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After dropping off the newspaper with the
cook, I proceed to the Tool Pusher’s office – where I complain bitterly
regarding the pipe almost killing my young-ass.
The Tool Pusher tells me he’ll take care of it and to go get breakfast
and cool off.
I do exactly that - tucking into spicy
Cajun sausage links, scrambled eggs, hash browns and a giant, freshly-baked
cinnamon roll with black coffee. My
watery stomach is feeling much better now.
The Tool Pusher taps me on the shoulder, I
look up and he tells me after I finish eating to swing by Rig #11, ASAP, and
pick up an engineer. I wolf down the
rest of my meal.
Upon returning to my helicopter I conduct
a quick, cursory preflight of the Bell Ranger - happily finding the pipe has
already been removed – then I retrieve the main rotor tie down and stow it under
the bench seat.
Donning my life jacket and climbing
aboard, I strap in, slip on my headset, fire up the engine, marry the engine and
rotor rpm needles on the tachometer, and then check the temps, pressures and
amps; deciding it all looks normal I’m apparently good to
go.
Now for the acid test: Gingerly, using my
left hand, I lift the helicopter into the air with the collective stick to a
one-foot hover. I hold it here a moment,
checking the center of gravity with my right hand on the cyclic stick, and to
see if anything comes apart on the helicopter.
At first it sits there normally a foot off the ground – then all hell
breaks loose. The nose pitches up - I
start moving off the helipad backwards!
Using my right hand, I instinctively fight this backward movement with
forward cyclic stick.
“CLUNK!”
I feel and hear the cyclic hit the forward
stop – but I’m still moving backward – I’m outside the center of gravity
envelope and have lost control!
Immediately I push the collective down with my left hand - firmly
planting the helicopter back on the helipad.
It bounces a little on the rubber pontoons, and slides to a halt with the
heels of the pontoons over the edge of the helipad - fifty feet below the water
waits for me!
I sit there with my heart in my mouth –
mentally swearing up a storm – digesting what’s just
happened.
What in the FUCK is wrong with this
helicopter, dear reader?
After cooling and securing the engine -
then locking down the cyclic and collective sticks with their friction locks - I
exit the helicopter with the main and tail rotor blades free-wheeling and
winding down. By this time I’ve got a
theory.
Moving to the baggage compartment in the
tail cone, I open up the door and discovered 150 pounds of core samples in two
gunny sacks.
The Baggage Compartment in the tail cone, well aft of the Main
Rotor’s drive shaft.
Angrily I jerk the core samples out of
the baggage compartment and dump them onto the helipad’s iron deck. Sitting down on the rubber pontoon, I stare
at the gunny sacks until my hands quit shaking, while the main rotor passes
overhead – continuing to coast as it gradually slows.
This was my fault, dear reader. In my haste to get in the air, I had
neglected to inspect the baggage compartment, because I hadn’t been warned that
roughnecks will dump iron tools and core samples in there without informing the
pilot or their supervisor. For in the
roughneck’s mind the helicopter is merely a pickup truck – they haven’t a clue
as to what makes these fragile, inherently unstable machines fly. And why should they? They aren’t trained pilots or aeronautical
engineers. Flying always has been, and always will be, surviving one’s mistakes.
After pulling myself together, I load the
core samples under the passenger’s bench seat as close to the main rotor’s drive
shaft as I can get them – the drive shaft being the center of gravity
marker.
I try the take off again, lifting to a
one-foot hover, and holding it there.
Oh, yeah baby! It “feels” much better now, dear reader. I’ve got good control – indicating I’m well
inside the center of gravity envelope.
Rising to a three-foot hover, I turn the
helicopter into the wind with the foot pedals, and launch into airspace above
the deep blue gulf fifty feet below.
After picking up my passenger on Shell Rig
#11, I set course for the PHI Heliport at Venice, and call the PHI Morgan City
Base on my HF radio - filing a brief flight plan with the PHI Dispatcher. That’s how the company keeps track of their
helicopters in the gulf.
After rocking along for what seems an
eternity, I note the color of the water turning to a familiar dirty-brown – good
old Mississippi River pollution - shortly after this I detect a slimy-green line
materializing on the horizon. It’s the
beach - always a welcomed sight.
Roughly three miles to my left front
quarter, at eleven o’clock, white, frothy water erupts from the gulf’s
surface. At first I’m certain it’s a
man-made explosion. So I start hunting
for the pair of seismograph boats, which geologists use to set off and monitor
these charges, in their unrelenting search for oil.
After several minutes pass, and another
explosion shoots from the water, I frustratingly realize there are no boats
creating these blasts. Also the
geologists’ blasts are usually more vertical, or fountain-like, while these
explosions are flatter in appearance.
I glance at the lone passenger behind my
left shoulder. He’s a recent graduate
from some Texas university in his late twenties, wearing a short sleeved shirt,
jeans and cowboy boots, along with his hard hat, life vest and horn rimmed
glasses. He’s also spotted the
explosions, and gives me a questioning look as he shrugs and opens his hands, as
if to say, “Don’t ask me...I haven’t a clue what it is.” No help from the college
dude.
We’re purposely mute, dear reader, because
the only way to be heard above the helicopter’s racket in the cabin is to scream
at each other - which is so un-cool. We
have no interphone.
Satisfying the curious child that
resides in each and every one of us, I decide to inspect this exploding mystery;
bedsides, it isn’t that far off course.
Upon reaching the sight of the last
explosion, I circle it at 500 feet. The
wind has died down, the water is flat calm, and appears as though a giant has
dropped a huge boulder into the gulf – causing an enormous shock-ring to move
outward in all directions in the muddy-brown water. To the southeast I can see more of these
shock-rings.
What in the name of Hugh Hefner’s gonads
is causing these explosions, dear reader?
Since the Mississippi dumps its pollution
into this part of the gulf, the visibility can’t be greater than six inches
underwater. Therefore, you can imagine
my surprise, when 100 yards west of the last shock-ring a giant manta ray
(Manta birostris) shoots out of the brown water – then arcs over onto its
slick, ebony back and flops violently - sending jets of white water
skyward!
This “puppy” had to be at least 25 feet
wingtip-to-wingtip, dear reader, and most probably weighed in the neighborhood
of two tons.
My passenger and I are totally spellbound
by this amazing creature, causing me to circle the area for the next 15 minutes
as we observe spectacular leap after leap.
Upon getting low on fuel, I reluctantly
decide to break off visual contact and continue our journey to
base.
More than a year later, in September of
1967, I would stumble onto another incredible sight concerning these remarkable
creatures. On that day I was attempting
to rendezvous with an explorer rig, which was being towed by five tugboats to a
new site.
Upon reaching an area 60 miles southeast of
where the Mississippi empties into the gulf - the water there being clear and
blue - I stumbled across dozens and dozens of giant manta rays, covering an area
of several football fields, which seemed to be circling each other in
pairs.
Why giant manta rays propel themselves out
of the water, and converge each year at this particular area of the gulf to
circle each other, is wholly beyond my understanding, dear reader. Please feel free to solve this
mystery.
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