Hot pursuit!

Post snorkel, enjoying some freshly squeezed mango juice on the patio of the Msemo, our favourite local seaside restaurant, we hear a motorcycle from the wrong direction.  We turn and low and behold, here comes a local on one of the very common Chinese 125 cc. road bikes, but to our amusement, he is actually driving over the reef at low tide.  We watch in wonder as his bike rattles and bounces and he struggles to maintain control, at far too fast a speed for such a bizarre choice of routes.  We shake our heads in wonder as he eventually makes the beach and fishtails up the embankment and disappears into the woods.  Our curiosity is soon satisfied as a second motorcycle, carrying an angry looking Policeman, blasts past bouncing along the same route.  Hot pursuit in Mtwara!

Christmas dinner was a disappointment.  Being a farm boy, I wasn't overly put off by the Christmas goat's pleas for mercy as he was led behind the hotel by the cook, and we had two turkeys flown in from Dar es Salaam for the holiday feast as well, but try to find a mouthful of meat out of any of the food laid out after our cook finished practicing his tradecraft.  It was seriously overcooked, whatever meat that could be found, but at least the rice was good.  I had a granola bar back in my room afterwards.

I was invited to a local birthday party the next evening, using my iPhone flashlight to check for snakes on the path through the woods to the small house.  Everyone crowded into the tiny living room for a few nervous speeches from various relatives, smart phone cameras flashed capturing the happiness.  Beer, juice, bottled water and Amarula was offered to all.  Birthday cake was cut and everyone was fed a piece by the birthday girl, her husband smiling proudly and plates were then passed out by the children in attendance, the Moms all dressed in shiny colourful satin dresses. The spread was as impressive as anything I've seen, North America or anywhere else, and the meat was succulent, far and away the best I've had in Mtwara, putting our big mzungu holiday feast to shame.  I really enjoyed myself, and was soon clowning for the kids, all watching the smiling white guy nervously.  I got the impression mzungus don't often attend these local functions.  The evening put the holidays back on track.

I'm presently the only SAR Captain onsite, so I'm relegated to SAR standby everyday, watching in envy as the line bird blasts off into the wild blue yonder.  I can't complain, it's been a good tour thus far, and we are soon off to Mombasa, Kenya.  Despite the security concerns, everyone is excited about living in a high-end beach side resort for at least a little while.  I've eaten some of thee best meals I've ever had in Mombasa's many fine restaurants, so I'm looking forward to returning.

Christmas in Africa

Six thirty Christmas Eve morning, pulling pitch on our sleek Italian AW139, pushing the nose over as the blades bite into the humid air, and soon the coral runway zips by beneath us, faster and ever faster and soon giving way to thick lush green African jungle.  We turn North towards Dar es Salaam and overfly the rusted sheet metal roofs of Mtwara, makeshift shacks arranged in an impossible, indecipherable pattern, the huts growing smaller and smaller, kids and goats and ladies wrapped in brightly coloured kangas carrying wood and water and fish along the intermingled red dirt paths, muddy and dark from the evening's rain, and soon it's the deep torqoiuse of Indian Ocean reef flashing in our chin bubble, but even that disappears as we climb into the clouds.

It turns into a very long day for various reasons, crowding the limits of our allowable duty, and we arrive back at our hotel tired and hungry.  Tough overcooked chicken, "chippies", and one lukewarm Ndovu beer later, I'm soon off to bed.  It starts not long after, the soft tapping of heavy drops of water on the hotel's tin roof, just above my head, and the intensity increases, and soon becomes a roar crowding out any capacity for thought.  Generally these deluges last for twenty minutes or so and head off over the horizon, but the sky flashes brightly and KABOOM!  The lightning and thunder assaults with an intensity I can hardly fathom, and if one were to let the imagination run free, you could easily imagine the end of days.  The room repeatedly flashes in bright purple light and the air seems to collapse as yet another crack challenges the roar of water on our tin roof, air rushing to refill the gap left by the massive discharge of electricity, the lightning often carrying some three million volts per metre.  It does not wane, but the intensity appears to surge as time rolls along, hour after hour and well into the morning, the tumultuous assault does not relent and one wonders how the earth could produce such energy.  The power is simply incredible and I have not experienced anything like it.  This is a storm!

Of course the electricity and internet were lost early in the eight hour tempest, and was still not available when I woke.  No calls to my family on Christmas eve. Christmas morning, I'm back at the hangar on SAR standby, having driven the company SUV through thick mud and three feet of water, the mosquitoes thick and the frogs croaking happily, drowning out the baying goats.  I'm still itching from jelly fish stings from a evening swim the day prior.  It doesn't exactly feel like Christmas, but I do my best, listening to a Christmas compilation I've burnt from the likes of Sonny Boy Williamson, Judy Brown, Lightning Hopkins, Hank Ballard & the Midnighters, John Lee Hooker, Sugar Chile Robinson, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Eartha Kitt and a host of other soul and blues artists from days long past, and I'm feeling kind of cool.   The power is now restored, but it's two in the morning in Eastern Canada.  I want to call, to touch base with home, but I know everyone is sound asleep.  I'm crossing my fingers I can talk to home later today, and wish them all a Merry Christmas. 

It's Hot

One can dash from the air conditioned company Land Rover into the hopefully air conditioned rooms of our dilapidated hotel, or into the frisky Arco trailer offices at our temporary hangar, but that African heat will catch you somewhere.  The power often goes out, and the heat quickly builds, or the cleaning ladies, locals who have a morbid fear of air con, turn it off while cleaning one's room and forget to turn it back on, and it can take two hours to get the place back to an acceptable state, and there's always flying.  Sure we can claw our way up above the clouds and get into reasonable temperatures for the enroute portion of our trip, but it is far better to embrace the heat, like one embraces our Canadian cold.  Sure you can stay at home and hibernate, but think of all the skating and snowshoeing and cross country skiing and rabbit hunting one could be enjoying.  Granted I've been a little leery of cranking up my internal temperature pounding out single track in the hills on my mountain bike, but put on a hat and some shades and walk to the beach.  We've got a few ten kilometre hiking routes through town, stopping occasionally at road side shops, little more than rough shod booths in the shade, and enjoy some ginger beer (non-alcoholic), and best avoid going mid-day.  Accept that you will be soaked throughout by nine in the morning and remain that way all day, and drink lots and lots of water.  This is summer in the Southern Hemisphere, and even the locals complain of the heat.  I just remind myself,  it is Africa.

I've had various opportunities presented to me recently, but none involve SAR.  They are all in places with a far higher standard of living than I'm presently exposed to, and much less risk.  We are off to Mombasa again shortly, and radicals are making the headlines daily; acid attacks, beheadings of moderates, grenades thrown at Westerners, security is a very serious concern, but I like Africa.  Everything one does is fraught with risk, and death is imminent for all of us, so there's not much sense in worrying about it.  I have considered the opportunities presented, and I still might make a move, but at present, I'd miss the SAR flying too much, the hoisting, the hovering, the low level circuits, the actual flying of a helicopter, as opposed to the routine passenger transfers to the exploration platforms, the operating procedures mimicking airline travel.  SAR flying is thee best flying I've done since my days of slinging drill rods over Canadian tundra, many, many years ago.  I think I'll hang out in Africa for a little longer.......

Busy, busy, busy

What a tour!  A day flying the line crowds eight hours of lofty shenanigans dodging tropical cumulonimbus,  dark and foreboding with spectacular displays of purple forked lightning, fully entertained with the exasperation in fellow aviators strained voices, pointlessly arguing with Tanzanian air traffic control in Dar es Salaam's hectic airspace.  This is Africa, just go with the flow boys.  The African sun is oppressive and scorching and the heat in the cockpit nearly unbearable, the humidity draining, but we are having the times of our lives.  We smile knowing the choices we've made have brought us here, not wishing or waiting or wanting of anything, just enjoying the right here and now.  This life as a helicopter pilot is a pretty damn good one.  And if I'm not flying the line, I'm taking out the Search and Rescue bird for training and recurrency sorties, struggling to organize boat availability with ship Captains, or perhaps just playing in the bay of Mtwara, hovering exercises with little reference (no auto-hover in our bird) and tight low level SAR circuits, rescuing dedicated mannequins or hoisting crew to small coral formations along the shoreline.  Africa is not for everyone and turnover is high, and there always seems to be a need to train up new guys for the intricacies of hoisting over open water and heaving boat decks.  Search and Rescue flying is the most fun I've had in helicopters in years, and instructing just gives me that much more exposure.  I'm smiling.  Life is good.

 

Us and Them

 

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

I have to admit, as I travel, the deeper I dive into the various cultures I'm exposed to, and the more often I hear fellow ex-pats from various nationalities make disparaging remarks about the locals, it's all the more that I appreciate having been born and raised Canadian.  Canada is extremely multi-cultural, and growing up in that environment gives one a sense of community within the world that I've seen sorely lacking on my adventures abroad.  I'm very pained to say that racism is strong and prevalent in the world.  Canada isn't perfect, but at least it gave me a little more understanding and exposure to those somehow different than myself.  When I first started flying helicopters in Canada's North country, I had difficulty understanding the overt animosity I witnessed towards our First Nations people, having spent my youth in a high school that was fifty percent First Nations, as I had many friends from the Six Nations reservation, just up the road.  The remarks were rather silly and nonsensical, folks blaming all sorts of things on "Them".  Us and Them.  It appears to be the human condition to wallow in self pity and to blame "them" for all our woes, to exploit and embellish our perceived differences.  It got worse as I travelled internationally, people feeling very comfortable with our shared skin colour, assuming I understood, voicing their distaste for cultures different than their own, one fellow even showing me the secret KKK sign, so a fellow racist can be identified by the like-minded.  It made me shudder that people actually think this way, but that attitude is not confined to race.  While that attitude is certainly distasteful when applied to racial differences as one has little choice of one's parents, the "us and them" attitude is certainly more acceptable when applied to one's choices, but it's still a plight on the human condition.  Be it visually distinctive race differences, varied religious beliefs, economic standing, political views, favourite sport team, different school, adverse musical taste, or any other stupid inane insubstantial indicator to help one feel superior to his fellow man, to feel part of some community, some pack, like-minded and validated, that aids them in gauging their own worth on this planet, because they are too weak to stand alone.  I'm saddened to say that I understand, even though I don't like it.  It's part of the natural order to want whatever you belong to or believe to thrive, to be correct, and when your culture, or ideals, or beliefs, or way of life, feels threatened in the slightest, it's natural to want to supress those that threaten, or differ.  I don't think it's right, but I understand it.  The more I delve into other cultures, the more I try to really appreciate people for what they have to offer, to see the similarities instead of the differences.  I see us all sharing this time in space, this shared struggle to survive, to work, to provide for one's family, to have some fun, to be happy.  See the similarities and don't be looking for the differences, don't assume that your view, your way of life, your choices, while perhaps right for you, apply to anyone beyond yourself.  I'm frustrated today with my fellow man and hence the rant.  Conversations regarding the locals, their way of life, and a general lack of respect for people born with so few choices, so few opportunities, with so very, very little, infuriates me to no end.  If you open your heart a little, take a step back and see the world, really see it, and the people, and see what we share with one another.  Try to understand.  We often forget that our frame of reference is not the only one.  The arrogance sickens me.  George Carlin said it well; "Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?"  If you wish to believe that you are the standard by which all others are to be judged, fine, but please, keep it to yourself.

It was a very good day.....

It was a very good day.  It's only my second day back in country, I had covered SAR standby yesterday and got caught up on paperwork, but today, today we broke the base record for hours flown on a shift.  Up just after four, a quick breakfast of mangoes, scrambled eggs and instant coffee, we looked over the aircraft as the sun slowly crept into the East African sky.  It was quite the show.  After last night's booming thunderstorms and flashes of light, the greens were deep and lush, the earth a deep red, and the sky....the sky....we'd soon be pulling pitch and spending our day playing in that spectacular East African sky.

Considering we are well into summer in the Southern Hemisphere, and the lack of air conditioning on our particular AW139, the muggy 36 degree Celsius heat did not deter our spirits in the slightest.  Dark build-ups littered our path painting angry red and yellow figures all over our weather radar, cropping up everywhere as we flew, but one could easily see the tops, the moisture being pushed ever upwards and upwards and building until it was no longer sustainable, until lightning and thunder and heavy squalls and strong downdrafts fell to the earth's surface.  Best to steer clear.

From the Southern Tanzanian border up into Dar es Salaam, then heading well out into the Indian Ocean for a couple of trips to the rigs, we were often put into holds as Tanzania took delivery of it's latest military purchase; Chinese-made Chengdu J-7G jets, blasting around the muggy air space in tight formation.  We didn't mind.  Those boys looked to be having as much fun as we were.  Much later, back at base with over eight hours of flying and significantly more on duty under our sweat soaked belts, I was already looking forward to the next shift......

Be angry at the the sun for setting...

"Be angry at the sun for setting if these things anger you." 

Hunter S. Thompson's quoting Robinson Jeffers in "Kingdom of Fear".  People are what people are, people do what people do, things are what things are.  Getting angry doesn't accomplish much.  The quote made me smile, and helped me deal with the arduous flight from Canada to Tanzania.  Hunter S. Thompson is a well known character, often frolicking well outside the confines of the law, and getting inside his head for a brief moment has made this read quite enlightening.  Yet another perspective to draw from, and his skewed perspective certainly comes from a completely different direction than I'm used to.  Damn good book.

I read "Kingdom of Fear" on the long, long flight from Canada to Tanzania. I was trying a new routing presented by the company travel department, the connection times looking more relaxed, but I didn't notice that my upgrade to business class credits were worthless until it was too late.  My seats were shit.  Middle of the four seat row in the middle, I was unpleasantly surprised to find I was sharing my very limited space with one of the aircraft's electrical components, a metal box taking at least half of my leg room.  When a fellow traveller in front of me jammed his seat full aft as soon as he sat down and jammed the minuscule TV screen three inches from my nose, I did my best to imagine the six inch screen filling my entire field of view was actually an IMAX screen and I was sitting in a spacious theatre. It didn't help. I was not channelling Hunter when I repeatedly kicked and shook the offending seat back, assuring the occupant got about as much sleep as I did, because I didn't have enough room to move without annoying him as much as he was pissing me off, but I may have been when he pushed his shoes back into my cramped foot space and I continued to pass them further aft.  I hope he eventually found them.  Most people are cognizant of those around them and show what courtesy one can considering the limitations, but this guy was rude to everyone around, so remorse was not on my emotional plate for misplacing his shoes.  I also watched numerous inane movies, disappointed that Hollywood expects computer graphics and intense unrelenting action to compensate for poor writing, and got very little sleep.  My bed in Tanzania was most welcome.

I'm back basking in the African heat, the kitchen has a new menu, my co-workers are full of stories of adventures I'd missed over my six weeks at home.  There's quite a lot of SAR training to do, and the rig has moved way out so we are flying more hours in two days than we had been doing in a full six week tour.  It'll be good to be busy.

Back to work

How could anyone possibly be bored with this shiny beast to play with? 

 

Gibson Les Paul mahogany goodness capped in flame maple, happy calloused fingers tap dancing ethereal vibrations into vintage magnets wired in series and out of phase,  the hectic product sent into the fiery hot gases of vacuum tubes, amplified and electrified and resulting in some seriously good fun?  It's an awesome way to kill an afternoon, but after six weeks of afternoons to kill.... 

Those working nine to five Monday to Friday shake their heads, but what is one to do all day?  All your friends and family ARE working nine to five Monday to Friday.  I go mountain biking, I go hunting, I catch afternoon movies, I jam on my guitar with the amp cranked and annoy my neighbors.  I've got a few projects on the go, but quite honestly, I miss working.  And flying!  Six weeks home is as bad as six weeks away.  What the hell am I going to do with myself if I ever retire?

I head back to Tanzania tomorrow, and I'm looking forward to it.  I know I'll miss the comforts of home, my family, my toys...my guitar!  But life isn't so bad in East Africa.  Beaches and mountain biking and night clubs, and of course, taking those AW139s up into the air.  I shouldn't complain, I know I have it good.  I did get to fly the simulator in Newark for a few hours.  I finished up my Christmas shopping and have everything mailed off.  I enjoyed walking my kid through her first car purchase, a bit of a beater but she's happy, and she paid for it herself.  Makes me a proud Dad.  I'll miss her too much.

 

 

Bags loaded up with Christmas presents for the local staff, I'll spend my last day trying to sort out a crate of hunting trophies from my African safari months ago, that was supposed to be here a few weeks ago but now looks like it'll arrive a few days after I set foot back on African soil.  This REALLY complicates the customs and importation procedures, but such is life.  Time to stop whining and get it sorted.  But I really wanted to see those kudu horns again.....

Bacon

After a year of working in Turkey along the Black Sea coast, with thee friendliest people I have ever encountered, with history, culture and hospitality like I've never experienced before, I was growing weary of the fact that you might be able to find a place to have a beer, or you could head out and have some fine Turkish cuisine, but beer and good food at the same place?  Good luck.  A fun night out in Northern Turkey is backgammon and tea.  And pork?  Forget about it. 

Actually you will struggle to find anything but Turkish cuisine, good as it is.  While I've had some memorable games of backgammon while sipping tea with good Turkish friends, not to mention a wholesome year of Islamic culture, everyone was excited about our next posting; Constanta, Romania.  Night clubs and fancy cars, we knew we were in for a completely different cultural experience.  I'll never forget one of my very best friends, a jovial Finnish fellow whom I've vowed to never, EVER, drink vodka with again, piloting the other Super Puma on the flight from Istanbul into Romania (through some nasty weather in Bulgaria....a tale best told over brews), greeting the Romanian officials heading out in the dull, drizzly weather to greet us and check our papers.  The first thing out of my Finnish friend's mouth to the officials; "Do you eat bacon here?" 

Every place I've been has had it's charms, and of course, it's negatives.  I really did love Turkey, it was an enlightening adventure, but lack of bacon qualifies as a negative.  Despite the slight culinary inconvenience, I think it's in my general make up to make the best of anything and everything.   I do my darndest to take the most out of every posting, really striving to see things through a local's eyes as much as enjoying the thrill of experiencing something for the first time.  I honestly think I'd be happy just about anywhere.  You can always find something to do, something to enjoy, something to keep one sane and to have some fun.  While Turkey had it's culture and history and incredibly friendly people, Romania had her night clubs and we had nights out that we'll talk about well into the days we're plagued with dementia, assuming one makes it that far.  I will never forget New Year's Eve in Constanta (a place called "The Bank" if you should ever care to visit), although there are those among us who'd prefer to forget that evening, you know who you are.  Imagine our surprise the following day, seeing our happy faces on the local news channel while relaxing in the hotel restaurant over late morning coffee.  It was one of "those" kind of nights.  But, there was a darkness.  One could feel the pressure of a former communist regime, of the extreme differences between the generations, of struggle, the very poor, the very rich, those wanting to be rich, those pretending to be rich, and of course, the working middle-class; the good, honest people we spent the majority of our time with.  Romania has some issues they are working out and one couldn't help but feel somewhat burdened.

Now I'm touring in East Africa.  A posting I strongly requested by the way.  I haven't been disappointed.  Africa just feels more open, more free, more unencumbered, closer to what I imagine the human condition to be.  One gets lost in distractions, but in Africa, everything is reduced to a more basic struggle.  The place gets under your skin and I understand those seduced by her charms. Everything is so far removed from a Westerner's frame of reference that one cannot help but be slightly transformed, slightly reconstructed, undergoing a slight revision of one's self, if one completely lets go and is fully immersed in what a place has to offer.  Tourists take heed.

Someone recently asked me if I've ever been some place that I'd like to retire too.  No, not yet, but I have loved something about everywhere I've been.  I'm continually amazed at how adaptable we are, and I have little doubt one could set down anywhere and thrive.  I appreciate that living and working amongst the locals for extended periods offers far more insight than a tourist might gain, but the end result is that where ever you go, there you are.  You are the constant.  You are the point of reference.  But the experiences can't help but shape what you are, who you are.  I'm finding that the constant personal reconstruction as one is exposed to the world beyond one's door is becoming addictive in itself.  I truly hope I can learn to settle after it's all said and done. 

Pilot Watches

Admittedly, I like stuff.  Nice stuff.  Not disposable electronic crap, but quality stuff you could pass down to your great grandkids.  And being a pilot, watches are right at the top of the list of cool things I really like.  Pilots generally like their watches, if all the marketing and hype out there is any indication, and I'm certainly not above it.  I've always been very partial to mechanical watches as well.  The thought of all those tiny little parts, so finely crafted, oscillating with the wearer's movement, storing that energy, and ultimately, keeping perfect time, impresses the hell out of me.  Quite some years ago, I finally treated myself to my dream watch; an Omega Seamaster mechanical.  I do love the Omegas, and their Speedmaster Moon Watch has been worn on every NASA mission into space, but I wanted a rugged dive watch.  At first, I was a tad nervous wearing something so expensive on my wrist, but I soon got used to it, and it never came off.  That's real alligator....

That old girl has some 6000 hours of flying under her belt!  BUT, when I found out I'd be touring international, not always in the nicest of places, I didn't wish to risk the loss of my Omega, now worth three times the exorbitant price I paid twenty years ago, so I elected to go with a rugged G-Shock.  The G-Shock Pilot Watch is a neat piece of kit, but I truly can't read most of the smaller dials, a reason I've avoided those pilot watches with E6-B flight computers on them, and I have to get the manual out every time I do anything on it besides read the time, like updating the time zone every six weeks.  I just need the time.  Simple functionality, easy to read, batteries that don't run out, and tells the time, but looking stylish helps too.  Your aircraft is loaded with everything else you could possibly need, like stop watches to keep track of run down times, hold timings, etc..  Breitling makes some very fine pilot specific watches but don't really have anything that catches my eye. 

There are some very nice looking Bell and Ross watches from their Heritage collection, but they aren't cheap either.  I think the Sinn 856 UTC above (not my photo, nor my watch....yet) is functionally the perfect pilot watch, and very good looking too, but still too pricey to be worn in Africa. There are some pilots that don't really care much about their watches, sporting Timex and Casio, but I truly missed having some quality on my wrist.  I'm still waiting for my replacement Torgoen T16, the 771 Squadron Search and Rescue watch, but I was pining for another mechanical, one that wouldn't break the bank and make me nervous wearing it in back alleys of Mombasa.  Enter Hamilton.  Fine mechanical watches at a percentage of the Omega's cost, issued to the United States Armed forces since 1914, Hamilton's were wore on the first flights across North America by the airmail postal service, and even today, are the watch of choice of Air Zermatt and even Canada's own Snowbirds.  I went with their classic looking Khaki Field Watch below, the Officer Auto, and it's Africa bound in two weeks.  I love the styling, and that matters.  Can you think of anything that you look at more often than your wrist watch?  My great grandkids can have it someday too...

Edit:

Unfortunately I quite missed the rotating bezel of my Omega, and the water proof durability of a dive watch (having both a Hamilton and a Torgoen flood while snorkelling, admittedly both quickly replaced by the manufacturers at no cost, but being in third world countries for months at a time, you want something you can count on) so I've been sporting this very rugged Tissot SeaStar ever since.  Another mechanical watch waterproof to 1000 feet, it was gaining roughly 15 seconds a day but a free adjustment from Tissot and it's now as accurate as a quartz.  Rugged, not overly expensive, solid and hefty on the wrist, it's the perfect touring watch for someone like myself, and I love the look....been my standard wear from Milan to Istanbul to Mombasa to Dar and beyond.....

Edit - July 2016

That Tissot has been all over the globe, but I wanted to change things up a tad.  I wanted a tough simple high-quality watch, that wasn't overly flashy, nor attracted too much attention in some of the rougher places I work.  Enter my new Tudor Heritage Ranger, modelled after a 1967 model.  Hans Wilsdorf, the creator of Rolex in 1905, watched as the prices of his popular watches soared.  In 1926 he started the Tudor brand, to provide the same quality as Rolex, but without the overpriced name attached.  Patterned after Rolex's iconic Explorer, the Tudor Ranger was introduced in 1967, and this is a pretty accurate reissue.  It's a tough water proof dive watch with a screw in crown.  A Rolex heritage without the Rolex hype.  Kind of classy too.

And it looks very similar to the clock in the Super Puma!

Missing Africa

It's off to the airport again for a short hop down to New Jersey for the CAE AW139 simulator.  It seems someone has decided we need to hit the sim every six months now, for our various "check rides".  This one is the Operator Proficiency Check, as opposed to the Transport Canada Pilot Proficiency Check we are faced with yearly to maintain our commercial pilot's licence.  The OPC follows the PPC by six months.  It's a way to assure everyone is maintaining the proficiency required and following standard operating procedures, but as a TRE, I quite enjoyed giving OPCs on the aircraft in the field.  The simulator is a far more efficient way to assess a pilot's capabilities, but it's reduced some of the perks of my position.  Nevertheless, blasting off in hard IFR weather ("hard" not as in difficult, but meaning "at minimums or less", like over a decade of flying out of Halifax!) in the congested complicated airspace of Rome or New York, and faced with engine control malfunctions and fires and electrical glitches, is far more challenging in the simulator than anything we can recreate in the field.  The training gained, as usual, is first rate.  As a company TRE, I'm queried about how the script and training could be improved upon, and I provide feedback as best as I am able, hoping to improve the process.  The process is continually evolving, changing, sometimes taking a step or two backwards, but overall, forever forward.  Thirty years in the industry, I can feel it.  

All the travel, all the challenges, it gets addictive, and back home again, I quickly get bored.  I'm asking about overtime, does anyone need me?  I'm ready to head back to work, but I've still got three weeks to kill....

Disrupting

It's good to be back in Canada for a spell.  The hunting season for white tail deer opened this week, and I was able to take the .375 H&H I bought for Africa for a walk in our local woods, albeit an hour of abandoned logging roads in my Subaru and another hour of boot leather hardly quantifies as local.  Sure my .308 would have been more appropriate, but I rather like the big calibers.  The big push is invigorating, and you know you've shot a real gun.  I seriously doubt hunting here will ever be the same after living out my dream safari in the Limpopo region of South Africa, taking a record book kudu and a record bush buck last spring, but it's still good to get out on my own in the woods.  First light, gradually being able to distinguish the pine laden hills from the sky, the frost in the dry grass, finding spore and tracking, beds freshly slept in and wondering now, up into the sun for warmth or held up in the thick?  I hear a grunt and then the snap of something moving, but not even the flash of white tail.  Such is hunting in Nova Scotia.

My family is still adapting to having me home and it's not always a smooth transition.  They have to adapt and be self sufficient while I'm away, and they settle into their own routines, routines which my arrival certainly disrupts.  Something to keep in mind if one is contemplating this lifestyle.  It's not easy.

Off to Newark and the sim tomorrow for my six month check.  I abhor travelling to the states.  Much easier frolicking through airport security in Germany, Switzerland, England, Norway, Tanzania, Kenya.    It just gets silly and no one seems to notice or speak up.  Though it's pleasant to break up the six weeks off with a little challenge in the cockpit, basically running an IFR flight in the Rome area with anything and most everything going wrong, but I'd truly love to find a steady flying gig that kept my hand in without the long gaps between getting airborne.  The things I love, I want to do more.  Flying, surfing, hunting, f........

Home

Nursing a Guiness in the Carleton in downtown Halifax, the music a little too country for my taste.  I opt for Miraculous Mule and Peanut Butter Lovesicle with earphones.  My kid is at some class she signed up and paid for herself, swinging from ribbons and fancy Cirque du Soleil gymnastics, and I'm providing the limousine service.  I'm sure it's cool and I'd love to watch but she won't let me.  Embarrassed by her Dad, go figure.  My belly is full of turkey, from the week late Thanksgiving dinner my family so graciously delayed for my arrival, though they are quick to point out they only delayed because my daughter was working throughout the holiday.  It's good to be home.

Doctor Livingstone I presume?

I've been reading about Henry Morton Stanley's expedition to find Doctor Livingstone.  The famous explorer, missing and presumed dead in deepest darkest Africa, was on the very last of his many expeditions, which actually launched from our favourite Sunday afternoon hangout in Tanzania.  I attempt to fathom Stanley's trek into the unknown, losing the majority of his porters and supplies and contracting numerous illnesses that took him to the brink of death repeatedly. Stanley writes about the experience as though it were a trip through hell itself, lasting over a year, including the sea voyage from Europe.  I just covered the same distance in nine hours with Swiss Air.  I was sandwiched between two very overweight people for the duration, so the voyage wasn't without hardship, but I honestly think I'd rather have had Stanley's adventures.

 

Shopping for watches in Zurich (no, I didn't buy one) during the four hour layover, I'm happy to be well on my way once again.  I love Africa, and yes it grows on you, but it also wears on you, if the extremely high turnover at our Mtwara base is any indication.  The heat and sand and dirt and garbage, the ripe smells and constant bombardment of sounds, goats baying and the claws of crows scratching on sheet metal, Muslim call to prayer blasted over loudhailers, and everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, rap music played far too loud, speakers clipping and undecipherable.  Nova Scotia in the woods, quiet and peaceful and calling to me with tranquility.  I'll admit to being a tad homesick.  I know too, a few days at home and I'll be recharged and missing the flying, and the adventure....

My new pocketknife for touring (and hunting and fishing and everything else);  a CRKT M21-02.  Too cool!

.

I'll miss you...

While I still have two days left in Tanzania, with one bird down for maintenance and a surplus of drivers, and considering all the extra flying I've done this tour training others, I'm now off the flying schedule as of six this morning, having covered an uneventful night shift.  This life of six weeks on, six weeks off, is difficult at times.  Six weeks away from home and family living in Third World conditions, then almost as difficult, six weeks away from helicopters!  It ain't easy!

The photo above was taken in the venerable ole S61, flying offshore Nova Scotia.  I was flying between five hundred and six hundred hours a year, and never had my hands off the controls for more than two weeks at a time, if that.  I sorely miss that job.  I didn't leave by choice, my company lost the contract, and I've been touring internationally ever since.  I truly do love flying the Italian AW139, my favourite helicopter by a wide margin.  It's my first modern helicopter, and it's fast, powerful, and maneuverable, and the SAR hoisting component only adds to the fun.  I will miss taking her up into the East African sky.  With all the check rides and training, with recurrencies and new hires and guys new on type or to offshore, I've been getting significantly more stick time than most, but I still crave that Nova Scotia flying.  Fingers crossed.

 

An update on the watch.  After a taxing process and daily frustrated calls and emails to DHL and Tanzanian customs, I finally had that 771 Squadron Torgoen T16 on my wrist, for perhaps two hours.  Waterproof to 100m, I didn't take it off for a snorkel on the reef and it subsequently flooded.  Next tour Justin will bring it's replacement.  Nevertheless, I did manage to capture a few good shots...

Less than a week

There's less than a week remaining of my forty-two day hitch in Tanzania.  I do love Africa, but I am ready to go home for awhile.  Life in Africa has it's attractions.  The place certainly gets under your skin, and I know I will miss it.  Everything here is more intense, more intimate, more pressing, more real.  The complaints and concerns of Westerners pale and shame when you watch young girls stroll happily behind their mothers with twenty-five litre containers of water confidently balanced atop their head, feet clad in homemade pieces of discarded tires, children playing with toys crafted from wire and string and discarded water bottles, boys lugging impossibly heavy loads of firewood, men and women bent at the waste in the heat of the day swinging pangas to cut grass, ever wary of puff adders and black mambas.  As we bike through villages without electricity or running water, you are met with warm smiles and energetic waves and shy attempts at greetings in English, unlike in town where you are just as likely to be subjected to leering stares of jealousy.  Those leers are easily disarmed by meeting their eyes and confidently offering a heartfelt Swahili greeting, but still, the abject poverty is strongly felt.  Compassion gives way to practicality, for you have to accept that you can't help everybody, but even so, the general aura of happiness from a population with so little, is humbling to say the least.  Africa is a much needed attitude adjustment.

I ride my bike, waving at the prisoners clad in orange jumpsuits clearing brush for cassava just down the slope from the local jail, the guards standing nearby, and they all stop what they are doing and flash big friendly smiles and return my greeting.  I would not trade the experience for anything, but I am ready to get back to Canada, and my life there.

771 Squadron

Or perhaps a better title might be; "The Watch Saga Continues...."

Royal Navy makes epic rescue in perilous seas

 

My friend, Justin Morgan, is a little bit of a celebrity in SAR circles, primarily for the rescue detailed in the above link.  Now that SAR is moving into the commercial sector, with the oil and gas industry contracting SAR coverage for their offshore operations, the industry draws heavily upon SAR Techs with extensive military Search and Rescue backgrounds.  There is nothing like the experience these guys bring to the table.  Most of the SAR Techs on our particular contract, the guys who run the hoist and go down the wire to rescue folk, while we do the pilot thing up front, are ex-771 Naval Air Squadron boys.  771 Naval Air Squadron, or the "Ace of Clubs", is one of thee most active SAR Squadrons, with a history running back to the eve of World War Two.  Justin had a hand in designing 771 squadron watches, in conjunction with Torgoen, a Swiss company specializing in pilot watches.  I felt honoured that Justin felt my association with Search and Rescue, hoisting these ex-771 guys down onto heaving decks off Africa's East coast, warranted one of their coveted squadron watches. 

 

 

 

Well, it ain't quite that simple.  This is Tanzania.  Shipping and customs and duty and daily visits to DHL.  "It will be here tomorrow" we've heard for the past two weeks.  It's a beautiful pilot watch, with a rugged simplistic functionality.  I know a few helo pilots sporting Torgoens, and the 771 SAR association will make it something to be proud of, but until mine arrives, my G-Shock will be gracing my wrist for tonight's training sortie.  Ah well...





Single Engine 61

Continued from previous (below) post....

So, we are sitting in some dark Norwegian seaside pub, well into the Guinness, and I'm telling you about the time I was actually scared in a helicopter.  Sure, I've lost engines before.  Had a 206's only engine quit, but we were in the hover so no biggy, as well as a Bell 47 that I got restarted before I had to do any fancy piloting, and there was the 222 that had one engine roll back to idle power as we climbed out of a hospital helipad in the middle of the night, and there was that S76 engine that we shut down at 7000 feet IFR due to the oil temperature climbing into the red, but this one?  It scared me.

So there we were......heading South along the rugged West Newfoundland coast in a big ole S61, at about one hundred feet above ice laden heaving seas, with barely an eighth of a mile visibility in a heavy, heavy snow squall, struggling to maintain visual with the cliff face off our left, with perhaps enough fuel to make Stephenville airport, and the number two engine just gave up the ghost.  The pilot now at the controls, with some 30,000 hours one of thee most experienced guys on the planet, not appearing overly fussed about the whole situation.  I had a WAC chart in my lap and one of those new fangled GPS moving map units, trying to weigh options.  There was really nowhere to turn back to and up to now, all the squalls had been short lived.  We did not expect to be in it for long. Scouring the map, it did appear that the coast line did not smoothly lead to the airport.  There was a long point that ran perpendicular to our track, and we certainly did not have enough fuel to follow the point all the way around.  Actually, I was quite concerned about the fuel that we did have.  We didn't know why the number two engine had quit, but I was fully conscious of the fact that we had refueled from drums, and it wasn't stretching my imagination much that perhaps faulty fuel would soon be taking out the other engine and we'd end up in those ice laden heaving seas calling sweetly just below us, only to be smashed into the cliff face long before we got overly chilled.  But at present the remaining engine was plugging away happily so we elected to do the same.

The WAC chart was sorely lacking in detail, but it was obvious that we had to cross the land in front of us, to get into the bay that led to the airport.  I briefed my buddy and he shrugged and when I claimed that to our left appeared to be the best option, he pulled the aircraft up abit, banked slightly, and instead of salt water, we now had the tops of pines passing below us.  I called the powerline tower that loomed out of the snow on my right and he pulled up sharply, as we watched the wires pass just below us.  We may have lost visual for a moment but soon the tops of the pines were brushing by in the chin windows, and before long, there was our old pal the sea.  The pilot cranked right, heading up the point into the wind to maintain visual with the land, now on my side.

Now you may ask why we didn't just climb and continue IFR, but trust me, icing in those condition would have had us in a serious world of hurt in minutes.  And remember what I said about falling out of the sky if the airspeed dropped much below forty or fifty?  Keep that in the back of your mind.

So I calmly tell the pilot behind the controls that we are going in the wrong direction.  I'll never forget his calm voice asking "Are you sure?"  He cussed at my response and turned left, out to sea, turning downwind.  At fifty feet on the radar altimeter, no longer visual with land, single engine in an aircraft that requires both engines or at least fifty knots of airspeed, I watched the airspeed hit zero.  That was when I was scared.  I waited for the ice laden seas to come bursting through the chin bubble at any instant, and I felt bad that my family would be going on alone without me, but somehow the pilot in me kept calling "Airspeed. Airspeed. We got zero airspeed." 

I'm not quite sure how, but we didn't go into the sea.  Somehow that 30,000 hours of experience in the seat next to me ever so gently got the airspeed to register 20, 30, 40 then 50 knots, we regained visual with the coast, and we were heading in the right direction, but now that forty-five knot wind was on our ass.  A forty-five knot tail wind with an aircraft that needs fifty knots of airspeed to keep aloft single engine yields a speed over the ground of almost one hundreds knots, and in one eighth of a mile vis in heavy snow, trying to maintain visual reference was a genuine task, and every one of those 30,000 hours was being fully utilized.  I could hear the adrenaline in my voice as I called the mayday into the Stephenville control tower, and the tower responded with what we already knew, the visibility was one eighth of a mile.  Luckily the airport had one runway that ran perpendicular to the coast line and started right on the beach, but it was surrounded by mountains so we had one kick at the can.  I dialed up the localizer and briefed my compatriot that when I called it, he had to turn ninety degrees left and land.  I waited, and waited, watching the runway grow closer on the GPS, then the localizer needle started drifting in and I called for the turn.  There was nothing to see.  It was a complete white-out, heading into mountains with a forty-five knot tailwind, single engine.  With an impossibly cool voice the other pilot called "This is going to be fun" as he lowered the collective and I started calling radar altimeter heights.

We were grounding at eighty knots when the wheels first touched the tarmac.  Somehow we bounced and floundered with the odd glimpse of dark tarmac in the chin bubble, but eventually we got stopped and let the tail swing around putting us into wind on the runway.  We still couldn't see anything.  The low fuel light had been on for some time.  I called the tower and told him we were safely down, but we were not exactly sure where.  The snow started to lighten and we found a taxiway, and as we taxied clear the squall passed and the sun shone brightly once again.  The skies were blue.  In the end, it turned out the engine had ingested ice, probably created from the heavy snow which had accumulated in the sliding door rail, and subsequently dislodged.  It was not the first known case with the S61.

And that was definitely one of my more exciting tales.  Any pilot will tell you, it's far better to be bored. 

And there we were.....

Definitely one of my top ten "and there we were...." stories was losing an engine in the venerable ole S61 while on a longline job in the mountains of Western Newfoundland, in a blizzard no less.  It seems like a few lifetimes ago now, and best told over cold brews in a dark tavern in Norway.  Trust me, I've told many a story over cold brews in dark Norwegian taverns....

With just over 5000 hours at the time, plenty at the helm of IFR twins, but the majority single engine bush work in Canada's North, with considerable longline and slinging experience on the table, I was no spring chicken, but the pilot with me was crowding 30,000 hours, and half of that was on type.  I was still relatively new on the huge S61 helicopters, a Sikorsky certified in 1961, hence the moniker.  A tour company needed to move a new boat into the Gros Morne fiord in Western Newfoundland, and recent changes to environmental laws forbid dragging the boat over the frozen tundra, so the operator broke the boat into manageable pieces and hired us to sling the bits into the lake.  The day for the job was fraught with "streamers", intense snow squalls generated by cold artic air collecting moisture from the warmer waters of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, driven onto the mountainous shoreline in the constant forty-five knot winds that frequent these parts.  Overall, despite the odd "streamer", the weather was quite good.  The flight from Halifax to the staging area was uneventful, with mostly blue skies and a solid horizon, visibilities never dropping below a mile in the sporadic squalls, and we were soon geared up and longlining.

The slinging went off swimmingly, but there were more lifts than originally planned, and a transient A-Star stopped in and took some of our fuel, forty-five gallon drums driven across the province specifically for this job, leaving us rather tight.  We had planned a direct flight South across the four thousand foot mountains to Stephenville Airport to refuel for the flight home, and we could still make it with the fuel we had, but the idea of getting caught in the hills in one of the snow squalls had us recalculate our fuel for the longer route along the coast.  It would be very tight but it was definitely the preferred option considering the weather.

Sitting right seat, with all our slinging gear, a couple of engineers and various odds and ends safely stowed in the cavernous aft cabin, I pulled pitch and pushed over the nose and headed down the coast line at five hundred feet in blue skies and crystal clear vis.  We hit the first squall about five minutes later, but being over water, with a solid radar picture and a moving map GPS, there wasn't much cause for concern in the limited visibility and we were soon through it.  The next squall was not so nice.  Well beyond the point of no return fuel wise, the visibility kept deteriorating, as I struggled to maintain visual contact with the rugged cliff face on our left, the angry ice laden seas heaving below us and splashing spectacularly against the rocks.  I slowed and descended, slowed and descended, maintaining visual reference, and while far from ideal, it wasn't overly taxing considering the forty five knot quartering headwind. 

You see, despite all the hovering around helicopters do, they generally don't much like less than forty knots of fresh air coursing through her blades.  Below forty-five knots they become quite unstable and the pilot requires significantly more visual cues than faster airspeeds, and furthermore, once a helicopter slows to the point that their own downwash is circulating through the rotor disc, you can see a significant increase in power required.  For older twin engine aircraft like the S61, the loss of one engine is not a significant problem above fifty knots or so, but much below that and you may well not have enough ommph to prevent an unscheduled meeting with terra firma. So....

The visibility was now down to around one eighth of a mile in heavy snow, we were roughly a hundred feet above that unfriendly sea, and the cliffs to our left did not provide any options, so we pushed on, until....BANG....

That was the loss of the number two engine.  A quick survey of the gauges confirmed the number two engine had left the party, but with our forward airspeed and quartering headwind, it wasn't a show stopper.  The weather was the real problem.  The squall was far worse than anything we had encountered previously, and it wasn't letting up in the slightest.  As the cliff face, our source of visual reference, was on our left, I was struggling cross cockpit from the right seat, the helo crabbing further right in the strong wind, so the 30,000 hour guy took the controls from the left seat, and I cleaned up the engine failure and started looking for options on the none-too-detailed WAC chart we had, cross referencing our GPS.  Things were going to get more interesting......

To be continued......

Yet another medevac...

I miss EMS flying.  I still consider it thee funnest job I've ever done, enjoying every minute of nearly a decade of moving the sick and injured to proper health care.  The late night callouts, planning trips in poor weather with minutes to launch, holding one rear wheel of the old S76A on a floating dock in North Western Ontario as the paramedics unload and reload stretchers, confined areas, visiting with isolated First Nations communities, some still living in tents and following the caribou herds in the depth of winter, the roof top heliports in downtown Toronto, flaring down onto six lane super highways with traffic backed up as far as the eye can see, the camaraderie and joking with the paramedics, working as a tight-knit team.....it was a very good time. The offshore industry can be challenging, and the money and schedule is far better, but to be honest, the flying is rather boring.  The SAR element has breathed new life into the industry for me, but I still miss the thinking on your feet requirement of EMS.  If I could make the same coin.....

But, we've been tasked with quite a few medevacs for the offshore industry this tour, blasting off to Dar Es Salaam in a rush, and it's given me a taste of fond memories.  Not that offshore can't be fun too.  Blasting two hundred miles out over the North Atlantic in full blown blizzards could never be classified as boring.  The weather out of Nova Scotia added an element of challenge that not many spoke of, but every one craved.  How can life have any flavour if everything is easy?

Flying in East Africa is not very challenging.  The AW139 is a very capable bird, and apart from seasonal heavy rains, the weather is generally clear and bright, and one does not have to worry about icing.  There are other perks to touring offshore internationally, but those perks are apart from work, apart from challenging flying, and generally involve the cultural aspects of travel.  Where else could one step back in time and ride in a dug out canoe, fresh from fishing the outer reef?  Take a bite of life, whatever the menu presents...