Don't give up the ghost quite yet.....

While I'm far from comfortably flush, I am much more concerned about dealing with the boredom of sitting home for an extended period of time, as opposed to worrying of impending financial ruin from my atrocious spending habits and a possible lack of income.  If I'm stuck at home without work, I'll be bouncing off the walls in six months, and needless to say, hopelessly broke.  I've been broke before, but it's the boredom I struggle with.  Yet even as I ponder the industry's demise and my dismal future, new tenuous job offers seem to fall in my lap, offering a glimmer of hope, only to then disappear like the morning frost, to be replaced by yet another nebulous proposition.  I do think I'll step off this emotional rollercoaster and try to worry about it when and if it happens.  There are some very interesting developments that just may see me keeping to the skies and getting my daily dose of aviation.  Fingers crossed.

I'm still flying pretty much daily, and looking forward to a ferry flight I couldn't have entertained in my wildest dreams, hauling these old birds up to Poland!  Imagine; departing the jungles of Gabon, flying over Equatorial Guinea, Cameroon, to Nigeria, Togo, Benin, Ghana, Cote D'Ivoire, Liberia, Guinea, Gambia, Senegal, Mauritania, Western Sahara, Morocco, Spain, France, Switzerland, Austria then Poland, all at 500 feet behind the controls of a Super Puma!  I drool when I think about it.  Maps arrived today.  Flight planning well underway.  Once again, fingers crossed.

Yet another gear pic.  I was sorting through my flying/touring gear the other day, and figured I'd share.  Buffalo Jackson leather bag (so Indiana Jones!), David Clark headset, shemagh from Morocco, iPad, iPhone, Maxpedition pouch containing various survival nicknacks, Leatherman Signal, DPx HEFT 4, DPx HEST 2 folder, Cammenga 3H compass,  Tissot Seastar, my third world watch with an alligator strap I had made up, thirty year old Ray Ban Aviators, Pelican flashlite, Mont Blanc from my good friend Juan, may he rest in peace, Captain bars, passport....

Good to go!

Going to miss this....

It's been almost two weeks now with no running water.  We've been managing, but in this humid heavy heat, it's not so pleasant washing up with a pot and washcloth.  I've spent a fair bit of time in some pretty shitty places and don't really mind the inconvenience, but I'm impressed with the crews here.  Everyone complains, but heck, when aren't we complaining?  Yet these guys just get on with it.  I've been on bases where work would have stopped day two.  Good on ya lads!

I'm kind of sad, when I think on it, knowing this lifestyle could well come to an end in short order.  All the travel, new lands, new friends, adventure, it all gets very addictive.  I sit on the roof, book in hand, the soft yellow light of the waning day making everything look exotic, African.  The light slowly shifting in hue to pink as night creeps in, with the dark blue purple of water laden skies providing a stunning back drop, flashes of lightning, roosters crowing, teenagers laughing, unmistakeable African rhythms rising up in Christian hymns from the church below, heavy warmth permeating all.  My heart cries for I know I will sorely miss Africa.  As much as I deny it, as much as I want to believe that all the oil industry pundits are just being pessimistic, I know, this lifestyle is coming to an end.  Damn Saudis, driving prices into the ground.  I could do this forever.  Fuck.

Ambulance

Going on five days now without running water.  I've got a good wash down to three litres of bottled spring water, a kettle, a large pot, soap and a washcloth.  I'm struggling not to sweat and trying my best to keep the laborious feat down to once or twice a day.  Tanzania in the dry season, I can understand.  Gabon with heavy rains and flooding; why our hotel doesn't have water we really cannot fathom. Crews are getting grumpy.

My first day back flying has already generated some trouble.  We lift from the drillship with a load of oil workers headed home, towards shore and the sun slowly creeping up into the African sky, climbing in search of cooler air, and we eventually level off and complete our cruise checks.  I lament that we are on rescue standby for the rest of the day once we get back to base, and I forgot to put in a lunch order.  The first officer claims he can fix it, and he calls base on the helicopter's satellite phone.  It's a bad connection and I can't really follow his thick Cornwall accent on the best of days, and there's other radio traffic to deal with, so I shut him off and concentrate on the VHF radios.  Call completed, he turns to me with a smile and claims he's ordered me a chicken wrap.  I thank him and we get on with flying.

An hour later at the coast line the base calls us on the VHF; "The ambulance is standing by".

"Ambulance?"

After a few confusing minutes on the radio trying to sort out what is going on, it seems the static, thick fast talking Cornwall accent and "Darcy wants a chicken wrap" was understood to be "Darcy's bad and needs an ambulance".  It seems the base went a little crazy after the first officer's call, with a plan on how to get the ambulance airside to collect me, options if it couldn't, a French speaking engineer to accompany me to the hospital....all for the want of a chicken wrap (swarma).  Everyone seemed happy that I was fine but they were obviously all annoyed that I created so much mayhem.  I'm really thinking it's the First Officer who should be buying the beer.

I'm back in Gabon and happy.  Flying. Days at the beach.  Walks in the heavy humidity.  Dinner out with the guys, engineers complaining about how lazy pilots are, pilots bragging how good we got it compared to the engineers, feeding the fires.....over thirty years of this shit, nothing changes.  Loving every second of it.

-28 Celcius

While I'd rather not do it again, I reflect fondly on the flying days of my youth, with wool long johns under lined pants, turtle neck and heavy wool naval commando sweater, all under insulated work coveralls from Canadian Tire, topped with a cheap Woolworths down parka, a torque and the heaviest mitts one could find.  Lac Bienville and Sakami, Fermont and Wabush.  Chibougamau and Chapais.  Waking to -52 celsius and waiting for temperatures to climb to at least the flight manual min temp for operations for the Jetranger before pulling off the covers, and connecting the battery you had kept under your bed in camp that night, no mean feat with the mitts.  Then recovering the car heaters stuffed under the engine and transmission after having started the ole girl, because you couldn't risk having things cool too much.  Frictions locked down tight, cabin heaters and defroster on max, Allison turbine screaming away, while you stumble around on the crunchy snow cleaning up and packing away all the covers, heaters and extension cords as the unmanned bird whirls the frigid air into wintry hell.  I remember North of Wawa, the controls stiffening up on an old turbo charged Bell 47 when I flew it in winter temperatures well below limits, and the engine actually quitting because I couldn't keep the carb heat in the green.  At 500 feet.  Air so cold you sucked it slowly through your teeth as a mouthful hurt the lungs.  Frost bite and numb extremities.  I felt like an explorer from an earlier age.

After a week in dreary ole Aberdeen, a place I actually quite like, I headed home for my rural Nova Scotia home, and helped prep my kid for a move to Ottawa and school.  We stuffed my Subaru to the gils and headed out in the worst snowstorm to hit the East Coast yet that year.  Ten tiring hours later, braving unplowed lanes to pass long lines of nervous folk creeping along painfully painfully slow, reminiscing of days of scud running through mountains in snow storms in Jetrangers, 222s, S76s and venerable old S61s, we encountered total whiteout conditions just outside of Quebec City, but luckily at that point there was hardly any one on the roads.

Multiple trips to IKEA and a smoking hot credit card later, I gave my kid a hug and headed back to Nova Scotia with a very empty SUV.   It was clear and cold but far preferred to the blizzard conditions encountered on the trip down.  The Subaru thermometer registered -28 celsius in the high country of New Brunswick, and it took me back to those early years in Northern Quebec.  I smiled.  But I'd rather not do it again.