CHAPTER 4

                                                  West of Venice, Louisiana

                                                  Thursday, 30th June 1966

     The eight-day, windup clock on my shaking instrument panel indicated 6:36 A.M. and, surprisingly, Judy Garland was breaking my heart.  Inside my ball cap and headset with boom mike, I was humming along with Judy’s version of “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows.”  Above the racket in the cabin, within the confines of my grey matter, I could imagine each of her crystal clear notes.

         Judy; breaking my heart.

     So what was causing this musical tramp down memory lane, dear reader?

     After working nearly 15 months as a fixed-wing and helicopter Flight Instructor for Valley Pilots, The Helicopter Center and Pac-Aero – at the Van Nuys and Burbank Airports in California – lo and behold if I didn’t land a corporate helicopter job.  In 1966 Petroleum Helicopters Inc.(PHI) was the world’s largest commercial helicopter operator, with 87 helicopters servicing 3,000 oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico; stretching along the Gulf Coast from Biloxi, Mississippi, to Brownsville, Texas.  Of the some 300 odd pilots flying for “PHI” - at age 23 – I was the youngest.

          Oil Well Platforms in the Gulf of Mexico serviced by PHI.

     Currently, PHI had me leased out to the Shell Oil Company.  I was based at Venice in Plaquemines Parish - 63 miles southeast of New Orleans as the crow flies - on the west bank of the Mississippi, just before it branches out in a half-dozen directions, and empties itself into the Gulf of Mexico.

    

        Venice: “The End of The World.” Where the main highway terminated.

          It was also where the Mississippi emptied into the Gulf of Mexico. 

     It’s shortly after sunup and I’ve launched from PHI’s heliport in a southwesterly direction; both the Mississippi and sun are at my back.  As I climbed to 500 feet – our standard cruising altitude out here – I went over the top of a huge, black stag, with a full rack of antlers, leaping and plunging through the swamp and marsh.  I marveled at its sleek, wet body clearing dead Cyprus logs gracefully; frantically attempting to get away from my helicopter’s noise pollution.  Its magnificent efforts makes me feel a little guilty at disturbing it.

     I’m flying a dream come true: a Bell 47J-2A “Ranger.”  It’s one of the first Bell helicopters to be totally enclosed in an aluminum alloy skin – giving it a streamlined appearance.  The only discordant note are its skids; they’ve been replaced with bulbous, rubber pontoons.  I have a piston, 305 hp Lycoming engine - derated to 240 hp – that normally would give me a cruising speed with skids in the neighborhood of 100 mph.  Lamentably, with the air resistance from these huge sausage-like pontoons, I’m lucky to get 65 mph.

     Talk about life being a total “drag,” dear reader.

          My “PHI” Bell 47J-2A on Floats.

     Other than that it’s truly a pleasant bird to fly, and I count myself lucky to be piloting it because of the way the cabin is set up.  The pilot has a comfortably padded chair, set in the middle of the helicopter’s chin, in the center of a single piece of wraparound Plexiglas bubble.

     Honestly, dear reader, it’s comparable to sitting on the edge of a high, diving board with no restriction whatsoever to visibility.

     Behind the pilot is a built-in bench seat (at the metal bulkhead concealing the transmission and engine compartment) capable of holding three large passengers, which is presently empty.  And, at a 45-degree angle to the pilot’s left, stands a short, modified console - with the bare essential instruments - supporting a wet compass on top.  For “air conditioning,” I’ve merely slid open both Plexiglas windows on either side of me, mounted in the metal doors, rotated the metal deflectors into the outside slipstream and presto: air is currently blowing onto both sides of my body.  Despite it being a bit lukewarm and humid, it still cools me off, while bombarding me with that unique smell of decay from the marsh below.

 

   

     This is also the type of helicopter used in the James Bond Film: “Thunderball.”

     

          James Bond (Sean Connery) about to jump out.

     Leveling out on course at 500 feet above sea level, a phenomenon occurs, which will never occur again in my flying career.  Rain had recently swept through this area – leaving a lot of airborne moisture behind – and the rising sun on my back now sinks its rays at precisely the correct angle and creates the most startling, vivid rainbow I will ever see in my life.  It forms a perfect circle, and gives the illusion of holding formation on me at 100 yards off the helicopter’s nose.

     Hence, dear reader, surmounting my shock and awe, Judy’s “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows” pops into my head.

     Eight miles later I reach the “beach,” where the slime-green swamp blends into the muddy Gulf of Mexico. 

     Consulting my plasticized chart, I note that I’ve drifted too far left of a particular cove I use as a checkpoint.  Upon banking my helicopter to the right - to ultimately complete the necessary course correction – sadly, my wondrous rainbow vanishes.

     Throughout the rest of my flying career, dear reader, I’ll never observe another as amazing.

     At this point I’m traveling across vast, empty water; if I expect to hit my pinpoint-destination, 53 miles offshore, then I’ve got to padlock my concentration on the over-sensitive “Whiskey Compass” – never allowing it to drift even a single degree.  I have no autopilot; I’m flying manually by hand.  When I had first checked-out, I felt this chore bordered on the impossible, for if I diverted my attention even a moment, the compass always stubbornly wandered.  It required an awful lot of work just to stay on course; now it’s second nature. 

     What mind and body can overcome, dear reader, no matter the discomfort, amazes me.

      At this period it was known as the “Whiskey Compass.” For it was filled with alcohol.

     At length, as several miles crawl by, the muddy pollution from the Mississippi dissolves and the waters of the gulf become a rich, marine blue.  I’m entering an area of deep water.

     Then white caps appear as streaming, icy, spider-like fingers.  They indicate a 10 to 15-knot wind from my right-front quarter.  Carefully, I slightly turn the helicopter five degrees to the right on the magnetic compass; crabbing into the wind.  Hoping this new compass heading will adequately fight the wind drift.

     I then check my windup, eight-day clock: I’ve got 43 minutes to the ETA.  At this period of aviation history there aren’t any radio beacons, radar air traffic control or satellites in the Gulf of Mexico to access.  I’m navigating strictly all alone by dead reckoning, using a beat up plastic covered chart, a windup clock, a magnetic compass floating in alcohol and the formula of time, speed and distance.

     Talk about “Stone Age” flying, dear reader.

     The gulf also lacks weather reporting stations out here – and the weather can change very rapidly – therefore I never know what I may fly into.  And during the next two years I will discover that weather is the chief cause of forced landings in the gulf.  Because none of PHI’s piston fleet is equipped with Artificial Horizons; an instrument designed to help us remain upright in flight when flying blind.  Thus when the weather closes in, and we lose visual contact with the horizon outside, we’re coerced to land on the water. 

     In a flat, calm sea, the helicopter will float quite well.  However, since the helicopter is top heavy on floats, any wind stirring up wave action will immediately roll the helicopter upside down and the cabin will flood.  For survival in the water, you’re always wearing a yellow inflatable life jacket, plus there’s a yellow, metal ammunition box containing a pair of day and night signaling flares, a signaling mirror, a Barlow jackknife and 50 feet of nylon chord to tie everybody together.   

     Unfortunately, in the scramble to get out of the flooding helicopter, one finds the metal survival box is always out of reach and gets left behind.

     Now you and your customers are floating in the water in your life vests, holding hands, trying to stay together.  By nightfall you all doze off and let go.  By morning all of you have drifted apart and are all alone.  Some people can’t deal with this...and drown. 

     PHI has learned that the best color to use for being spotted at sea is yellow.  Hence all PHI copters are painted yellow with black trim.  Although...floating upside down in the gulf neatly hides this color from view.

     As for the Coast Guard helicopters, they’ve proven to be rather useless at finding survivors, since they don’t fly out here enough and usually become lost, as the oilrigs are always being moved, which throws off their navigation.  Normally on the third or fourth day, if you’re still alive and haven’t been eaten by an anonymous big critter, a Cajun fishing boat will happen along and pick you up.  Otherwise, you simply vanish in the vastness of the gulf.

     During the next two years, on average, I’ll be notified of six PHI pilots being lost per year; a few to mechanical failure, but the majority to weather.

     Not the best of odds, dear reader.

     And speaking of weather, it’s extremely clear this morning because of the recent rain, with visibility at 50 miles plus.  There’s not a cloud in the cerulean sky, save for one, lonely, puffy-white cumulus directly in front of me at perhaps five miles.  Dark blue water, lighter blue sky and a solitary white cloud: what a peaceful, beautiful picture.

     All is well in my miniscule, racket-filled portion of the world, dear reader.  Or is it?  

     As I close on this cloud, its flat bottom appears to be maybe 1,000 feet above me - my present magnetic heading taking me under it.

     When I’m roughly a mile from sliding underneath it, I spot a strange activity on the water’s surface; it’s agitated as if a school of fish has fled to avoid a predator.  Drawing closer to it, I gradually become aware that this agitation seems to be in a counter-clockwise, circular direction.

     How odd, dear reader, I’ve never seen anything like this. 

     Then, for no particular reason, I happen to glance up at the bottom of the cloud, and observed a portion of its center being sucked down, in a gossamer spiral, towards the agitated surface.  Except the airspace in between, that I’m about to fly through, is absolutely clear - giving no hint whatsoever of the tragedy awaiting me there.

     Without warning a flashing red light illuminates in my brain pan – what I’m observing outside all slams home - abruptly I bank to the right; giving the cloud a wide berth as I fly past it.

     

     I have just encountered my first waterspout, dear reader, similar to a miniature tornado that could easily separate my rotor blades; comparable to pulling wings off a butterfly.  No one had warned me they could be practically invisible.  Perhaps it was merely cranking up...or dissipating.  I didn’t stick around to find out.  In future I would witness a Huey making this same mistake – resulting in disaster.

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