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     The 23^rd of June, 1968, found me on a platform operated by the Placid Oil Company – close to 105 miles offshore - in Block Ship Shoal #207.

     The morning was broken overcast and humid; the air hung on me like a wet blanket and possessed that foreboding sensation, which accompanies hurricane weather.  I was on edge that morning, pacing back and forth on the helipad, as I awaited the arrival of the Huey that was taking me back to Morgan City.  My replacement had previously arrived on another Huey, and was currently flying my helicopter to a production platform.

     Bell advert for the 204B “Huey.”

     The reason for my edginess was a ration of bad news I had received a few days before - regarding a flying buddy – when I transited the Morgan City Base.  Jack Andrews had gone missing, in good weather, on one of the new Bell 206 Jet Rangers that PHI had recently purchased.  This was a light, five-place, jet helicopter that Bell had recently put on the market – obviously it possessed a serious bug yet to be ironed out.

     I had bumped into Jack at Morgan City a couple of weeks before - barely a week after his checkout in the new bird - and discovered he was all shiny-eyed and enthusiastic about the “Chicken Snake” (our nickname for the Bell 206).  Jack was ex-army, had worked for PHI approximately six years, and was all excited at no longer having to drone around the gulf at 65 mph.  Instead, even with fixed pontoons, the Chicken Snake was able to transport Jack at a snappy 110 mph, and, having a jet-turbine engine, it was a lot smoother and easier to operate with power to spare.

     On the day Jack went missing, he was returning to Morgan City without any passengers.  When his flight plan was overdue a Huey retraced his route and encountered what they thought were his pontoons, seat cushions and scattered papers at a point 23 miles offshore.

     The Huey set a marker buoy, and two days later a dive boat arrived to begin an underwater search for his helicopter.

     This morning I was informed - by my replacement pilot - the dive boat had located the busted up hull of Jack’s Chicken Snake, and had brought up a pair of trousers.  Jack Andrew’s wallet was in the trousers – after a further frustrating search - that’s all his family would have to place in the coffin.

     As to what brought the Bell 206 down wouldn’t be determined for another year by the NTSB - at this point it appeared to have broken up in flight for some unknown reason.

     Unbeknownst to Jack, he ended up being a “Test Pilot” for Bell Helicopters; ultimately a flaw was discovered in the helicopter’s engine that caused his death. 

     Which brings us to the question every pilot has to face when flying a newly designed bird, dear reader: Is it actually ready for line operation?  In Jack’s case, apparently the Chicken Snake wasn’t.         

     What ate at me this morning though, was not only Jack’s demise, but the deaths of the other ten pilots during the past two years - not to mention my own personal narrow escapes. 

     Skill had nothing to do with it, dear reader.  From my perspective it was pure dumb-fuck luck – occupying the wrong piece of sky at the wrong time - that bought one a handshake with the Grim Reaper.  Flying in the Gulf of Mexico was no picnic. 

     As I continued to pace, my mind chewing on this proposition, at long last I slammed on the brakes, bawled myself out for being such a “little girl,” and told myself I was born under a “lucky star” - preventing any such airborne disasters from befalling to me.

     Except, down deep in the bottom of my left testicle, I knew I was lying to myself, dear reader.  Despite this, I was 25, and youth always draws on its inherent power of optimism and indestructibility.  Which is another nice way of saying youth and stupidity are synonymous.

     Gratefully my flawed pep talk was interrupted by the distant “thump-thump-thump” of an approaching Huey.  My “ride” was coming.  Today I was to begin five days off, and I felt like I really needed it.  Excitedly, I watched the silhouette of the Huey grow in size against the lead-colored sky.  Finally, to avoid its rotor wash, I moved to the stairs and descended four steps to where I’d left my suitcase – keeping the heliport’s deck at chest level.  At last the huge, yellow and black Bell 204B arrived in wind and noise, hovered for an instant, and then gracefully set down softly on its immense, air-filled rubber pontoons.

     Snatching up my suitcase, I ran around the nose of the helicopter and back to the baggage compartment in the Huey’s tail cone.  I opened it up and tossed in my suitcase on top of the others.  After latching the compartment’s door, I backtracked to the passenger cabin door, scrambled on top of the pontoon and slid the door open. 

      Interior of the Bell 204B’s passenger cabin with its web, fold-down seats.

     Much to my surprise I found the cabin filled with eight oilmen; then spotted one last empty seat in the middle of the back bench.  As I slithered into the passenger cabin, I heard one of the oilmen slide the door shut behind me and latch it.  Wedging myself in between two beefy oilmen, I adjusted my seat belt, buckled up and slipped on my yellow life vest.

     Anticipating the takeoff, I glanced forward out the pilot’s front windscreen and noticed something that turned my excited young heart to stone.  The Tool Pusher had just reached the helipad, from the stairway, and was walking towards the helicopter with an engineer in tow.

     Oh crap...there goes my first day off all shot to hell.       

     The Tool Pusher reached the pilot’s door, the pilot slid open the door’s window, and nodded his head after the Tool Pusher shouted unintelligibly at him.  Afterwards the Tool Pusher and the engineer moved back to the passenger cabin door and slid it open.  Still wearing my olive/drab PHI uniform, the Tool Pusher instantly located me and motioned for me to come out.  Unbuckling my seatbelt and leaving my life vest behind, I slither through the crowd to the Tool Pusher and placed my ear next to his mouth. 

     Shouting above the whirling main rotor and engine noise, the Tool Pusher yelled, “This man has a family emergency!  I’m sorry, Pete, I’ve got to bump you!”

     Aside from the Huey’s pilot, I was the sole PHI employee onboard that particular chopper, which meant I was the only one “bump-able” – our customers came first.

     Swearing under my breath, I reluctantly climbed off the helicopter as the engineer scrambled onboard and took my seat.  After retrieving my suitcase, I walked back to the stairway with the Tool Pusher, as he told me the engineer’s wife had been in a car wreck with their kids. 

     I followed the Tool Pusher down the iron stairway, which cascaded down the side of the living quarters, hanging out over the water fifty feet below.  Each step was constructed of vertical strips of metal – allowing me to easily observe the deep-marine blue of the water far below – giving me the uncomfortable feeling of walking on air; which didn’t improve my ingrain fear of heights. 

     Oddly enough, dear reader, I’ve never experienced this fear in the cockpit of any aircraft.  As long as I have a flying machine strapped to my butt...I’m okay.  I wonder what Freud would have said about that?

     I descended only four steps, stopped, set down my suitcase and turned to watch the Huey takeoff.

     To this day, I don’t know why I did that, dear reader.  

     I gripped the railing and hung onto my ball cap as the Huey lifted off – battering me with its heavy main rotor wash – causing me to squint behind my aviator’s dark glasses.

     The big helicopter cleared the platform, accelerated and climbed.  Its blade wash and racket rapidly dissipated and, swearing at my rotten luck, I turned to continue my uncomfortable descent on that iron stairway.  The stairs were empty now; most likely the Tool Pusher had reached the first landing and slipped into the dining hall, which reminded me the cook was baking peach cobbler that day. 

     Why not drown my sorrows with a cold glass of milk and fresh cobbler, while I kill time waiting for the next Huey?

     I bent down to pick up my suitcase, and as I straightened up - for some strange reason - I had to take another look at the departing Huey.  It was leveling out at 500 feet and heading for a low, squat section of cumulous cloud dumping a massive curtain of dark-grey rain.  Wisely the Huey altered course to the right to avoid the rain.  The cumulous had a long anvil-like overhang to the right, except the airspace underneath it was clear.  The pilot elected to take the shortcut by flying underneath this overhang.

     The Huey wasn’t even a quarter of a mile away, when I had the misfortune to observe a tremendously sickening sight.  Without any warning the nose of the Huey abruptly pitched up...then pitched down.  The maneuver was far too violent...causing the main rotor to flex and chop off the Huey’s tail cone holding the tail rotor and its gearbox. 

The Huey’s main rotor sliced off the tail rotor’s gearbox and rotor blades; indicated by the circle.

     Now the Huey rolled on its side and fell, as its abbreviated fuselage began to rotate in the opposite direction to the main rotor.  It hit the water with such force that both enormous pontoons were blown skyward, along with broken main rotor blades, and exploding white water - immediately followed by the tail cone, with tail rotor and gearbox, punching fountains of white water a short distance away.

     I had just witnessed the death of eleven decent men, dear reader!  

     I attempted to climb the stairs to get a better view, then my knees went to jelly, and I had to sit on the edge of the helipad as I studied the water’s disturbed surface where the Huey had disappeared.  

     It took me a long while before I was able to proceed down those stairs, dear reader.

     A supply boat was tied up to the platform’s boat dock, and the crew had also seen the crash.  Without delay the boat’s skipper launched to the crash site for survivors and to set a marker buoy.  No survivors were located.

     A dive boat reached the crash site 36 hours afterward.  The visibility in the water was good and they discovered the Huey’s fuselage the first day.  To their surprise and horror, all eleven seatbelts were fastened, causing all eleven men to be instantly cut in half upon impact; their severed bodies providing a seafood buffet.

       Huey’s wreckage located by the divers.

     It was later determined that the Huey had flown into my old nemesis: an invisible waterspout.

     Upon reaching the main PHI base at Morgan City the next day, I stepped off the replacement Huey; proceeded straight to the base supervisor’s office and handed in my resignation.  The company owed me vacation time, which I swapped for the required two-week notification.  I never flew another helicopter in the Gulf of Mexico again.

     Having seriously come face to face with the Grim Reaper once more, dear reader, I was convinced my luck in the gulf had expired.  And since narrowly escaping becoming fish-food once too often, my left testicle was itching to move on.

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