Hunt The Wind

               *     *     *     *     *      City of Santa Monica, CA, 8.5 cramped square miles to patrol by air.      It was June 14 th , 1971, while sitting quietly in my office at 4 th and Wilshire in Santa Monica, California, that the wheels of fate were set into motion, causing this beautiful woman to crash into my life.      My small, wood-paneled office was at the end of a suite of offices, leased by World Associates on the second floor above a bank.  One of our contracts at that time was with the Santa Monica Police Department – supplying pilots and observers for their city-owned Hughes 300B helicopters.        Originally we trained 8 SMPD Officers in two H-300Bs on floats.       Unfortunately a year later the officers crash one helicopter at sea.      The SMPD Officers then demanded “hazard pay,” at which point they were grounded, and World Associates replaced them with pilots and observers.      My duties as Chief Pilot required t

              *     *     *     *     *      It was the day before Halloween, 30 th October 1970, my favorite time of the year, right before the spooks and hobgoblins appear with their infamous battle cry: “Trick or treat!”        One of the towns we patrolled was Half Moon Bay, the pumpkin capitol of the US, which did a bang-up Halloween!           As I recall it must have been nearly 4:30 in the afternoon, when the low sun deepens colors to a breathtaking status, causing the incredible sight spread out before me to inspire a sort of religious awe.  At that moment it hit me how privileged I was to be a helicopter pilot; the average Joe or Jill never being allowed to observe what I was currently witnessing.      I was riding in the right seat of a San Mateo Sheriff’s helicopter – one of the first factory-new Hughes 300Cs, with a more powerful engine and longer main rotor blades, giving the bird more speed and stability – which I discovered was a genu

    *     *     *     *     *      As I sprinted up to the front door, I jammed on the brakes – abruptly confronting the brutal, true nature of law enforcement.  What I was about to witness would alter me for the rest of my life.      Lying on his back in the entrance – with the glass door held open by his body – was a large Black man, late twenties, who had to be at least Six-foot-five, and weighing in at 250 pounds.  He was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt with jeans and sneakers.  He had also been shot above the left eye by a snub-nosed, .38 caliber, revolver.       And here, dear reader, was where the true horror began.      Although his eyes were closed...the Black man was still alive!  At once finding myself in a macabre nightmare, I observed his mouth open widely - resembling a gaping fish - and gulp in a lung-full of air...then exhale and shudder violently while emitting a rasping death rattle.  He continued this grotesque display again and again without le