Helicopters and Humans

By Francis Meyrick

When you fly all over the world, logging over 12,500 flight hours during several decades as a ‘chopper jockey’, you meet all kinds of people. As Francis ‘Moggy’ Meyrick puts it: ‘Some mothers do have ‘em!’ He has interacted with the fascinating cultural mixture aboard Taiwanese Tuna fishing boats and with the burly American crew of oil and gas rigs off the coast of Africa and in the Gulf of Mexico. He has flown patrol for cops in Mohave County, Arizona, chatted with good mechanics and been talked down to by certain EMS nurses. He has known leaders and fellow pilots who deserved his respect and others who seemed reminiscent of the Daleks (‘Ex-ter-mi-nate!’).
In these 44 short stories, ‘Moggy’ portrays the mischief, the many misunderstandings and the mishaps he has encountered. He describes the sheer joy of flying, mentally thanking the multi-million-dollar individuals and corporations ‘who pay him to play with their expensive toys’. And he honestly describes his own mistakes and muddles, right from his very first introductory lessons in ‘the art of rotary flight’. But the main theme is ‘humans’, as seen through the eyes of one thoughtful, gregarious Irish helicopter pilot.
This book is written for everybody, not just chopper jockeys. A brief section ‘How pilots fly helicopters’ explains the basics, as an aid to arm-chair enthusiasts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis Meyrick
• Release date: Jun 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370151622

Francis Meyrick

Location:Texas, USA Naturalized US Citizen of Irish extract - Fixed Wing and Helo trucker.Interests: "The Absurdity of Man". I am a proud supporter of Blarney, Nonsense, and Hooey. I enjoy being a chopper jockey, and trying to figure the world, people and belief systems out. I'm just not very good at it, so it keeps me real busy. I scribble, blog, run this website, mess with rental houses, ride motorbikes, and read as much as I can. I went solo 44 years ago, and I like to say I'm gonna get me a real job one day. When I grow up. ("but not just yet, Lord, not just yet") For my aviation scribbles see www.chopperstories.com.... enjoy! I wish you Peace in your Life. May you always walk with the sun on your face, and a breeze ruffling your hair. And may you cherish a quiet wonder for our awesome Universe. Life isn't always good. But it is always fascinating. Never quit.

Book preview

He not like to eat with crew

The quiet observer

Living in a cubicle

There ain't nuthin' like a good hammer

A certain rich aroma

Up to your ass in alligators

The sports section

African near-miss

One midnight in the departure hall

Old Zeke

Things that go ‘Klunk!’ in flight

The Pakistani Captain

Fire in the hole!

Those Dang Dangerous Helicopters

Benjy the groundsman

Helo underwater escape – Part 1

Helo underwater escape – Part 2

Those magnificent Daleks

What did we get her on?

Shoot-out at the OK corral

High Noon at the Butler Corral

Unpopular decisions

Serious as a heart attack

Pot? Not!

Moggy’s mishaps

Moggy on parade

Do you see any wires?

Hottentot Firebird

Fuel me Twice

Are you a Bobblehead?

The unexpected

Does High Intelligence equate to a Safe Pilot?

Zen, and the Art of Flight Instructing

Of vomit and mischief

Hey, Moggy! All that stuff you used to teach? Do YOU know it...?

Learning to fly Helicopters:

Part 1: Seduction

Part 2: Do I trust this Thing?

Part 3: First Solo in a Helicopter

Part 4: Auto-tribulations

Part 5: Oh, oh, oops...! Sorry...!

Part 6: General Flight Test and Beyond

Part 7: The Joy... and The Dark Side

More HAM than Radio

Glossary

How pilots fly helicopters

Introduction

I get a lot of emails, which is fun, and a few years ago, I received one such missive which positively bubbled cheerfulness. An exchange of emails led to a couple of phone conversations, and I found myself chatting to a bouncy young fellow, who was, in three words, ‘full of beans’.

Our hero was in the process of graduating as a Commercial Helicopter Pilot and CFI from the renowned Bristow Academy in Florida. A learning establishment about which I have heard much good. He certainly appeared to have enjoyed it, and he now faced his penultimate challenge: to wit, the giving of a presentation to his fellow classmates and his instructors. Apparently that’s a tradition down there, and depending on the graduate concerned, some have been known to give the event much preparation. To include slide shows, and detailed hand-out notes. Well, this young fellow wanted to ask me if he could use ‘Moggy’s Tunaboat Helicopter Manual’ and the associated outrageous stories from the Dark Side, for his presentation. It was nice of him to ask. Sure, I said, You bet! Just let me know afterwards how it works out!

In due course, our young Tiger called me again. Apparently his presentation, complete with images, mightily entertained the assembled hordes. A huge success. I complimented him on his zeal, and I imagine this lad is forging ahead in his helicopter career now, blazing a pathway which is filled with learning, achievement and fun.

Fast forward another year or so, and I was sitting in the Intercoastal City Base, in Louisiana, telling some outrageous story. There was much laughter, and I was probably doing my arm waving thing. I get a little carried away, and my hands become airplanes and helicopters. Thus my left hand might be a World War One Sopwith Camel, being pursued by the Red Baron in his Fokker Triplane. It degenerates into one helluva dogfight, but the outcome is a bit unpredictable. Thus I have managed to shoot down any number of coffee cups and pint glasses. People that know me are careful to slide them out of reach.

Thus I was holding forth, and there was much mirth, and when there was a quiet moment, this young pilot sat down beside me. Until they know me (doesn’t take long) they tend to do things like hold the door open for me, call me Sir, and generally treat me like a doddery old Aunt trying to cross a busy intersection. Usually, after I threaten to break their legs a couple of times, they relax, and we get along famously. Well, this was a prototype new bloke, I could tell from the carefully starched uniform, the gleaming new gold bars, and the crease in his trousers. This lad oozed newness. No worries, we’ve all been there. He was, however, wearing a funny look. Then he pointed a semi-accusing finger at me. I raised my eyebrows questioningly. Did I owe him twenty bucks? I couldn’t remember.

"That accent... that story... are you the Francis? Who writes all those stories...?"

I winced. Believe me, I have learned to wince. The scribbles are not universally lauded. There is the occasional Captain Dalek out there, who feels personally offended by everything I blog. As if it is written about him. It’s not. The song is not about you. It’s just a general, generic send-up of soulless Daleks who wish to kill (ex-ter-min-ate) every last bit of fun that can be derived from becoming a chopper jockey. In their world, there are only Captains, and check lists, and procedures, and polished, gleaming gold bars. Carry my bag, Junior! And there are no ‘chopper jockeys’...

But my new-found friend was, thankfully, no vengeful Dalek. On the contrary. He had read every last story on my scurrilous, subversive blog page, and some more than once. I was shocked at the admission of so much time wasted. Imagine what he could have done with that effort! Learned Russian, or calculus. The fact that he seemed to have enjoyed it was no excuse. In my mind, you could be forgiven for reading one or two, but all of them? (I pity my poor editor.)

As the young fellow’s story unfolded, it emerged that he too, had gone to Bristow Academy in Florida. The helicopter world is indeed, a very small one.

And this is where the story took a unique twist. He told me that he had run into money troubles, girlfriend troubles, and staying-the-course troubles all at the same time. Paying for his flying meant debt up to the eyeballs, Ramen Noodles and sleeping on a couch, and that apparently was seriously not-supported by girlfriend. She wished him to go back to his old job, which was a well-paid tradesman’s beat. Unfortunately, our hero was burned out in that profession, and regarded it as a soulless way of making money. He wanted to fly. To add complexity to the plot, as if that were needed, girlfriend was anxious to start making babies. Poor fellow! I could just imagine the disturbance in the Force. On top of all that, he was struggling to concentrate at the helicopter school, and he was behind on his classwork. He was... seriously thinking about giving it up. And going back to the old trade, and, presumably, start making babies.

He also did not get along with his regular instructor, a very serious and authoritarian fellow, purgatory to fly with, who apparently had told him he was wasting his money, and the instructor’s time. A low point, I’m sure. The school management decided to swap our hero to another instructor. This one, my new-found friend told me, was the polar opposite. The guy was funny, told all sorts of outrageous stories, and was really pleasant to fly with. Listening to the tale with interest, I failed initially to make the connection. The dots were there, but swimming around as it were. Who said the helicopter world was a small one?

This new instructor, upon hearing of my friend’s plight, and upon realizing that his student was about to give up, apparently warmly recommended... you guessed it... the scurrilous blog of a certain lower-caste rickshaw driver. He did so with the caution that my friend might spend a night or two up late. Now I started to titter. I could guess where this was going. Sure enough, several sleepless nights, a major change of heart, new-found energy and enthusiasm, and...

Here he was, at Intercoastal City, starched shirt, pleated trousers, gleaming gold bars, and having the time of his life! What a difference a change of Flight Instructor can make! And maybe some time-waster tales from the Dark Side...

Of course, me being me, infamous for my indiscretion and lack of tact, I had to ask:

What did the girlfriend say?

He laughed. Ditched her!

I feigned horror. But how about the babies?

Oh, he said, happily. A gleam came in his eye.

Don’t worry. I’m busy practising elsewhere...

Back to Contents

A very nice lady

A very nice lady, walking her dog on the beach. A very, very nice lady.

The first time I heard this story, I thought it was a Gulf myth. I didn't believe it. But then I saw the photographic evidence. It was kind of interesting. Irrefutable. Good grief. Yep. Many years ago, on a sunny day in the Gulf of Mexico, this event actually happened...

A helicopter 'communications center' is, if you like, the 'eye in the head shed'. It's a large room, with lots of telephones ringing, lots of screens, and lots of people hunched over those screens, and quietly cursing the telephones. Out there, somewhere, lots of little helicopters are plying their trade. Pilots are calling the comm center, and the comm center is calling pilots. Position reports, landing reports, flight plans...

Special requests. Can you contact the rig and get me a green deck? Can you check the weather for me at Houma? Is Warning Area Number 123 active today? The list goes on.

A quick thinking comm center controller is a pilot's best friend. But not his only friend. There are many others. Fortunately. This fact was proven in an unlikely fashion on this sunny day, but before we go there, we need to step back a moment to Cameron beach. Where a nice lady is out, walking her dog. It's a pleasant walk, with the waves lapping gently on the beach. She is well used to helicopters passing over, and pays them scant attention.

Some forty-five miles away, in Lake Charles, on this pleasant day, another very nice lady is sitting in the dispatcher's office of the Police Department. She is answering nine-one-one emergency calls, mostly the usual road traffic fender benders, and the occasional drunk trying to order pizza. She is wishing she was outside on this pleasant day, not cooped up in the artificial light, trying to politely get rid of deaf old Mister Murphy. He is very pleasant, but very hard of hearing. And also somewhat sozzled. He is a retired professional Welfare Recipient. A very popular trade these days. He's getting really pissed because his pizza has not turned up yet. And he wants salami on it, not pepperoni like the last time. She sighs. It's just another routine day at the funny farm...

Some seventy five miles away, two more very nice, very elegant ladies are sitting at the front desk of a very large helicopter company. They are very good at smiling. That's what they are paid for. They are the beaming face, that unfailingly welcomes you the moment you walk in the front door. Whether you are a potential new customer, who is maybe going to spend millions of dollars, or just a humble working class grunt, (or, going even lower, even if you're one of those very strange dudes... helicopter jockeys), you still get treated to this beaming smile. No matter how many thousands of people they see, they have this uncanny knack of making you feel that you, my friend, are special. They even remember your name. Quite a feat. They know their company structure inside out, and are capable of quickly guiding any visitor graciously to the exact correct location. Theirs is a skilful job, and requires patience, good humour, organizational excellence, and the ability to instantly recognize the urgent from the mundane.

And to react accordingly.

And lastly, just up the road from Cameron beach, are some massive oil storage units, with thousands of gallons of highly volatile liquids, just quietly sitting there. Waiting... And a small office building with some very nice workers sitting there, getting through another uneventful day, pushing very important pieces of paper from one side of the desk to the other.

Helicopters come and go, around Cameron. Hundreds of the noisy little devils. There are several major bases there. Local residents hardly look up any more. Little whirlybirds quietly announce their presence as they appear over the distant horizon. Then they get louder. Then really loud. Eventually they will clatter overhead. And get quieter again. There are so many of them, it really is a wonder that this nice lady, walking her dog along the beach, even bothered to look up. But she did. And in doing so, she set in motion a remarkable series of events....

The very nice lady in the Police Department answered the next call. She was still thinking about Mister Murphy, and wondering if he would call back for the fourth time that afternoon, even madder than before, still going on about his salami. But the next call, from the nice lady on the beach, got her full attention. They spoke for barely twenty seconds, by which time the dispatcher was already grabbing for the Yellow Pages and waving at her supervisor.

The two nice ladies at the helicopter company, when one of them took the call, conferred briefly together, and patched the call straight through to comm center.

And this is where our harassed comm center controller came in. He was working a lot of helicopters. He had an IFR flight plan to pass on, and two helicopters were waiting for a ‘green deck’ landing clearance. One of his least favourite captains was getting impatient for the weather at Boothville, and he had a Bell 407 with a scratchy radio who was unintelligible. Added to all this was Captain Luigi, who was a really nice dude, but his heavy Italian spaghetti basher accent was hard to follow. Captain Schmitt's German-American phraseology didn't help. And then there was the Mad Irishman causing chaos. And on top of all that.... now the phone was ringing. It was a circus again. Just one of those days. He answered the phone curtly:

Comm center!

The nice lady at reception said: Excuse me, But I have an urgent call from Lake Charles for you.

The nice lady from the Police Department came on the line, and said:

Hold on, I have a call from a lady on Cameron beach for you.

The nice lady from the beach came on. Relayed via the good services of the other nice ladies.

She sounded a little nervous and embarrassed.

‘Oh no’, thought the comm center controller. ‘Not another noise complaint.’

Yes, Ma'am, can I help you?, he said, maybe a little brusquely. He was busy.

Excuse me, but do you have a little yellow helicopter flying over Cameron?

Ma'am spoke the controller, restraining himself with some difficulty, (another damn noise complaint).

We have dozens of little yellow helicopters flying around all over the place.

Oh, spoke the nice lady on the beach, walking her dog.

It's just, well, this one is on fire.

"WHAT!?"

Yes, sir, it just passed over me, and I can see big long flames and lots of black smoke pouring out for hundreds of yards behind it. I don't think the pilot maybe knows...

And that is why, the following call went ringing out over the airwaves. It was a most unusual call.

It kind of... got everybody's attention. It was, indeed, a clarion call.

ANY HELICOPTER FLYING OVER CAMERON!!! LAND IMMEDIATELY!! YOU ARE ON FIRE!!

And with that the controller was waving frantically to his supervisor.

There was a sudden silence on frequency. An awful lot of pilots were now waking up in their cockpits.

It happens occasionally.

Slowly, thought processes were beginning to get going in a whole lot of simple minds. What passes for brains.

Pilots' brains.

"Huh!?"

Everybody was thinking the same.

What kind of dozy bastard doesn't know he's ON FIRE??

Which was exactly the mind-set of a Bolkow pilot, flying along quite happily on his own. On this sunny day.

As they say in pilot-speak: fat, dumb, and happy.

He looked down. Yeah, he was flying over Cameron. But it wasn't him. All his warning panel lights were out. There was no sign of any trouble. Life was good. So who was the idiot flying along on fire?

On an impulse, he craned around, looking over his shoulder, and flew a slight turn, to check behind him...

And that is why, the following call went ringing out over the airwaves. It was a most unusual call.

It kind of... got everybody's attention.

It wasn't what you would call a ‘clarion call’. More like a yelp. High pitched. A whole octave up, I'd guess.

Mayday-Mayday-Mayday! I'M ON FIRE...!

The oil workers in their office, beside the vast storage tanks, were thinking coffee and doughnuts. The important things that keep a working man awake. And going home time of course. And maybe that lovely chick on the calendar. The one in the skimpy bathing suit.

The door burst open. It was one of the staff. He was somewhat breathless and red faced.

There's a helicopter ON FIRE and he's coming down to land HERE!

"He's doing WHAT!?"

There was a mad scramble for the fire extinguishers, and a stampede out the door.

The actual photos tell quite a story.

The reason the fire alarm detection system never went off, was that the system was long since burned to a crisp.

Turned into carbon. The black, black stuff. A strange irony. A contradiction in terms. A bit like an electrical fuse that doesn't fuse. Or a Democrat voting for lower taxes. Or Dolly Parton on a trampoline.

Several structural members were so weakened, that the probability of continued flight, for much longer, was about on a par with me getting a date, skate boarding, with Dolly. (Never mind, I probably would have had to calculate her centre of gravity, anyway.) The chance of the helicopter ever making its intended destination, Lake Charles, was exactly nil. Minus nil. The certainty existed, that very soon, in a matter of mere seconds time, our intrepid aviator would have become a test pilot. Trying to fly a machine, re-configured into a most unaerodynamic configuration, never intended by the designer. Most probably, he would have become an unhappy, squealing part of a spectacular cloud of falling, burning shrapnel.

That this regrettable scenario never occurred, we all owe to the many friends of the helicopter pilot. Ranging from the nice lady walking her dog (a very, very nice lady), to the quick thinking lady in the Police Department in Lake Charles, to the very nice ladies at the front desk, to the fast thinking comm center controller, to the posse with the fire extinguishers. It just makes you think how lucky we helicopter dudes are.

I guess they all feel sorry for us.

Especially for the dozy bastard flying over who doesn't know he's ON FIRE....

Back to Contents

He not like to eat with crew...

I was doing a 'holiday relief' on a new boat.

It just meant that the boat had a long-time regular pilot, who was off on a three month break. I got to cover for him. It was a fine boat. I had my own roomy cabin, with a toilet and shower. Cool. I even had a window view onto the working deck. The captain, a Taiwanese, spoke pretty good English, and was quiet, but friendly.

My helicopter was a Hughes 500. With a C20 B engine. I had a stack of books. A beaten up, half hammered-to-death laptop. Plenty of tea and coffee. An arsenal of chocolate biscuits. And, present as always, in copious supply, a million crazy stories floating around in my inquisitive mind. Provoked and prodded along by my usual infernal curiosity about life and the living. Yes, that self-same dubious attribute that constantly gets me into trouble...

What more could I want? Life was good. In-ter-esting...

On the very first day out at sea, a knock came at the door.

I opened up, and was surprised to see a diminutive Chinese gentleman standing there, nervously, with a tray of food. I stared at him, and he looked at me, a trifle embarrassed, it seemed. I was puzzled. Slow on the uptake, I eventually inquired:

What, for me?

I know, I'm not the sharpest knife in the box...

He didn't seem to understand the question, so I pointed at my chest, and looked at him questioningly. It seemed so, he came in, deposited the tray on my table, bowed, and humbly departed. With never a smile. That really puzzled me. I had already spent nearly two years on tuna boats, and this was a first.

Hmmm... room service...

I pondered the implications over a solitary session. This wouldn't do. And I resolved to go see the captain afterwards. Mostly, I think I was just puzzled. It seemed a very odd arrangement.

When I caught up with the captain, he was standing on the bridge, staring silently into the distance.

He was a soft spoken man, quietly thoughtful, who never wasted words. I told him about what had happened, and asked him why my meal was being brought to my cabin. He told me their usual pilot, who had been on the ship for years, didn't like to eat with the crew. And insisted on having his meals brought to his room.

He not like to eat with crew...

I'm sure I looked as surprised as I felt. To me, that didn't make sense at all. I thought of the fun and interesting conversations I had enjoyed on previous boats. Sure, it hadn't all been plain sailing, there were some mean, moody, crotchety old misers, but there were always plenty of chatty, interesting characters. Who asked about my life and experiences, and who, in turn, answered my many questions about their lives and experiences. Who showed me pictures of their wives and girlfriends. Or pictures of houses they were building. Their local village. They taught me Chinese, and I taught them English. It was interesting. Frickin' hilarious sometimes.

A lot better than being cooped up in a room on my own...

The captain nodded understandingly, and asked me if I preferred to eat with the crew.

Sure, I said, emphatically...

I thought no more about it, and that evening, when it was time to have tsuh-wann, I simply ambled down to the galley. Routine. You know, you're hungry, you go eat with the boys. What the hell, eh?

I was