Family Reunions

I’m in New York on the occasion of what was supposed to be a family reunion of sorts. Actually, my nephew Eliot is graduating college (Fairfield University) and we thought we’d all get together. But mom sprained her ankle in California and declined to come which, at her age is understandable. My sister Eleanor is overseas…somewhere…doing her archeological thing. And my ever-missing brother Patrick is, well, still missing. I have not seen nor heard from Pat in, oh, ten years? None of us have. We’re starting to get the impression that he doesn’t like us. So the “reunion” consists only of my older brother Bill, older sister Mary and younger sister Elizabeth. Four out of seven ain’t good, but it's what we've got.

One thing about being back in New York: I never want to live here again. It is beyond me how people can deal with the congestion and crowds. I don’t know how I ever did it. But I'm in a crabby mood. It's kind of ironic but I hate flying...well, airline flying. Flying sucks. I wish I'd had time enough to drive.

So we gathered at some fancy-schmanzy restaurant in Fairfield, Connecticut last evening. There were twelve of us including Eliot’s two sets of parents (divorced and remarried), his girlfriend and her parents, and assorted other family members including one nutsy renegade helicopter pilot-brother/uncle of whom they’ve all heard stories. We drank, we ate, we drank some more – it was fun. My ex-brother-in-law Tom, the buttoned-down, high-powered attorney and one of the best negotiators I’ve ever known generously picked up the tab which must have been in the four digits. (I’ll send him a check to cover my share, which was considerable by itself.)

Eventually, we repaired to the college which was hosting a dance; kind of a final get-together for the families of the graduates. It was pretty lame, even by my low standards of entertainment. It was in this huge multi-level hall. There were three bands, each terrible, each with members as old as me. (What, no college-age kids in bands anymore?) The room we settled into had a band that was doing ‘80s music and had the requisite Elvis impersonator (Costello, not Presley). The only people dancing were old people. The college kids looked mortified. One girl’s mother kept bopping-in-place to the music while the daughter kept imploring her to ”Please stop.” It was funny. (And no, I did not similarly embarrass my nephew, if that’s what you’re thinking.)

Today is the graduation. It’s a gorgeous day, so it’ll be held outside, should be nice. There’s a party afterward, and then early tomorrow morning I get the flock out of here and back down to Hicksville (Florida, not the sarcastically-named town on Long Island). It’s nice seeing the family again. I just wish they didn’t live in New York.

American Idol

So a month or so ago we were in the helicopter, flying up to a board meeting in a town about an hour away. It was me, the Boss and an officer of the company who is slightly older than the both of us. The conversation turned to American Idol. It soon became clear that they were big fans. I thought to myself, "This is pretty bizarre." I kind of stayed out of it at first, not wishing to admit that I've been watching it this year too. But eventually I sheepishly joined in, and we three pontificated for the rest of the flight about the merits of each contestant and who should stay and who should go. General consensus: "Dreadlock Boy" (Jason Castro) inexplicably lasted far longer than any of us thought he would. (In fact, he would go on to be one of the final four!)

At first it struck me as odd that we three fifty-something year-old guys were discussing a silly t.v. show. But then again, I thought back to some similar previous shows, beginning with the long-running Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour which came to television from radio in the late 1940's and incredibly stayed on the air all the way through 1970. And Star Search beginning in 1983 and running until 1995. We like seeing raw talent develop into stars, I suppose.

American Idol has been on the air since 2002. I always thought it was mildly interesting although mostly lame. With a few notable exceptions (Kelly Clarkson, Carrie Underwood and Jordin Sparks, of course), the contestants never really seemed all that talented. After season two or three I stopped watching altogether.

But the show is much better this year for some reason; the level of talent has been awesome. Having said that, from the beginning the guys did seem stronger than the girls. However, each of the "top twelve" kids has been very, very good in their own way. While it's usually been easy to see in advance who was going to win, this year it was not so obvious. As the contestants were eliminated one by one, it left a stronger and stronger group. Of the final six, there was no real walk-away-with-it-all winner - excluding the young Archuleta, who has that Paul McCartney/Donny Osmond/Nick Carter/Jesse McCartney thing going for him.

Anyway, this week it was down to two guys and a girl: the Davids, Cook and Archuleta; and Syesha Mercado. Among my friends, speculation ran wild as to who would be eliminated.

I was never a fan of Syesha's. In fact, I thought she should have been eliminated weeks ago. But strangely, she got better and better - so much so that I became a big fan and was actually rooting for her to win.

Sad to say, Syesha was eliminated last night, making it a fight between the guys. In a way, it doesn't matter which of the Davids win. They'll both go on to become recording artists, as will Syesha and yes, even Dreadlock Boy. They all deserve it - as do many of the other contestants this year.

David Cook is probably the most-talented of any contestant of any season. He's awesome, and in a perfect world he should win.

But despite his narrow range and odd voice, the giggly David Archuleta will win, primarily because of who's doing the voting. It has nothing to do with talent or musical ability. It has to everything do with the teenage girls who think he's dreamy. And they're the ones who are voting, not old guys like me and my Boss and the Exec.

American Idol one of those "water cooler" shows and is unique in that it appeals to an extremely broad spectrum of society - everyone from young kids to grownups (at least, certain corporate heads and helicopter pilots). It is a tremendous thing in that regard. The sponsors are certainly getting their money's worth.

Looking Through New Eyes

In my own self-aggrandizing way, I often mention how long I've been in the flying business, how many hours I have logged, how good I am...the whole bit. I am a pilot and am quite proud of it. And I'm not ashamed to let you know, either! But flying is what I do; it's my chosen profession, my career. You should be proud of what you do, and you should strive to be the best at it, whatever the field.

As jaded as I sometimes get about my career, I never get that way about flying. I love to fly - in any kind of aircraft, it does not matter. Sometimes I'll go up to the airport just to hang out. Oh, I pretend that I'm there to "wash the helicopter" or the admittedly flimsy "check on the ship" but the reality is that I just enjoy being around airports and airplanes and airplane people. I love people who love to fly. There is a...I don't know, just "something" about them. I could use a hackneyed cliche like "a soaring spirit" and that comes pretty close. Pilots generally are not depressed, suicidal people. On the contrary, they're usually boisterous, happy, "up" kind of folks. We know what we do - we're very self-aware. And we acknowledge that we are privileged to see the planet on a regular basis in a way that very few others do.

I've written about all of this before - I'm getting repetitive. The reason I bring it all up again is because it's always fun for me to look at flying through the eyes of those who are not as old and experienced and seen-it-all jaded as I.

We share our hangar with a guy named Dofin Fritts who builds and sells an aircraft called the RAF2000 gyroplane. It's a cross between a helicopter and an airplane. It has a "conventional" engine and propellor to provide the thrust to move the thing forward. As that happens, air flowing through the rotor causes it to spin ("autorotation" is what we call it). As the blades rotate they somehow...magic?...produce more lift than the energy it takes to spin them and the aircraft flies. Since the rotor is not powered by any means other than the wind, the gyroplane cannot hover. But it can fly very, very slowly and is just as maneuverable as a helicopter, for whatever that's worth. And for some people it is worth quite a lot. They are also relatively inexpensive to own and operate compared to "real" helicopters and even airplanes.

Dofin's students are often people with no other aviation experience. They ooh and ahh over my helicopter (it is pretty snazzy, even for a "lowly" Bell JetRanger), and they talk about their aviation dreams. It is quite inspiring to from people who are not yet pilots but want it so badly. It makes me smile on the inside and outside, bringing me back to when I was at that stage of the game, when all I could think about was getting in the air and learning how to do this thing.

There is a guy who runs the Brewton Airport on weekends. His name is Jeff Youngblood. His real job is in law enforcement, but he is an unabashed airplane nut, and spends much of his spare time (too much of it, probably) at the airport. Like many, his entry into aviation was full of fits and starts - it's hard to commit the time, energy and funds that it takes to learn this properly. But he's done it, of which he can be very proud. As a hobby, he buys and sells airplanes, so far profitably (at least, he hasn't lost money on one yet). In this way he can always own and fly an airplane, even if it is only temporarily. Not a bad idea! Needless to say, he wants to pursue flying commercially. And I mean, what pilot wouldn't want to get paid to do this?

We've got a lot in common, Jeff and I. Being in law enforcement he's already fond of guns, as am I. He's also a motorcyclist, which is always a plus in my book. And he currently (if only temporarily) owns an absolutely gorgeous Cessna 150, like the one I owned only nicer (...the one I owned and NEVER SHOULD HAVE SOLD, by the way). We're scheduled to go flying together this weekend. I've flown in a bunch of airplanes recently, but it's been a long time since I've actually touched the controls of one. If Jeff'll let me, I'll try not to embarass myself too badly.

Jeff has started his own blog called "FixedWingFlying." He is a surprisingly good writer. His perspective on flying at this point is that of someone just coming into the career. His stories are full of the joy we all feel when we're "up there"...the joy that some of us tend to forget over time.

I hope Jeff keeps his blog up. The path to being a professional pilot is full of adventure and fun. And I anticipate hearing the tales he has to tell along the way. I hope you will too.

Some Interesting Flying

Been busy. Oh, it's been busy, too busy to write, it seems. Plus, the laptop has finally bitten the dust. I'd been putting off getting a new one - maybe too long. First my Windows2000 glitched, which it NEVER does. Or never did, to be more accurate. It says, "Please install Recovery Disk" which I do not have not in my possession; I don't think anyone does. Then, when I booted it up in "Safe" mode, it told me further that there is some unspecified disk error. So I guess it's good-bye old reliable and hello new-laptop and, as much as I hate doing it, upgrading to Windows Vista.

Last week, I flew the Boss up to Atlanta in the helicopter, where he met up with some other friends who'd arrived by their company King Air and they all went to a Bon Jovi concert at the Philips Arena. Bossman paid for tickets for me and the King Air pilot, although they weren't on the ground floor, right in front of the stage like his. Let's just say that at any time I expected oxygen masks to drop down. Oh well. We still had a great time. Bon Jovi puts on a terrific show. And it's funny - as much into music as I am...and as long as I've been listening to Bon Jovi...I only new about one-third of the songs. Maybe half.

Interestingly, the Philips Arena had a clever anti-alcohol-abuse policy: Beers were $6.75 apiece! Cass (the King Air pilot) and I each had two. Any more than that and we were going to have to hit the ATM, and that would have just been silly.

Here's the King Air parked at Atlanta's Peachtree-Dekalb Airport snuggled up right next to an old BAC 1-11...hey...isn't that the jet Bon Jovi uses to fly around? Yepper, sure is.

We had barely gotten back home from Atlanta when I was in the cockpit of the very same King Air, playing "copilot" this time on a flight up to Louisville, Kentucky for the running of some famous horserace (I think it had something to do with a hat). Bossman sometimes borrows the plane, and he doesn't like flying in airplanes with just one pilot up front. So he requested that I join them on the trip. If nothing else, I could act as a second set of eyes in what was sure to be a very congested area.

It was. Atlantic Aviation, the operator for general aviation aircraft at the field said they had 300 airplanes on the ground at the time of the race, and they "handled" a total of 800 airplanes that day (some came and quickly departed without sticking around like we did, and then came back later for their passengers).

And here we are, just arrived in Louisville. Check out all the planes lined up along each side of a taxiway they were using for parking. This was one of many such taxiways crowded with corporate airplanes.

Here's another view, looking the opposite way as the ground service guy tugs "our" King Air into its parking spot. That's Cass making sure they didn't ram our plane into anything.

We went up the day prior to the race. Walking out to the plane, Cass graciously asked, "Okay, how do you want to do this?"

"Uhh, do what?"

"Do you want to handle the radios? Checklists? How much work do you want to do?" he expanded.

"Ohhhhh," I said, finally understanding. "Umm, nothing. I want to do nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Look, here's the deal. Cass has been flying that King Air for something like thirteen years. Same company, same airplane. Single-pilot...as in "by himself." He's a one-man-show. Now suddenly a "copilot" was thrust upon him - one with whom he'd never flown before.

Airliners are flown by more than one pilot. It is supposed to be "safer." It splits up the workload, and adds a double-checker to make sure nothing gets missed. But airline pilots undergo intensive standardization and proficiency training in the specific duties of each position. Thus, even if two airline pilots have never flown together before, they each know what to expect of each other, what their responsibilities are, and how to conduct the flight while functioning as a team. It works.

But a Beechcraft King Air requires only one pilot. And truthfully, for a large plane it is not that complicated to operate, contrary to what you might otherwise expect. Many corporations are happy to fly with the minimum crew of one pilot. If that pilot is experience and competent, then he is perfectly capable of safely transporting the airplane and its passengers hither and yon. It's done all the time, every day of the year.

So what was I expected to do? Jump in and immediately start flying as a crew in a single-pilot plane? If anything, I would be more of a distraction. Cass would have to double-check everything I did to make sure it was correct. So it would not lessen his workload in the least, and it could very well add to it. That certainly wouldn't enhance safety. As a "good copilot," I promised not to touch, adjust or move any control or switch on my own.

I would merely be on the lookout for other planes. I did volunteer to do whatever he asked. If he wanted a radio frequency changed, I could do that. If he wanted something looked up in a reference book or database, I could do that. If he wanted a Coke from the back, I could do that too. And in fact, he did ask me to do a couple of tasks along the way (not the Coke thing though, thankfully).

When we got to Louisville, the Boss asked Cass if I was a good copilot? Cass and I exchanged a knowing look: Yes, I was; I hadn't touched anything. The Boss pressed, "Did he handle the radios for you?" - meaning, did I do all of the communicating with air traffic control? I changed the subject without answering directly.

After the Kentucky Derby was over, there was a mad scramble at the airport. Everybody wanted to leave at the same time. We fired-up the engines and joined a conga-line of airplanes that were snaking their way toward the departure runway. It was like rush-hour at JFK Airport. Only, the line wasn't moving much. ATC (Air Traffic Control) did the best they could, but were overwhelmed by the sheer number of airplanes. We spent nearly one-and-a-half hours in a traffic jam on the taxiway. Some hapless pilots spent more time than that. Wasteful? Oh yes!

See all those airplanes directly in front of us? They're not moving. See all of those business jets parked to the left and the right? They're all in the process of loading their passengers and starting their engines and will very soon be trying to muscle into the line. Notice how it's still light out? The sun is still up at this point.

The flight home was at night by the time we took off. The skies were clear and empty and smooth as glass. Flying at night is wonderful...magical! Cass and I kept ourselves amused and awake as we worked our way back south to Alabama. Toward the end of our two days together (nearly five hours of that in the cockpit), we'd gotten to a point at which we actually could have acted as a flight crew. Cass is a really great guy and a great pilot. In fact, if and when we fly together again I'll...nah, I'll just sit there like I did last time.

Now Bossman is making noises like he'd like to have a King Air of his own in addition to the helicopter. Now that would be sweet! I love flying helicopters, but you sure can't sit back and relax and let the thing fly on autopilot at 27,000 feet while you have someone hand you a sammich and a Coke from the back. Like you can in a King Air.

I do believe I could get used to flying something like that!

Helicopters And Their Unique Capabilities

N206TH sitting at our jobsite in Gulfport, Mississippi

As I've written before, I love it when helicopters get used in the way for which they are designed. It frustrates me when people don't do this...when they instead use helicopters to go from airport to airport. Use an airplane! Helicopters are meant to land off-airport, at places where airplanes cannot go. Over the past couple of days I have been doing just that. It's pretty neat.

Yesterday morning, I had to run down to the airport (ugh) in Destin, Florida to pick up Mrs. Boss and take her home to the main house in Brewton, Alabama. Destin is a densely populated vacation town, and the only place to land is at the aeropuerto. Oh, it's a nice enough little strip, with unfailingly friendly and helpful people, but there just so many...airplanes...there. I usually try to avoid airplanes and the places they congregate. Anyway, after dropping her off, I picked up the Boss and we flew up to his timberland/"hunting camp" property near Selma, Alabama where he had some business to conduct.

(I remember the first time I flew up there. It was a couple of years ago. I was in the private helicopter of a pilot friend who owns a house on my Boss's property. Before landing at the camp, we stopped in to see Billy Johnson, a guy who buys and sells timber. His office is on a two-lane highway and he has this big field right behind it. So we just set down there, shut down and visited with "Mr. Billy" for a spell.)

Once the Boss was done around midday, we flew up to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where he owns a mobile home dealership. I dropped him off at the "store" (as they call it) and then repositioned over to the airport for fuel and overnight parking.

This morning, I flew back to the store and picked up the Boss around 11:30. The original plan was to drop him back off at the hunting camp where he's spending the night, but instead he asked if I'd land at a Chevrolet car dealership in the tiny town of Camden. The hunting camp is not used when it's not hunting season, and there is no food there at this time of the year. So the Boss needed groceries. I've landed at this particular Chevy dealer before. They've got a huge grass patch in the front - more than enough room to comfortably land the helicopter. Great guys, too. We borrowed a truck and then headed out for lunch and the local Piggly Wiggly. Mission accomplished, we loaded up again and headed for the camp. The Boss will be driving back down tomorrow, so I split for home, empty. Fighting a headwind, I climbed to 2,000 feet, turned up the XM Radio and kicked back for the long ride home.

Where I come from - the New York City area - the unannounced landing of a helicopter was usually a media event. People always thought that "something was wrong"...that something had to be wrong. The helicopter would always attract a crowd, and usually the local police. It could quickly become a circus. Although we helicopter pilots can generally land anywhere as long as we have enough room and landowner's permission, that's not enough. We still cannot endanger anyone or anything on the ground. So in densely-populated parts of the country you didn't just "drop in" on people, even if they know you're coming, especially if there was no crowd-control arranged. It's just too big of a risk.

But down here, the rural land is so flat and open and sparsely populated that you can really land anywhere safely. As long as you're not stupid and try to put down in the middle of a town, you can land and the occasional vehicle traffic hardly slows as it goes by. Helicopters and airplanes (usually cropdusters) are common sights for these people, and the presence of an aircraft does not always signal an emergency-in-progress. The difference is striking, and a little hard to get used to. Sometimes I'll find myself thinking, "I can't believe we can just land out here and nobody cares...nobody comes...there are no news photographers...and no police."

I get a big kick out of it.

Good Parenting

My friend Hal Johnson writes a lot about in his blog about his seven-year old son, Dylan. Hal obviously derives great pleasure and reward from being a parent. It pains him to be a pilot who is gone from home for two weeks at a time. In fact, his blog is titled, Dispatches From The Away-Dad Nation. His stories always tug at the heart a little, sometimes a lot. But, aside from being the same age as Hal (although rumor has it that he has suddenly aged a year on me as of...yesterday?), I have absolutely no desire to be a father. I know that I would not be good at it.

And don't give me that line about how you never know what kind of parent you'll be until you actually have your first child, and how being a parent "changes you." I don't wanna know, and I don't wanna change.

We went camping this past weekend. "We" being me, Matt, Alisha and her five-year old son, Dylan. It was only to the nearby Big Lagoon State Park on the outskirts of Pensacola. Kind of small, and located in a swampy area on the Intracostal Waterway (and without any real beach to speak of), Big Lagoon is often overlooked and overshadowed by our Gulf Islands National Seashore (which is mostly still closed from damage caused by Hurricane Ivan in 2005). Still, it's a nice park, and for our first camp of the season / dress rehearsal it was perfect.

I've been camping all my life, and I love it. My parents always took us camping, mostly as a way of escaping New York City. So whether it's minimalistic camping on a motorcycle, "roughing-it" on a hike with a backpack, canoe-camping in the wilderness, or "kitchen-sink" camping from a vehicle, I'm good at it. I know how to prepare and what to bring. This trip went pretty well, all things considered. The only thing I forgot to bring was milk for my morning coffee. I do wish we'd "forgotten" to bring the rum. Sadly, we never forget that.

Part of the reason for the trip was to get Alisha out more. She's only ever been camping one other time, I think. And so had Dylan. Matt and my goal is to make campers out of these city-folk.

Dylan is mildly autistic and extremely hyperactive at times. His attention-span is short, as you'd expect. But he's a great kid, and because I've been around him a lot, we've kind of bonded to the point where he's taken to calling me "Uncle Bobby." Which I'm not really comfortable with.

So it was Sunday morning and we were breaking camp. I had the Mother Of All Hangovers, teetering on the edge of asking God to just kill me and put me out of my misery. Dylan was zooming around like a dervish. If there had been walls on our campsite, he'd have been bouncing off them. He said...something...to me that ended with, "...right, Uncle Bobby?" And then he was off, doing something else. Facing away from him as I packed my gear, and assuming that he wasn't listening to me, I said to no one in particular (and not very loudly), "I've got some bad news for you, Dyl. There is no Santa Claus and I ain't your uncle." He gave me no indication that he heard it, and questioned neither statement at the time.

But Alisha heard it. And she wasn't happy. In fact, "royally pissed" would be the better term. Who was I to tell her kid that Santa Claus didn't exist?

Matt scolded me about it later. He said that kids hear everything, whether they acknowledge it or not. And I do know this to be true. My lame excuse was that if he heard me at all, Dylan will surely have forgotten that bit of news about Santa Claus when Christmas rolls around again in...eight months. And he continues to call me, "Uncle Bobby." Which shows how much he listens to me...about the same as my real nephews and nieces.

This little event explains why I am not a parent. It takes a special type of person to be a parent...you know, an ADULT. And I'm not there yet. Maybe never. Hopefully never.

I admire Hal and Matt and Alisha, and all the good, generous, capable people like them who've seen fit to bring young'uns into this world. God only knows what my parents had to put up with having us kids...six kids! It's just not for me. My best contribution to the art of parenting is that I refrain from the endeavor. I read Hal's posts about his relationship with Dylan, and it doesn't make me get all squishy inside and go, "Gee, I wish I was a parent." Nope. It makes me go, "Thank God it's not me writing that."

No offense.

Bob and Matt and Bob and Ray

I love my friends. They make me laugh. I guess I naturally gravitate to people with a "good" sense of humor...which is to say a sense of humor similar to mine.

I was out having dinner with my friend / son-I-never-had, Matt and his fiance Alisha, a couple I've now taken to calling "Malisha" since it's in vogue these days. The sound system in the place was playing some cheesy 80's music at a thankfully unobtrusive, ignorable volume. Eventually they played the classic chestnut, "Just A Gigolo/I Ain't Got Nobody" by David Lee Roth, who was most recently a former NYC radio "personality," and before that an EMT, and before that was the frontman of a little group called Van Halen (can't hold a job, Dave?).

You know the song. It's the one that trails out...

I ain't got no-bod-d-d-d-d-d-y
Nobody cares for me
I-I-I-I-I-I-I'm so sad and lon-n-n-n-n-ely...

Etc., etc.

As the song played, Matt cocked an ear and, totally deadpan and assuming that I was listening to the music said, "Uhh, to be grammatically correct, shouldn't that be, 'I ain't got anybody?'"

Hoo-man, I laughed. My pizza nearly came out my nose, I laughed. And agreed! And we "riffed" on that subject for a bit. Alisha, who had not been listening to the background music, just looked at us like we were crazy. As she usually does. And I was reminded of something I'd read about the legendary radio comedy team of Bob and Ray.

If you've never heard of them, Bob (Elliott) and Ray (Goulding) were two comedic geniuses who specialized in understated deadpan satire. In a career spanning nearly fifty years, they created bizarre spoofs and skits and fake commercials with multitudes of characters (all voiced by Bob and Ray) and sound effects. It's not a stretch to say that if they didn't actually invent it, they perfected the "morning zoo" type of shows you hear on radio stations all across the country. The new ones are all pale imitators, pretenders.

Their humor was rather low-key and dry, especially by today's standards. Over the years, as what passed for humor got racier and edgier, Bob and Ray deliberately avoided controversial topics. They weren't punch-line-driven skits by any means. And although their act worked best on radio, they were even funny on t.v., as is evidenced by an appearance they did below. (The volume is kind of low so you'll probably need to turn it up.)



Though their career in radio started the mid-1940's, they were still going strong in the 1970's, when I would listen to and laugh along with their afternoon show on WOR-AM radio in New York City back when we still listened to radio shows instead of constantly flipping up and down the dial as we do now. They kept up their act until 1990. (By the way, Bob Elliott is the father of comic actor Chris Elliott.)

But as funny as they were together and on the air, apparently they were quite different personalities and were not hilariously funny guys individually. They just never got tired of trying to crack each other up. Which is the line about them that came to me in the pizza place with Malisha and the David Lee Roth song.

I'm not saying that Matt and I are incredibly funny people. We just spend a lot of time and effort trying to crack each other up. And succeeding, most of the time. Matt has probably never heard of Bob and Ray. But I bet he'd like them.

Bob and Ray Homepage