of time in the water. But sheesh, it's still April, after all, and the water was COLD. I seriously doubt our family will ever live in a nudist colony, but if that ever happened, I'd sure hate to encounter water that cold. That would be embarrassing. "Hey, why is Hal wearing that towel?"

Dylan was bummed when it came time to break camp. "Can't we get up early, and go home in the morning?" Rhonda and I looked at each other. We'd done the early morning commute-by-boat thing before, when Dylan and I had dropped Mom off to go to work. We'd have to leave at dawn, but we could do it.

That night, Rhonda woke me. "I think there's a bear outside the tent." I listened, but heard nothing, at first. After a few minutes, I heard the footfalls of whatever it was moving away, back up the mountain.

Luckily, black bears tend to be decidedly less aggressive than grizzlies. In fact, they're usually big chickens, and they don't like confrontation. One ranger told me that about fifty people a year are injured by black bears in California, but the injuries are usually minor, and they usually happen when people try to do dumb things like hand-feed them. Once in a great while, you'll hear or read of a fatal black bear attack, but the perpetrators tend to be large animals from deep in the woods, and have had little or no contact with humans.

Still, it is a little unnerving to hear a bear nosing around the tent.

It was chilly and gorgeous the next morning as we made the hour commute to the marina. Rhonda, Dylan, and Gomez the bear-fighting (if we were to let him) half Chihuahua huddled together under a blanket, smiling at the beauty going by. At least I think Gomez was smiling.

I got Dylan to school with minutes to spare. Two of 'em. That afternoon, we trailered the boat again to the lake, and set off to Greens Creek to retrieve our camping stuff.

Now, my wife is a smart, educated woman. But she tends to be unrealistic about how much time it takes to do things. Dylan is pretty much the same way, but hey, he's eight years old. First off, we were later getting to the campground than I'd hoped. Then Dylan wanted to go swimming. I didn't want to disappoint him, so I joined him in the cold lake.

Afterward, I suggested that we cook dinner and eat it on the boat while heading back to the marina. Rhonda and Dylan looked wounded at such a suggestion. I looked at the lowering sun, and I looked at the clouds forming to the west, and thought about what an overcast condition would do to the ambient light after sunset.

Still, I thought we had a chance to make it back before total darkness wrapped us. I was wrong. Halfway back to the marina, I had to slow down, because I could no longer see obstacles in the water, and with recent torrential rains, lots of tree branches and small logs floated about. I hit the switch for the headlights, since no other boats were in sight.

The headlights didn't work. Quick troubleshooting did not lead to a fix. I had a mask and snorkel on the boat, but without a waterproof headlamp, finding a loose wire running between the pontoons wasn't likely.

We slowed to a crawl across the water, with Rhonda holding two flashlights to spot obstacles. At that moment, I was not happy with myself for leaving the rechargeable spotlight in the garage. I was also not happy with myself for leaving the hand-held GPS in the car. Boy Scouts all over America would be ashamed for me.

Thankfully, Dylan fell asleep. With the overcast, it got harder to navigate by landmarks. Rhonda occasionally called out "left" or "right" so we'd miss floating wood. It was getting stressful, and Rhonda and I were both getting tired.

Finally, I could barely make out the Jones Valley inlet. We continued to motor toward the marina, at speed slower than a walk. Slower, even, than my walk.

Rhonda did a heck of a job maneuvering the boat trailer down the ramp in the darkness. I put Dylan and Gomez in the car, and we headed for home. Rhonda and I laughed at ourselves, feeling relieved that we were making it home. I felt pretty stupid for not keeping track of time, and for forgetting a couple of key items, but I laughed anyway. It had taken us forty-five minutes to boat to Greens Creek, and three hours to boat back to the marina.

It's about a three hundred foot walk from where we park the boat to our front door. I carried Dylan down the driveway, realizing that carrying a hundred-pound kid down a sloped driveway amounted to a pretty fair workout. Dylan was out. When Dylan is out, he's out. I lowered him to his bed, covered him, and kissed his forehead. His eyes didn't open, but he murmured, "The bed feels good, Daddy." I smiled. Most of the time now, I'm "Dad," but the occasional "Daddy" still slips out.

Dylan was right. The bed felt really good.