They don't have a clue...

So I'm in the Aberdeen training centre on my annual Super Puma recurrent, and chatting with other pilots around the coffee machine, and the conversation goes thusly;

"Where are you still flying L2s?"
"Gabon, just above the Congo"
"Damn, who did you piss off?"

You don't have a clue mate.  Touring internationally is where it's at, if you don't mind a little adventure.  That North Sea routine just has to wear you down and suck the life out of you.  You drift towards seriously over-complicating everything when you become established long term somewhere relatively cushy.  Boredom perhaps?  I've done the first world bad weather production bases to death.  My opinion; you're far better off chasing challenges than settling into anything resembling a comfortable routine.  It forces you to keep things simple.

I've done the heavy IFR offshore base life and have seen how something relatively simple, and dare I say fun, can somehow become tedious if you have the right personalities around.  I spent eleven years flying out to rigs nearing 200 miles out into the North Atlantic, off Canada's East Coast, where coming back to 1/8th of a mile vis and 100 feet ceilings was pretty common, and sixty to eighty knots quartering headwinds far more de rigueur than any sane person could hope for.  I flew to those Sable Island rigs in venerable ole S61's with no auto-pilots and no de-ice,  all hours of the day and night, flashlights nervously checking the mirrors to see if we were in cloud and picking up ice, not really sure what our options were if we had been, the world outside black as the inside of a cow.  I launched out into the same melee in full on blizzards at night when the roads were closed in fully de-iced Super Pumas, watching ice build on the mirrors and wipers until it broke off, nervously watching the torques to make sure Aerospatiale's engineering teams had done their homework.  I recall returning one night discussing our pathetically slow approach ground speeds with air traffic control when the winds were nearing one hundred knots, and their response brings a smile to my face to this day "Don't worry fellas, there are no other aircraft flying within hundreds of miles of here tonight".  It was fun, but you could watch things getting bogged down with bullshit as new players entered the game.

I run into so many North Sea guys who seriously do not have a clue to what lies beyond their little corner of operations.  "Who did I piss off to get an Africa posting?"  I live for postings in Africa!  Take that North Sea mentality, your two alternates and airline procedures and your massive support network, and just try to apply them to flying in third world locales with monkeys bouncing around the rafters and just see how much actual work you get done.  Black and white doesn't wash here, you have to know how to work with grey.  Shades of grey aplenty.  Questionable work VISAs and government officials whose whims and moods control your very existence, parts that may be weeks getting through customs, bizarre procedures that make the most world weary pilots shake their heads and smile.  This here is the show.  I've done the dedicated first world IMC base, the production end of the quest for oil, and if you really want to be challenged, try bouncing around Africa, South America or the Middle East setting up and moving bases every three months.  Better yet,  take on a management role setting up these operations;  dealing with temporary import laws, custom brokers, national aviation officials, aviation fuel, hotel headaches, permit after permit after permit, and endless KPI requests from tier one, two and even tier three customers, stay calm while AK47 touting cops try to detain you because some competitor whispered into someone's ear that you were smuggling drugs or perhaps flying in mercenaries to over throw their government.  Time for the big boy pants.  Not to get too full of myself, but please, unless you've been there, quell the attitude.  The North Sea is not the be all end all.  But, offshore flying anywhere is chock full of egos and attitude, and I often miss strapping a bucket to a Huey and fighting some good ole forest fires, or perhaps taking some VFR Pumas into the high country for some UN fun would be a welcome change?  Dealing with over blown egos is all part of the game.  Embrace the challenges.  Therein lies the spice of life.

Travels in Black & White

Sadly, I've left Africa yet again, and after a night in Paris, one night at home in my very own bed in rural Nova Scotia, followed by a night in London, I'm now back in rainy drizzly grey industrial Aberdeen.  Despite a relatively slow year, I've now managed to accumulate more than enough miles to grant me Gold status with Star Alliance in 2016, a pretty big deal when you travel this much.  Gold gets you through most security and check in lines rather quickly, plus numerous other amenities that makes travel a little less intolerable.  The weather here is crap, but the Scots really are lovely, and I quite like the place.  I'm back for my annual recurrent sim training and check ride on the Super Puma L2, and I should be back home in time for Christmas.

Travels in Black & White

I decided to put together some of my favourite photos to share my travels, together in a single slideshow.  Click the orange link above.  I hope you enjoy them!

Getting Hot

The temperatures are climbing here on the equator.  You can expect to be damp and slick in sweat within minutes of stepping outside, but it's not unpleasant, almost comforting, embracing.  Coming from a frigid climate, whenever one starts to sweat, you just peel off a layer or two, slow down a tad, open your jacket for a few minutes, but here in Gabon, already in shorts, sandals and a linen shirt, you just have to embrace it.

I'd like to see much more of Gabon.  Paul Du Chaillu, a young Frenchman and amateur taxidermist, lived with his father just South of us in the delta of the Ogooue River.  As his father traded with locals from the interior in the late 1800's, Paul spent his time collecting specimens and sending them on to the Royal Geographic Society in London.  One can only imagine what went through his head with his first sighting of a gorilla skull, the first ever, discovered on one of the boats bringing goods from deep in the interior.  He later mounted an expedition experiencing wild encounters with cannibals, snakes and tribal kings, searching for the mythical monster.  When he finally managed to secure actual gorilla hides, he mounted them and headed to London for the world to see, walking smack dab into the biggest scientific debate of the time; Darwin's theory of evolution.  It started just South of here, waypoint Sierra One, where we call in and out of the Port Gentil airport control zone.  I'd love to get into the interior, as there are gorilla viewing expeditions available, but the costs is prohibitive, especially considering the present market for offshore pilots.  

I had read Albert Schweitzer's "Reverence for Life" in my twenties, and it definitely shaped my outlook.  His philosophy was rewarded with the 1952 Nobel Peace Prize, and he used his winnings to build a leper colony in Lamarene, once again deep in the interior along the River Ogooue, where Paul discovered gorillas decades prior.  The hospital is still a popular tourist attraction.  Damn, I wish a had a few extra grand and time with nowhere to be.

I'm still loving the flying, in the heat or not, it's always good to take to the skies.  I still score the odd afternoon at the beach.  Reading with my toes wiggling in the soft sand, or snorkelling in the warm waters of the Atlantic, gliding amongst clouds of iridescent fish and the odd barracuda, watching stingrays shimmy and hide themselves in the sand, or swim off gracefully, the odd tinge from remnants of a torn jellyfish tentacle.  Life is good.

Where is my mind?

I'm still plugging away here in the jungles of Gabon, embracing the rainy muggy heat, smack dab on the equator along Africa's tantalizing Atlantic coast.  I've been fishing amongst my many contacts for rumours of future opportunities, wherever they may be, for our days here are numbered.  I watch with interest as container ship traffic plummets, a very good indicator that the entire global economy is on a downward swing.  A butterfly flaps it's wings.  More offshore oil rigs are being parked weekly. This storm ain't over yet and more and more good friends are finding themselves laid off.  I'm thinking the recovery just may take a little longer than my optimism has entertained.

Still, I'm flying plenty, and absolutely loving the lush green tucked under grey skies, seeing herds of elephant, buffalo and hippos almost daily.  That ain't so bad.  Take it one day at a time, there's adventures aplenty to be had.  Last weekend we found ourselves walking around town somewhat after hours, the sound of wailing electric guitars and live music drawing us into a rather shady looking hovel.  I'm blown away to witness a near perfect rendition of the Pixie's "Where is my mind?" by some local guys cutting it up through cheap Chinese amps.  One of the bar's many night fighters aggressively propositions my Zimbabwean buddy, and his rejections are met with angry screaming and yelling and a ridiculous waving of arms.  We aren't sure if he's really offended her, or if she's just making noise so we pay her to be quiet, but we end up ignoring her as I lose myself in the most authentic Pixie's cover I've ever heard.  My buddy eventually leaves with the angry courtesan in tow, still ranting and raving.  Even the singer notices the scene, commenting to the sweaty drunken crowd; "Can't we all just get along?"

For the most part the people really are lovely.  Of course there's the crazies that you could find most anywhere.  My favourite is the guy who walks around with his trunks literally around his knees, perhaps taking the fashion statement from the American youth with their pants hung stupidly low a tad too far.  If you happen to meet him in the street, he yells and waves his arms angrily at you but if you wave yours back with equal vigour, he wanders off harmlessly.

I spent the following day at the beach with a Dutch fellow who was working in Iran with Schreiner Airways when Khomeini overthrew the Shah in '79.  I had read James Clavell's Whirlwind, roughly based on Bristow trying to get their helicopters out of Iran at the time, when I was flying Jetrangers and living in tents in Northern Quebec bush camps, so I knew the story well.  It was something again to hear it from someone who was actually there.

The rain falls and the afternoons are lazy.  I think about my friend Juan, no longer with us.  I think about home. I think about the future.  Whatever comes next, the big blue ball keeps turning.....

*Google Edward Norton Lorenz for the butterfly reference.

Tribute to Juan Lemus

Hasta siempre hermano....

It's a very sad day today.  My very good friend, Juan Lemus, flying a Longranger L4 near the Nicaraguan and Costa Rican border, crashed on Tuesday.  He did not survive.  He was flying a Coca-Cola executive, and another from Tampa Juice, plus a former Nicaraguan Cabinet Chief that is still missing.  Visibility was an issue at the time of the crash.  I had chatted at length with Juan on Sunday about his spray operation in Nicaragua, something he was very proud of, and he offered opportunities for myself if ever the need should arise.  I will sorely miss my good friend.

I first met Juan in Morocco and we immediately became friends, flying together often, and spending lazy afternoons walking along the boardwalk of Agadir in search of the perfect cup of coffee.  We met up again in Suriname, where I was pleased to sign off his Captaincy on the AW139.  We discovered more than a few cool haunts in that South American jungle town, and I considered him to be one of my best friends.  I'll never forget that dive with the pool tables, of old barn boards on stilts out over the lazy Suriname River, Motown hits from the 60's competing with croaking frogs and cicadas, where we hung out most every night after discovering the place on one of our walkabouts, nor the evening trying to find each other in the traffic and mad crowds of Suriname's yearly festivals.

Juan presented me with one of my most prized possessions; a gorgeous, heavy weight Mont Blanc pen that he picked up in Dubai.  I'm using it now and it flies with me everywhere I go.  He had tons of style, was extremely competent at everything he did, and carried himself proudly but maintained a humility that impressed everyone he met.  He'd often entertain us as he reminisced of his days flying Mi-25s for the Nicaraguan Army in the 80's, and in the air he had the hands and feet of a master.  Hard working.  Uncomplaining.  A very good pilot.  A very good friend.  I will sorely miss you Juan.  I wish I had made it down for that visit......

Another day in the jungle

Another day of aviating over the jungle, surprisingly at ease in the close humid heat of Gabon's rainy season, damp and happy in my trim-fit 85% cotton uniform shirt, far more comfortable than the high-polyester company issue, my black special order buffalo hide Courteney boots, thirty year old Ray-Bans and David Clarks, DPx survival knife handy should ever the need arise.   Dodging buildups, the reds and yellows painting abstract art on our radar screen, jungle moisture climbing for the heavens in the African heat, and spectacular flashes of lightning against purple skies that could easily ruin one's day, watching families of elephants stroll leisurely down the forever beaches.

I'm haunted with an early morning image of one of our engineers; a good friend and Canadian to boot, snuggled unhappily between two Gabonese gendarmes in the back seat of the police SUV, another couple of serious looking policemen in the front, complete with mirrored sunglass.  I was genuinely concerned for my friend, but really wished I had the balls to pull out my camera and take a photo.  He looked scared, and rightfully so, claims a local, as these guys can be bad news.  My friend forgot his passport and could not produce it upon request. These roadside police stops are common enough, and he got caught out, and we were called to help.  We found his passport and delivered it as soon as we could, but the gendarmes were still unhappy.  The "ticket" for getting caught without one's passport increased exponentially each time we asked.  But when we said we'd pay if we could have a receipt for the infraction, the head gendarme firmly responded that the exorbitant fee would have to be sorted at the police station, and there would be no receipt.  Perhaps my pilot uniform and snazzy four bars helped sway the deal, especially when it was mentioned that we all worked for the oil company that pretty much owned the town, and miraculously another fee, nary a fraction, could sort it all right then and there and we could get on with our work.  Africa.  Would have been a great photo, but my friend still has a great story to tell.

As it is most everywhere I end up, internet has been sporadic and often non-existent.  One is bamboozled by our accommodations; clean, bright, modern and stylish, one almost expects first world amenities, but even here one wonders if there'll be water for a shower in the morning, or after returning from a full day of Super Pumas and dodging abstract radar images.  I take to grabbing a pailful of water from the tiny rooftop pool and wash up with that, smelling of soap and chlorine.   The landlady tries to woo the fire department into parting with some of their supply,  and we wonder about shortages when the stuff is everywhere, coursing through crocodile infested rivers from deep in the interior, even falling freely from the skies with increasing regularity.  Regardless, I really don't mind smelling like pool.

Walking around town on a rare day off, I hear squawking in the trees, to look up and see countless fruit bats clinging to the branches.  I take photos, poop falls on my head, then my buddy claps and the nightmare creatures take to the air in the thousands.  It's pretty cool.

A Good Day's Flying

It was a good day's flying yesterday, once again taking to the heavy humid skies over the lush jungles of Gabon after enjoying a few weeks of a splendidly crisp Canadian autumn.  Mornings of frost and cold feet, breathtaking hues of deep oranges, reds and yellow as our East Coast hardwoods shed their foliage, signalling the coming of winter, I'm now back to the heat, back to the equator, back to Africa. Due to local airport construction and notamed daily closures, we set down on a jungle strip to the south to spend a lazy afternoon languishing in the heat.  There were no taxis to be had in the little village whose sole raison d'être is black crude, so we flagged down a smiling local in a beat up Toyota, windows permanently open or closed or missing entirely, doors tied shut with yellow twine, that drove along tilting heavily to the right and pointing about thirty degrees left of track as we creaked down the surprisingly perfect tarmac.  We negotiated a fee to find some elephants, known to be everywhere around town, in people's back yards upending garbage cans, stepping on flowers, creating harmless mayhem but loved nevertheless, and our new friend took in the hapless tourists for a tour of the area.  He recounted tall tales of elephants everywhere; why just that morning twenty crossed the road to the airport delaying scheduled flights, gorillas walked about regularly, scaring the daylights out of the lady folk, beating their chests before disappearing into the dense foliage, and he'd seen a panther only a few days before.  We rolled our eyes but listened politely, as his good nature was infectious.  We used our fancy pilot uniforms and a bit of self-imposed importance to sneak through security into one of the oil company compounds, our mode of transport raising eyebrows, then once again, flashing smiles, acting lost, feigning innocence, we managed to score some fine grub for ourselves and our driver from the oil company kitchen.

The afternoon flight back to base was to be one of my best flights in a very long while, right up there with flying Search and Rescue exercises with the Surinamese Coast Guard, landing on mountain pinnacles with a wood bladed Bell 47, long lining with a 206, water bucketing...ah hell, it's all awesome...but yesterday's flight was special.  As we careened over the Gabon jungle in our Super Puma, and crossed marshes with herds of water buffalo and elephant, rivers with crocodiles and hippos, I smiled....happy beyond reason.

Back at base no one has been able to locate the cel phone left by my back to back.  We can't find it anywhere, even though we know where it was supposed to have been left.  We figure it's time to give up when I get a call from the missing phone, with some unknown fellow demanding 20,000 Central African CFA francs for it's return!  We refuse to send the money as requested and ask our wily friend to come and collect the money himself.  Could he be so stupid?  He is, and he does, and obviously we all recognize our own night security guard.  Needless to say, we recovered our phone, didn't pay a cent, and he lost his job.

Off today and watching rugby with the boys, maybe hit the beach later.  Looking forward to another good day of flying.....

Damn Oil Prices

This isn't my first foray into a market of depressed oil prices, having started in the industry in the oil glut of the 80's.  Prices dropped from a preposterous $35 a barrel to below $10, and yet I still managed to find a flying job with 100 hours under my belt and the ink still wet on my licence….so forgive me if I don't panic.  But still, the market uncertainty is a pain in the ass, as I'm holding off on splurging for that 16 speaker sound system for my old Subaru.  Not to mention there's a gorgeous walnut-stocked Sako 85 Bavarian 30-06 in the shop just up the road, but all excessive spending just has to wait until the market solidifies considerably.  I’ve been on four base closures in the past twelve months, yet here I am.  I’m probably a tad more acclimatized to impending career implosion than most.  But it sounds like Gabon, considered to be Central Africa (not "West Africa”, as I've been corrected), might just keep me occupied for awhile.  Forever reading every oil industry expert’s forecast about just where the cost of a barrel is headed and when gets me nowhere, and I think I’ll just cut back on the spending and take it one job at a time....

Quick story…Perhaps I'm just a tad slow, not sufficiently aware of the risks that lurk around every corner, not overly affected by all the media’s fear mongering, overly trusting in my fellow man’s common courtesy, despite his or her’s skin colour or financial situation, but I don’t know how some people manage to function with such a dark view of the world around them.  We generally don’t work in the real nasty spots.  I doubt most of my postings would even rate in Robert Young Pelton’s “World’s Most Dangerous Places”, but I certainly do venture well outside of the common tourist haunts, and I frequently frequent those places that most would advise to steer well clear.  Fond memories on the edge.  Certain night clubs in Mombasa come to mind.  Bombs have gone off under tourist vans nearby or in the next hotel down the beach, there’s been the odd kidnapping in the vicinity, I’ve circumnavigated and walked right through more than a few riots, heard grenades and machine guns, seen some dead bodies, but it’s not like we are navigating active war zones.  Yet some of the professed tough guys get really nervous when they are ever so slightly out of their element.  I’m often surprised by just how nervous some guys get, especially considering their backgrounds.

I was walking with one fellow in a small town nestled in the jungles of South America, and he kept remarking nervously on the obvious lack of Caucasians and the odd crack-whore stumbling out of alleys as we walk along on a gorgeous sunny afternoon.  He rambles on about how we really shouldn't be in this part of town....and I can hear the nervousness build in his voice.  I try to reassure him that there's no need to worry, it's mid-day, and no one is paying us any mind, everyone is just getting on with their day, relax...but no, it's just too much and he wants to head back to safer territory.  I relent, just as two young blonde Dutch girls ride by on their bikes, smiling happily, probably not even twenty, woven baskets on the handlebars, flowers in their hair no doubt...they ride by and wave.  He may have been a tad embarrassed with his overt concern.  The point is, just relax, smile, be easy going, don’t get upset, be polite but firm if anyone gets aggressive, and you’ll be fine.   People are busy enough with their own shit.  I’ve seen local lads approach friendly enough, then as their comfort grows, so does their aggression, and you have to know when to check it, as things can escalate quickly.  You get to know when to walk away before things get out of hand, when to push back, when to go apeshit…

Relaxing at home, quite enjoying a National Geographic.  Talk about feeding the imagination of youth!  Pouring through years and years of issues at my Grandmother’s, dreaming of a world so far removed from my own.  Daring not to hope.  I could live a thousand lives struggling to capture National Geographic moments.  In this age of internet, 4G, Netflix, Facebook and iPhones, with attention spans so short one appreciates our autonomic nervous functions rattling along splendidly without our input, I take pleasure in holding the glossy pages of National Geographic's colourful and dense little magazines, sitting by the window with a hot coffee dreaming of other worlds.  They knocked it out of the park this October, with a Daring Journey on the Congo, and Uncovering A Lost City, plus Trekking Glacial Wild's of Sweden and Canada's own West Coast Sea Wolves.  Last month it was Ivory Pouching and climbing in Myanmar.  Who doesn’t appreciate a little adventure on a cool autumn afternoon.

Headed back to Africa Tuesday…….

ACP

It's all about the flying.  Pull pitch, engines whine, blades eat air and the whole noisy mess launches into the blue.  If you're not in it to get airborne, for that bird's eye view of your piece of the planet, I really don't see the point.  ACP, TRE, TRI; it all just gets me up with the birds that much more.  I recall six months into my first offshore gig, the boss asking me if I'd like to take on a training role, as I was rather keen and no doubt, driving him nuts.  There were guys with bags of hours, but they couldn't be bothered.  I figured as long as the training contributed to my time up, up and away, I was all over it.  I received some training myself; how to teach, how to introduce and manage simulated emergencies, etc. and I was soon signed off as an instructor.  You'll get much more flying if you've got some training acronym in your title, as you'll get the lion's share of the flying on most any offshore oil support base.  Generally every time there's a new pilot on base, and turnover can be quite high on the rougher postings (I'm really not sure what guys expect when they get into this), they often require a fair bit of training, and depending on their background, they may have to fly the line with a training guy for awhile, so you'll get tons of hours trying to get new guys up to speed.  Then there's check rides and line checks, and currency requirements to be met.  If you like flying, get into training.  Now there are training posts where you don't fly at all, like running manufacturer or company training programs full time in a simulator, which is a great job depending on your situation, but for now, kicking around the four corners of the globe trying my damnedest to emulate Indiana Jones, the extra time airborne in addition to flying paxs out to rigs is fine by me.  I've now got bags of hours doing a myriad of different things and I quite enjoy passing on what I've learnt over the past three decades of wrestling these noisy contraptions up into the blue.

On a recent ACP refresher course in Vancouver, I was surprised at the amount of psychology that comes into play.  Sure, you have a standard to maintain, and your job is to ascertain that the pilot is up to the task, and can safely manage a flight, as safety of the travelling public is paramount, but we spent a great deal of the course going over just how to determine where the deficiencies lie, and how to correct them.  We don't get into pilot's relationships with their mothers, but we may try to help them understand that the mistake made was due to some poor cockpit resource management skill, like not prioritizing or operating single pilot when you've got a First Officer sitting beside you twiddling his thumbs.  It was only a refresher for me, but it's always enlightening.  Some of the techniques come naturally, as most of the guys in the room had been instructing for as long, if not longer, than I have, but I did come away with a renewed arsenal of tools to keep the standard where it's supposed to be.  And safe.

As long as I get flying....

Fasten Seat Belts

I never saw much of the Addis Ababa terminal the first time I was through Ethiopia, enroute to Mombasa over a year ago, for I was met by smiling Ethiopian Airlines staff as I stepped off the Dreamliner from Toronto over four hours late, my name boldly in marker on a cardboard sheet.  I had long given up on making my connection, settling into that hapless feeling of resignation of a situation beyond my control, but I soon found myself heading down onto the tarmac, jumping into a waiting pickup truck, and was whisked across the ramp directly to my Kenya bound bird, loaded with passengers albeit for my empty seat, patiently standing by for yours truly.  My bag actually made it as well!  That's very good service!  The second time I flew through Ethiopia I was unpleasantly surprised by the Addis Ababa domestic terminal's horrendous Africa toilet story a few posts back, but this time, thankfully, this time it’s the International terminal, with a convenient and well decked out Gold member lounge with all the amenities and late night grub one could hope for.  

Relaxing in the plush business lounge with free halibut steaks in a marinara sauce, rice, fresh vegetables  and a fine Chianti, I did a double take when the spitting image of a very good mate, only thirty years his senior, looking cool and stylish, took the seat beside me.  I kept looking over, trying not to be too obvious, perhaps some industrial accident had turned all my pal's hair white as snow, but it turned out to be someone else.  I texted my pal;  "you’re going to be the shit when you get older".  He seemed to appreciate the dubious glimpse into his future.

For some reason Ethiopian Airlines is not on our company’s preferred airline list, but I’m quite impressed with the airline.  Flying modern birds, with one of the world's largest fleets of the new Dreamliners, smacking of cleanliness and newness, friendly service, convenient routes....what’s not to like?  Of course there was the Ethiopian Airline's pilot who locked himself in the cockpit and hijacked his own plane and headed for Europe for asylum, the same day I was on one of their aircraft headed somewhere else, but I'm sure he had his reasons.  Despite their impeccable style, things sometimes do go awry.  When our wheels touched down in London after eight uneventful hours from Addis Ababa, very, very smoothly I might add, one hapless fellow had his seat belt off, carry on recovered from the overhead bin, and was careening down the aisle for the exit, as the oleos were still busy compressing on the gear.  Within seconds, at least half the other passengers, seeing buddy jump the queue, were up and grabbing their bags and heading for the door as well, as we continued down the runway still over a hundred knots.  People stumbled and fell as the pilot braked to exit the runway, and still people were getting up and the aisles were soon full of pushy swearing stumbling passengers.  Sitting belted, quite enjoying the show, I half expected one of the stewardess to bark some warning for everyone to sit back down, but no, we taxied and turned and braked and people stumbled for at least another twenty minutes before we were finally parked at our gate and the fasten seat belt sign turned off.  I have never seen people in such a hurry to get off such a fine airliner.

After a few days of brutal travel, I'm now in Vancouver on an Approved Check Pilot renewal course, with quite a few old friends in the classroom with me.  War stories, industry news and catching up, all the while recovering from jet leg and I don't know how many thousands of miles.....

$18 G&T

Baking in the heat poolside with some Bombay Sapphire and tonic, the tinkle of ice in a tilted glass. A good book.  Life is a splendid thing, sitting on rooftops contemplating the world's woes, retrospective glances at perfect moments. Losing my train of thought with an unwelcome bout of sneezing, fuck sakes.  Another tour down and headed home, at yet another hotel in yet another town as this first connection is a long one, checked in and dug my swim trunks out of the bag.  My last chance to soak up some rays in West African humidity before heading back to Canada.  I quite enjoy this life, not so much the offshore oil, other than the romantic appeal of exploration, classically involved in the worldwide quest for resources, but my own little piece of the pie, my perspective, flying noisy old Super Pumas and gauges and switches, the scent of jet fuel and hydraulic oil, and rooftop reflection.  Refreshing farmer's snort to clear the head and stem the sneezing as there is no one else up here, and all is right as rain once again.  I'm always enjoying myself, positive, hoping it's infectious but one can't be bothered with what anybody thinks if one wishes to be true to oneself.  Just be me and let go.  I don’t have it figured out but sharing the journey just might help someone else.  Sometimes allowing myself to think large and but mostly thinking small, more immediate.  Everything is more immediate in Africa. 

But that's the gin talking, and l'addition is soon delivered setting me straight.  

Last week while fixing my window the local lad dropped my Leatherman and broke one of the key features, so I gave it to him and started looking online for a replacement.  What do I need in a do it all tool for touring?  Heavy duty kick ass pocket knife well covered with my DPX HEST/F 2.0.  Things I have needed over the years; pliers, scissors to trim my ever growing ear and nostril hair, glasses screwdriver to fix my forever falling apart Suriname Carreras, bottle opener, cork screw, various screwdrivers, wire cutter….and guess what? Leatherman makes something that exactly fits the bill!  A Leatherman with a corkscrew???  Life just keeps getting better!

Last bare foot walk on a Gabonese beach prior to leg two.  Ethiopia tonight.  Wahoo!

Another tour under my belt

I'm nearing the end of yet another tour, in yet another corner of the globe, and it's been a rather quick one.  Forty-two days is never absolute, as time compresses and stretches depending on so many variables.  I had never been to Gabon before, it was the first time I've met about half the guys on this job, I had never flew an L2 before, despite my simulator time and L/L1 experience, and we had a new base of operations to set up.  There were excitements and challenges and adventure to be had, and it was all new.  It was one of the quickest forty-two days in recent memory.

I've only a couple of days left, all my homeward flights and hotels are sorted, and packing won't take me but a few minutes.   I'll still be busy.  I'm still covering the line and flying, and I have an Approved Check Pilot refresher course in Vancouver the Monday after I return home, and I just received a rather brutal exam that I have to have finished beforehand. I have over three long days of travel ahead of me; a charter flight to the capital and an overnight, a five hour flight to Ethiopia, arriving in the middle of the night, then an eight hour haul to London in the wee hours of the morning, five hours killing time in the Star Alliance Gold Lounge at Heathrow, then another seven hour flight to Halifax, my own bed for one night then I'm flying across Canada for another ten hours of travel.

But, that's the job.  The pay is decent, and the experiences are like nothing you could ever attain as a tourist visiting these places.  First you get to places that few tourists ever see, you are living and working amongst locals for weeks at a time, you make friends and connections and see how lives are lived so very far removed from one's own, it can't help but change you.  I love Gabon.  It is still Africa but it is more familiar than East Africa, less immediate, more relaxed.  I wish I could afford to stay on for a few more weeks and takes treks and boats deep into the interior and see all the country has to offer, but I have commitments and people waiting for me back home.

And I'll be back in October......

Coffee and Cologne

So one of the guys working on the hangar floor walks into the flight office today and comments;
"It smells like pilots in here; coffee and cologne."  I can't help but smile.

At my favourite restaurant with the resident rat (I'm assuming there's just the one), we asked the owner if she knew anyone with a boat, and she hooked us up with Paul, a local Frenchman that has lived in Gabon most of his life.  We gave him a call and haggled over prices and soon had a marlin and barracuda fishing trip booked off the coast of Gabon!  I conjured up images of Ernest Hemingway and "To Have and Have Not", and pictured myself looking like the old man of the sea himself in one of those deep sea fishing boats like I'd seen moored around the Hemingway resort North of Mombasa, Kenya, the ones I could not afford for a day at sea but admired longingly.  All geared up for the day, we made our way to the small wharf and looked for the smurf blue deep sea fishing vessel.  Well, turns out it wasn't that sort of a boat.  It was more of a big fibreglass canoe.  First there was the total lack of shade, and of course it was the first day I'd seen any sun in Gabon, with the skies a deep azure blue, and nary a breeze.  We doubted it even had a bar.  But damn it, we were going deep sea fishing!

The small boat pounded happily over the swells as we headed far out to sea in the early morning, whales frolicking everywhere, but try as I might I just could not capture one breaching and slapping his tale, often within metres of our boat.  That's the best shot I got.

The best shot I managed all day was a couple of tortoises making whoopy far offshore.  They didn't seem at all concerned about the cheering fishermen, as they were obviously lost in tortoise passion, and couldn't be bothered.

Five hours later we drifted back into port, having snagged a few sandbars on the way in, most everyone sunburnt, and without one bite to brag about.

It was a fun day out nevertheless!  I've been deep sea fishing off the coast of Africa!

Whales and Rats

It's quite reassuring to be working once again, especially considering the present state of the offshore exploration market.  And of course, after almost four months at home, it's invigorating to be taking these noisy beasts to the skies once again.  With a few thousand hours of Puma time under my belt, I'm surprised that it took me as long as it has to regain that feeling of being at ease, especially in a bird that I've shared many an adventure with.  But after many hours spent sitting in the seat, reviewing manuals and procedures and systems, playing with the myriad of buttons and switches, and flying long trips most every day, it all comes creeping back eventually, reconnecting all those Puma related synapsis firing off in my addled head.

The L2 variant of the French Super Puma is considered a stepping stone between the L/L1 variants that I'm well versed in, and the all singing, all dancing, ultra modern 225.  Yes, the L2 has a Flight Management System, but it's one the oldest ones you could possibly find in any aircraft, and while it functions just fine for enroute navigation, you can easily get lost in the depths of pages and key combo functions, as simplicity was not a priority when they put this puppy together.  There are glass displays, called Smart Multifunction Displays, but being first generation glass, I don't find them to be a huge improvement over the old steam gauges.  Managing the flight directors is a tad archaic, as it's very far behind the AW139's simplistic functionality, and in my humble opinion, the L2's technology is not much of an improvement over the L/L1's 4-axis system.  In many ways it's more complex, and thus, a higher workload, not something that's very desirable.  But as any Puma pilot will tell you, this is a "Pilot's Helicopter", one that needs to be flown and requires the pilots to have their shit together.  I must admit, I quite like it!

So we depart most every morning out of Gabon bound offshore for the deep water of the Atlantic, and I look towards the North-West and home, my house being but one hell of a swim.  We pass an area brimming with sea life, as schools of tuna and dolphins frolic amongst pockets of swimming sustenance, and playful hump back whales launch themselves high into the air and come crashing down in massive plumes of white water, and once again, I'm reminded of offshore Nova Scotia and home.  Any day you see a whale is a good day, and we've got the best view there is.

Evenings are spent together with other crew members in any one of the many restaurants serving Port-Gentile, some amazing, some not so much, but I thought I had found a quaint colourful favourite, serving huge mounds of fresh tuna at quite reasonable rates, only to have a rat scamper across my feet one night.  In defence of the restaurant, I was eating outside on their patio, so rats be damned, I'm still eating there regularly.  Tonight we've got a base BBQ in the works up on our hotel rooftop.  Life is good!