An Embarrassment of Riches

I turned sixty the other day. Sixty! How on earth did that happen? I look in her mirror and still see that fresh-faced, innocent, um, 40 year-old I used to be. I have thankfully few wrinkles, owing to a fairly stress-free life but probably more to my “don’t give a shit” attitude than anything else. My hair is grayer (but not totally!), and there’s still lots of it in most places.

None of my other “milestone” birthdays (30, 40 or 50) were particularly upsetting, but for some reason this one is. I don’t like being sixty. I don’t even like the thought of it. But there you go.

Additionally, being born on September 11th is not great. It’s a somber day, not one of gleeful celebration. For my parent’s generation it’d be like being born on December 7th. So I was kind of hoping to keep this birthday low-key; let’s face it, I’m not ten. But you know…the more you want to not do something, the more your friends want to do it.

My Facebook wall filled with birthday greetings. From Atlanta to Florida to Washington state, all around the country and even around the world they came. The best comment was from my friend Daniel Speed: “Congrats on not dying for another year.” Gee, um, thanks Daniel!

My friend Mikey Nehring flies a firefighting helicopter for a company based out of Olympia, Washington. What with all the fires raging out here this summer he’s been bounced around quite a bit. But as luck (or something!) would have it he had gotten based up in Omak, Washington which is just a few miles up the road from Brewster where I’m at.

The big fires are all pretty much under control now, and Mikey’s ship got released on my birthday. Instead of going home, he came down to Brewster. We decided to not go out and get shit-faced drunk as we usually do and just did a big steak barbecue at our helicopter base.

Then our friend Nate Englund called. He dried cherries for another operator this past summer and because he's young and cool we got to know him. Great guy. He called from Missoula, Montana which is five hours away. “I’m inbound!” he said. What a nice gesture, coming over just for my birthday.

All of the other pilots have gone home or onto other gigs, but Lauren St. Romain is still around. She and Danny Smith (one of the owners) brought a big chocolate cake. Instead of 60 individual candles which surely would’ve elicited a visit from one of the Forest Service waterbombers she just got a six and a zero so I only had two to blow out instead of sixty. Thank you, Jesus.

So we had a nice party. No, there are no pictures. It was outside and mostly after dark.

I don’t want to get all mushy and sentimental. But I’ve said before and I’ll say again that I’m blessed with the best friends anyone could ever hope for. It is intensely gratifying and extremely humbling to know such good people. When it comes to friends, I have an embarrassment of riches. I thank you all.

Malaysian Airlines MH370: Still Gone

How can a big plane like a Boeing 777 just disappear into thin air? Seems preposterous, doesn’t it? But that is apparently just what happened to that Malaysian Airlines jet back in March of 2014. Thin air. Gone.

Back in July of 2015 a control surface called a “flaperon” was discovered on Reunion Island which is (don’t Google it) in the Indian Ocean about halfway around the world from Malaysia. It appeared to be from a Boeing 777 of which exactly one is unaccounted for (guess which?). It was covered with barnacles.

A word about the flaperon. You might know that the little flipper thingees out on the end of an airplane wing are called ailerons. They move in opposite directions. One moves down and one moves up and the airplane banks toward the wing with the up-deflected aileron. Stick your hand out your car window at speed and you can simulate how an aileron works. We’ve all done this as kids.

Then there are wing flaps. These panels extend out of the wing, increasing the wing area and changing the curvature of the wing to lower the speed at which the wing will “stall” and lose lift.

Normally, ailerons and flaps are separate and operate independently. Flaperons are usually (but not always) located inboard toward the fuselage. They not only deflect with the ailerons but are also linked to droop with the flaps. Don’t ask me why jets have these control surfaces; it’s a complicated aerodynamic explanation I’m sure.

Anyway the flaperon was found. Initially it appeared to be from a 777. It was immediately sent to France of all places to be examined. Sure enough the French said it was from a 777 and the Malaysian government assured the world it was from MH370 (I guess using the “logic” that no other 777’s have crashed and therefore it must be from their plane. I mean, how could it not be?

Well…

Strangely, the French authorities stopped short of saying that the flaperon came from that Boeing 777...that being MH370. Boeing, who you’d think would have something to say about this matter, has been eerily quiet. You see, there is a little data plate that would normally be attached to the flaperon which would specify which airframe it went on. The data plate is not there. Nor are any other markings that would directly link the flaperon to MH370.

Huh?

Let us realize that Boeing does not make every single part of their aircraft. Much of the plane is sub-contracted out to other manufacturers, many of which are in other states or even foreign countries. Spread the wealth, you know. It turns out that a Spanish manufacturer makes flaperons for the Boeing 777.

So the mystery deepens. We really don’t know any more than we did before, other than that a damaged, barnacle-encrusted flaperon from a 777 has been found. Putting on my tin-foil hat, I believe that whoever commandeered MH370 somehow obtained a flaperon and chucked it into the water someplace, hoping it would be found and assumed to be crash-damage. Only it wasn’t found. It stayed submerged for over a year before washing up on a beach thousands and thousands of miles from where it “should“ be.

Yes, I still think that MH370 was taken somewhere and landed, not crashed. What does this mean for the passengers? Probably not good things. But I'll bet that plane gets airborne again, and in it will be a bomb (slightly) larger than the latest Adam Sandler movie.

Light At The End Of The Tunnel

Some of my friends…one Mike Nehring in particular have been grousing that I haven’t published anything on the blog lately, which is true. I think Mikey brought it up because I write about him a lot and he probably just wanted to see his name on the internet again. Well the joke’s on him because I won’t be mentioning him at all in this post.

One reason I haven’t posted anything is because it was such an uneventful summer. There was no rain to speak of. No. Rain. Up and down the Columbia River valley from the Canadian border down into Oregon, hardly anybody flew. This was great for the growers, but not so great for us. The helicopters (and we pilots) all get paid a “standby” fee whether we fly or not, but it’s better if we fly, obviously.

Since it was such a dry summer, the U.S. Forest Service was on high-alert. They did not want a repeat of last year’s devastating Carlton Complex Fire, the biggest fire in the history of Washington State. Everyone was on pins and needles, with (ground) fire crews and helicopters stationed everywhere “just in case.” As soon as a small fire would start, the crews hustled to put it out.

This worked well for a while. Eventually there were too many small fires all up and down the west coast. Resources got stretched thin…as thin as Deez Nuts’ chances of winning the presidential election. (I would’ve said “Donald Trump’s chances,” but in this bizarro-world of 2015 America, I suspect The Donald could actually win!)

And as we got into August, the air around Brewster filled with smoke…again! It was a time of perpetually foggy days. Step outside and you could taste smoke. It was relentless and depressing. The fire dominates our lives. Just like last year.

We evacuated to safer ground some helicopters of our own as well as a couple of airplanes owned by some friends. We got one out in just the nick of time: Another twelve hours and it would’ve burned to the ground. The owner was happy…and lucky…to save his house.

We own a little grass-strip airport up north on the river between the towns of Brewster and Omak. It’s out in the desert surrounded by sagebrush. If the fire, which was well north of us came south blown by the wind, the airport, a house, two hangars and a workshop would all be in serious peril.

The owner of the company and I were there, assessing the situation when the wind suddenly picked up directly out of the north. Suddenly we were enveloped in a thick cloud of smoke. We could not tell how close the fire was, but we knew it was coming. Thus began a mad dash to move as much stuff of value out of harm’s way. We left with the uneasy feeling that there wasn’t much more we could do. However fortune smiled on us - the wind died and shifted and the fire never came. You just never know…

Around us, small fires joined together. The end result is that in terms of acreage, for the second year in a row Washington State has its biggest fire in history: The Okanogan Complex.

While all of this was going on, we received a call from a cropduster in North Dakota. A long time ago he had operated Sikorsky S-55’s, the same kind of helicopter we use for drying cherries. We’d made some entreaties in the past, but he never would sell. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t sell anything. Finally, more than ten years after our first contact, he called. He’s getting old and wants to sell. He made us an offer; a deal was struck. It was six helicopters in all (non-flyable anymore) and a shit-ton of parts and equipment. It would take numerous trips with multiple pickup trucks/trailers. And it was 1,300 miles away - two full days of driving. The timing could not have been worse.

We wanted (and needed) to get these helicopters home before the weather and roads turn bad up here, which it will soon. Once we were sure that the company property in Brewster was as safe as could be, we reluctantly headed eastbound.

So far we’ve made two trips there and back. Each one was an adventure worthy of its own blogpost. Oh, the tales I could tell of overheating vehicles, a blown transfer case in one truck, an impending transmission failure in another, an alternator failure that boiled the juice out of both batteries, and a truck that would randomly go into “limp-home” mode and limit our speed to 45 mph. Great fun.

I think we can get all of the remaining parts and stuff in one more trip. If all goes well (hah!) I’ll finally be able to get out of here and go home around the middle of September, before it starts getting cold, which you know I‘m not looking forward to. So there's light at the end of the tunnel. It’s always fun to come up here for this gig, but it’s always nice to go home too.

My Annual Washington Sojourn

I have an odd double-life. I live most of the time in Pensacola, Florida but spend my summers up in Washington State. This is my fifth year working for the helicopter company that does cherry tree drying up here in Brewster.

It’s about as far from Florida to Washington as you can get in the continental U.S. Diagonally from one corner of the country to the other it’s a little over 1,800 miles straight line. It’s a little more if you fly since you have to go past Brewster to Seattle and then come back on a little commuter plane. And if you drive it’s about 3,000 miles! There is no direct diagonal route; you have to “stair-step” your way northwestbound.

So getting here is not exactly easy. I’ve driven up twice (which took three full days), ridden up on my motorcycle once (which took the better part of a week), and flown twice on the airlines. It’s always an adventure.

This last trip up was thankfully the most uneventful. We had no weather delays or other issues, and all of my (three) flights were on time. Dave Sr., the owner of the joint met me at the Wenatchee Airport and drove me the rest of the way to Brewster. It was about as painless as air travel gets these days. Glory be! I still don’t like flying on the airlines and am seriously considering just buying a car and driving back when the season is over.

This past winter was very mild up here, so they tell me. That, combined with the warm Spring we’re having up here means that the cherries are “early,” perhaps by as much as two weeks. So we’re kind of scrambling to get everything ready in anticipation. Since I got here the weather has been simply gorgeous.

It would be easy to just move up here and stay year-round. The beauty of this part of the country is unbelievable. And I could almost see myself living here permanently…if not for the winters, even when they‘re “not so bad” as they coyly say. I just don’t like the cold. Plus, I really love Pensacola. It’s nice being here, but in a way I’m already kind of looking forward to getting back home. To my other home.

Back To Washington This Year? Simply Irresistible.

I’m always ambivalent about going up to Washington State for three months in the summer to fly helicopters.  And it’s not that it’s not fun - of course it is!  But it takes a huge chunk out of my life in a time of year when I’d like to be doing stuff down here in Florida.  So the decision to pack up and leave is tough; it is never a done-deal. Especially this year.

Last year was bad.  There wasn’t much rain, so there wasn't much cherry-drying flying to do.  Plus, we had the Carlton Complex fire, the biggest in the history of Washington State.  It consumed nearly everything around us, sparing the town of Brewster itself for some reason.  It was crazy-stressful as we sat around on pins and needles wondering when we’d have to evacuate the helicopters to a safer place and how much of our ground facilities and equipment we’d lose to the fire.  You can’t save everything.

There were other, personal and personnel factors that caused it to be a bad year as well.  When I left, which I did at the first opportunity I promised myself it was my last year.  But…the inquiring phone calls began shortly after January 1st.  Just little, “Hi, how’s it going?  Hope to see you soon,” kinds of things.  I did not commit.

The deal they offer is very lucrative…and by itself it’s hard to say no to the money.

But the real trouble is that I like the guys who run the company so much.  The owner, Dave Smith Sr. is notoriously publicity-shy, and he doesn't like when I write about his operation in specific detail.  So I won’t.  But he and his son Danny are damn good people.  Dave’s been in the aviation business for over forty years, and he’s endured some incredible challenges and experiences along the way that make him a most interesting character.  I’ve been working for him for four summers so far and I’ll bet I haven’t even scratched the surface of all the stories he’s got to tell.

But not only that, my young friends Brandon, Lauren and Chris are coming back, all of whom are by now seasoned vets now…dependable and capable…fine pilots who know the ropes.  The chance to work side-by-side with them again is, to quote Robert Palmer, simply irresistible (1).

Plus my good friend and (platonic!) soulmate Mike Nehring, the guy who introduced me to this whole cherry-drying mess in the first place will be hanging around when he’s not stringing powerlines for the company he now works for in Olympia, WA.  Although we talk on the phone nearly every day, I haven’t seen Mikey since last year. It’s always a party when he comes to town.  The guy is just non-stop fun.  He reminds me of me when I was his age.

Our fleet of helicopters is more diversified now.  During my first season, we only had five Korean War-era Sikorsky S-55’s.  Four of them had old-school radial engines (the kind you see in those old documentaries of B-17 bombers); and one was a “turbine conversion” whereby the old radial was swapped out for a smooth, quiet, reliable turbine engine of similar horsepower.  This year the fleet has grown in size and type to eleven helicopters, with a couple of modern Bell helicopters added, as well as more turbine-conversion Sikorsky’s.

So I could - if I wanted to - fly a more modern, turbine-powered ship.  But I don’t.  I’ll stick with the piston-powered version.  They’re more…umm…challenging to fly, and certainly more fatiguing than the turbine birds which are sooooo much easier to fly.  But flying these old, loud, cranky, cantankerous beasts connects me with the past…and with my dad, I guess.  In 1954 he flew the USMC version of this very helicopter which they called the HRS when it was brand-new as I was being born.  I guess the draw is too strong.  (Plus, oh please, anyone can fly a turbine!)

Given all of the above, how can I refuse to go back up?  But this year will probably be my last, I swear!  Just like last year was.




(1) Typically obscure reference to a song called, “Simply Irresistable,” by musician Robert Palmer from 1988.

What To Say and When To Say It... Or Not

I've had young helicopter pilots introduce themselves to me and try to come off as big experts because they have a thousand hours or so of flight time.  I met one who claimed to know everything about the Bell 206.  I asked him how much flight time he had?  “About 2,000 hours,” he said, which I knew was a lie…okay, an “exaggeration.”  And, I pressed a little further, how much time of that is in the 206?  “About 50 hours.”  Hmm.

I let him talk on and on for a while.  I did not mention that of my 11,000 hours of flight time, over 7,000 hours have been spent flying the various models of the Bell 206.  Does this make me the most knowledgeable 206 expert in the whole universe?  Hardly.  But you could say that I’m “familiar” enough with the type.  And I was familiar enough with the ship to know that this young pilot to whom I was talking didn’t know shit about the Bell 206.

The point is, you never know who you’re talking to.  Especially in my current line of work, you never know who’s getting in the cab.  I re-learned this just yesterday.  A guy hopped in at the airport and asked to be taken to Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville Hotel out on Pensacola Beach (a $35.00 fare).  Sure thing!  Off we went. 

I usually ask my passengers what brings them to Pensacola?  This guy tersely said he had a meeting, but didn’t offer any details.  “Well, you sure picked the right place to stay!” I offered.  “The Margaritaville is one of the nicest hotels on the beach, *and* it has a great restaurant, Frank and Lola’s right inside.” 

In the first place, both statements are true.  There are good and not-so-good hotels out on the beach; Margaritaville and the Hilton are two of the best.  But I'd never want to insult anyone about their choice of hotel.  Making people feel bad about themselves is never a good idea.  

It turned out that my passenger was in charge of all Margaritaville facilities worldwide, the number two man under Jimmy Buffet himself.  Yikes!

Knowing when to keep your mouth shut is important, obviously, but knowing what to say and what not to say when you do open your mouth is equally important.  It's a lesson it took me a very long time to learn.

On Being Cheerful

When I was in high school I was hanging around with a guy named Lou Timolat who was a helicopter pilot/traffic reporter for a radio station in New York City.  He generously mentored me in the area of many things over many years.  I had a serious case of hero-worship, and perhaps I was the son he didn’t have.  Anyway, it worked out okay for both of us.

Lou owned two radio stations (an AM and an FM) in the small upstate New York town of Watkins Glen (pop. 2,500 at the time).  The AM was one of those small-town “day-time only” general-purpose radio stations with a format that changed during the day.  The FM was all-music, trying to compete with the big boys in Elmira and Corning and Binghamton.  Our FM format was “solid gold” during the day.  At night it switched over to what was called “progressive rock” at the time.

Since I aspired to be a traffic reporter, Lou thought it was a good idea that I work for his radio station to learn about broadcasting.  And so after graduating high school I did just that.

The staff at the two radio stations was mainly a bunch of inexperienced and enthusiastic young people like myself who were eager to learn about the business.  Someone procured a book entitled, “How To Be A Disk-Jockey” or some such.  Written by Marconi or one of his peers, I believe, it laid out the “rules” of broadcasting as of 1950 or so.  We all began sounding like the announcer for the old “Lone Ranger” radio series.

One of the pieces of advice in that book was to smile as you speak.  You don’t have to be fake about it – people can tell when you’re being insincere.  But it is amazing how the simple act of smiling affects how people hear you.  And remember what true communication is all about.  It’s not just what you say, but what people are hearing.  If your message comes across garbled, you might as well not transmit it at all.

I use this technique to this day.  When I talk to people on the phone, I make sure that I’m smiling.  I know they can hear it.  I believe that it helps getting people "on your side" when you need them to be.

Case in point:  Last year I was headed up on my annual pilgrimage to Washington State on American Airlines.  Our early-morning flight to Dallas got diverted into some airport in Mississippi due to weather.  We refueled and waited for the storms in Texas to clear.  By mid-afternoon when we eventually landed in Dallas, my connecting flight to Seattle had long left without me.

Settled into a comfy chair in the terminal, I called American’s reservation number to rebook my flight, steeling myself for the ordeal.  All around me harried, preoccupied-looking travelers hustled by, rushing from one gate to another.  Nobody looked like they were having any fun.

The bad news for me was that all of the flights for the rest of the day were over-full, and I’d have to go the next day.  I was not a happy camper as you can imagine.  Instead of getting angry, I took a deep breath and bit my lip while the nice woman on the other end of the line in American’s call center in Tucson, Arizona searched for a way of getting me northwestbound.  But things were not looking good.

"And how’s your weather today?” I asked during a pause.

“Oh, it’s beautiful here!” she chirped, perhaps forgetting for that instant that my weather certainly wasn't "beautiful."  In fact, it was still pretty horrible.  It made me wonder why American Airlines chose Dallas, Texas as their headquarters/hub in the first place.

“Well I’ll bet you’re getting a ton of calls from angry people in Texas!” I said with a laugh.

“Oh yes,” she admitted wryly.

I vowed to not be one of them.  “Well ma’am, if there’s any way you can help me out, I’d really appreciate it.”  I said it like I meant it, because I really did.

There was a pause and I could hear a clacking of computer keys in the background.  She sighed.  Another pause and some more key clacking.  Another sigh.  “It’s just not letting me do this,” she said grimly, frustration in her voice.

I figured I was sunk.  My one-day reunion with Mikey would be ruined.  But I didn’t say anything…not a peep…no word of complaint or even the slightest hint that my travel plans were damn well important and that I had to be in Seattle TONIGHT, by God!  Which is what I was thinking, you know.  But nope, for once I just kept my big mouth shut, which is unusual for me.

“These flights are all locked out,” she grumbled.  Finally something must have dawned on her. “Wait a minute, I've got an idea…” she said with a  kind of Lucy Ricardoesque tone to her voice.  I felt a little like Ethel Mertz, and I laughed to myself because I refer everything...and I mean everything to old TV shows.  There was some more key clacking.  “Aha!” she said triumphantly, “I got a seat for you!  She sounded pleased with herself.  I certainly was!  In the end, I made it to Seattle and Mikey picked me up and we had a great ride over the Cascades to Brewster in the middle of the night.

Now, I don’t know if all of American’s reservation agents are as helpful to stranded customers as she.  I would hope so.  And maybe this woman would’ve gone the extra mile for me or anyone else anyway, no matter how pissed-off and unpleasant they or I sounded over the phone.  Maybe my being nice had nothing to do with it.  But I like to think otherwise.

Smiling over the phone.  It’s a small thing, no?  My overall philosophy in dealing with people is, “Be cheerful.”  It is probably the basis of any success I have in interpersonal relationships and these random connections we make with other people during the course of our lives. 

Just be cheerful, dammit.