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     Leaving the invisible waterspout and its danger well behind me, I turn the helicopter back to the correct magnetic heading; hoping my detour hasn’t gotten me too far off course.  In time my pounding heart settles down to a more reasonable rate.  Gradually the monotony of droning over empty, flat water into an empty, flat sky makes the minutes drag by, while the one-to-one vibration of the main rotor blade gently rocks me back and forth.  Ultimately another tune pops into my grey matter, and I start humming along: “California Dreamin’” by The Mommas & The Papas.     

     Jesus, I miss California, dear reader, and the soft, safe life I had out there before taking this risky job.

     After what seems ages, I become aware of a slight irregularity on the horizon line off to the left of my course: a vague bump.  Glancing at my clock; I’ve got 18 minutes to the ETA.

     My first impulse is to adjust my heading and head for this bump.  I fight this impulse and maintain my present magnetic heading.  This could be purely a passing ship or another oilrig being towed to a new location.  I have to let the time play out, reach my ETA, and then determine where my pinpoint destination is.

     PHI policy regarding fuel endurance is quite basic: I’m required to carry enough fuel to reach the destination, plus five minutes to hunt for it, plus enough fuel to return to the beach, plus a 20-minute reserve.  Since I’m flying without a payload this morning, I’m fat on fuel, having topped off both tanks, which gives me round trip fuel plus a healthy reserve.

     One less thing to worry about, dear reader.     

     At length a second bump appears to the left of the first one.  This makes sense if, in fact, I’ve done everything correctly.  The first bump should be Shell Rig #11.  The second bump, behind and to the left, Shell Rig #12.  My heart rate and confidence picks up a little.  Still, I fight the impulse to head for these bumps.  Stubbornly, I maintain my heading, I will not alter course until reaching the ETA and these bumps evolve into drilling platforms.

     In fascination, as the minutes tick by, I watch these bumps grow taller and slowly morph into oilrigs.  At last, two minutes ahead of my ETA, I can stand it no longer and head for the now familiar drilling platforms.  Bottom line: I’ve drifted approximately two miles to the right of my pinpoint destination – not bad for Stone Age dead reckoning with a windup clock and wet compass.

     Dropping down to 200 feet, I noisily circle the tall derrick of Shell Rig #11 and begin to “hunt the wind.”       

     Remember, dear reader, all aircraft must take off and land into the wind.  Especially if one uses a helipad the size of a tiny backyard.

     To my dismay, I realize the wind has fallen off to practically zilch – indicated by the limp windsock on the helipad.  All the same, I’m certain there has to be at least a 3-knot wind down there, and I want every knot of headwind I can find to keep me in translational lift, as long as possible, during the approach to landing.

     Therefore I continue to circle the platform at 200 feet and wait.  Eventually I smell the diesel exhaust from the giant engines driving the drilling operation on the platform; indicating I’m definitely downwind.  Immediately I tighten the turn and start my approach to the helipad – heading into the 3-knot wind – following the invisible “scent” of diesel exhaust to the platform. 

    Coordinating cyclic stick with my right hand, collective stick with my left, along with anti-torque pedals with my feet, I complete a flawless approach to a three-foot hover above the helipad – finishing it off with a soft landing thanks to my immense, air filled, rubber pontoons.

     Humor me a moment, dear reader, and let’s clear up some of the mysteries concerning helicopter flight controls.  The cyclic stick is mounted on the cabin’s floor, between my legs, and operated by my right hand. It tilts the rotational disc of the main rotor blades forward, backwards, plus left and right. So it controls two things: direction of flight and airspeed.  The collective stick is mounted at a 45-degree angle, on my left side, and is operated by my left hand.  The stick moves only up and down and has a motorcycle-type throttle grip.  By rotating this grip I can speed up the engine’s rpms (increasing power) and, by pulling up on the collective stick, I increase the angle of attack of the rotor blades collectively, thereby increasing lift.  In short, the collective stick is the up and down control – I use it to gain or lose altitude.  The foot pedals are used to fight engine torque.  As the engine drives the main rotor in one direction, the engine wants to rotate the helicopter’s fuselage in the opposite direction (engine torque).  That’s why there is another smaller rotor attached to the helicopter’s tail – it fights engine torque.  The foot pedals change the angle of attack on the tail rotors’ blades, increasing or decreasing its own lift, to accomplish this.  Thus I use these pedals, throughout all regimes of flight, to simply keep the helicopter’s nose from swinging wildly left or right, as I increase or decrease power and pitch with the collective stick.  I also use the foot pedals to make hovering turns.

     Anti-Torque Pedals controls the Tail Rotor Blades’ pitch -  which controls the helicopter’s heading.

     Now you can run right out and fly a helicopter, dear reader.  If you do, however, bend as far forward as you can and kiss your butt goodbye.  For this machine is not user-friendly and is unforgiving as hell to learn how to fly.

     I keep my engine and rotor blades running as I wait on the helipad, which is roughly fifty feet above the water.

I’m only required to wait merely a minute, before I see a head pop up above the helipad deck at the stairs running down the side of the platform.  I stick a folded copy of The Times-Picayune out my left side window.  The Cajun’s face lights up with a huge grin at the sight of the newspaper.  He’s the cook’s helper and has been waiting since the crack of dawn for this paper.  Many hands will grub through this newspaper before the day is out - which brings me to an odd, symbiotic-type relationship that oilrig cooks and helicopter pilots share.  PHI pays me per diem when I’m away from home, but I don’t have to dip into this money if I’m fed on the oilrigs.  The cooks will make sure I’m fed, if I supply them with a newspaper that they get first crack at; symbiosis pure and simple.

    Offshore Oilrig Cook.

        My ticket to a free breakfast, lunch or supper.

     Hey, this is all part of survival in the gulf, dear reader.

     After snatching up the newspaper, the cook’s helper darts across the helipad and disappears down the stairs.  I lift the helicopter into a one foot hover, to check the center of gravity through the flight controls; it “feels” okay, I’ve got good control.  Then I lift to a three-foot hover and turn the nose into the wind with the foot pedals.  The hydraulically boosted cyclic stick is like a big spoon stuck in a bowl of oatmeal – there is no resistance whatsoever – so with my right thumb and middle finger lightly gripping the cyclic, I “think” forward, and the helicopter moves forward – you can’t detect me moving the cyclic stick – the pressure I exert is that slight.  The helicopter accelerates – at 15 mph it hits translational lift and surges upward – I climb out at 45 mph; my best auto-rotational speed.  Then I level out at 200 feet and accelerate to 65 mph for the short, two-mile, flight to Shell Rig #12.

     The derrick stands tall at one end of the platform, while the modular living quarters - with helipad on top - stands at the opposite end.  I make a beeline for the helipad, into the wind, and land without incident.  After cooling the engine, I shut it down, and ultimately engage the rotor brake to stop the main and tail rotors.  Upon exiting the helicopter on the left side, I reach under the passengers’ bench seat and remove the main rotor tie down.  The 3-knot wind rocks the main rotor’s blades, on its gimbal-mount, up and down.  I grab one of the blade tips, and slip the felt-lined tie down clamp around it, then leading it - similar to a dog on a leash - I “walk” the main blade back to the helicopter’s tail cone, using the tie down’s long pair of straps, and secure it.

     Slipping a 3-power magnifying glass out of my shirt pocket, I turn my attention to the tail rotor blades, which protrude halfway beyond the platform’s edge.  Before and after each flight, I’m required to inspect the tail rotor blade grips for cracks.  If I find any I’m forced to ground the helicopter – PHI will fly out a mechanic and new tail rotor. 

     These babies have a reputation for failing in flight, dear reader, bringing one’s journey to an abruptly disastrous conclusion.

     Only this morning, before I can begin my inspection, an object on the other side of the tail rotor presently catches my attention; turning my stomach to ice water.  Some idiot roughneck has run a vertical, two-inch iron pipe from the living quarters below, nearly chest height above the edge of the helipad.  Moving under the tail rotor, I step up to the pipe; being grey in color it blends in with the rest of the iron helipad, making it totally invisible from the air.  I measure the distance between the pipe and my tail rotor with both hands; it can’t be more than eighteen inches.  Had my tail rotor made contact with the pipe, most likely I would have lost control and crashed onto the helipad, then rolled off of it, falling fifty feet into the deep blue sea below!

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