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And
speaking of volcanoes, dear reader, in October of 1991, I enjoyed a little
adventure of my own with a very small one.
I was on vacation and, since I was flying on
airline passes for free, I decided to drop in on Honolulu for a few days. Naturally I checked in to the Waikikian Hotel,
for a bit of “Old Hawaii,” and, on the 16th of October, I turned 49.
Surprised
that I was still around, dear reader, when the majority of my aviator pals had
gone to that “Great Hangar in the Sky,” I decided to mark my longevity with a
birthday present.
Wandering
out to the General Aviation side of HNL, I rented a Hughes 300C helicopter with
an instructor. The Flight Instructor was
a retired, ex-Army Aviator, also in his late forties, who knew his stuff and
was easy to get along with. He took me
out to the practice area for a half-hour’s worth of takeoffs, landings and
hovering exercises.
The
subconscious is a total marvel, dear reader.
I hadn’t flown a helicopter for almost a decade, even so all those
“angry-palm tree” flying hours continued in filed residence. I simply pulled the files from my grey matter
– dusted them and knocked off the rust – making me good to go.
After
refueling, we flew the entire circumference of Oahu Island – simply by following
the beach at 500 feet. We operated without
the doors, and, upon handing-off the flight controls to the instructor, I
proceeded to get some terrific shots with my camera. I was amazed to discover the thick amount of
rainforest that continues to cover this heavily populated island.
I was also surprised, dear reader, to perceive that Diamond Head, at the south end of Waikiki, is not a mountain, (stupid me) but an extinct volcano. For decades I had only seen photos, videos and movies of its north side profile. From the helicopter I was at last able to observe the whole crater.
Upon returning to HNL, we flew over Pearl Harbor and the USS Arizona Memorial.
These were members of that “Great
Generation” which enabled me to grow up in a safe, free America. As a way of thanks, and respect, I threw an
inadequate salute, as I passed overhead at 500 feet in my helicopter.
I also noticed a phenomenon: an oily,
blue-green metallic-channel of film on the water’s surface, sliding silently
from amidships towards the Arizona’s stern, as it snaked its way out to sea;
being driven by the outgoing tide.
The
locals called it “Tears of the Arizona” – fuel oil continuing to leak from the
Arizona’s bunkers after all these decades.
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