07 April 2018

The Fog's Liftin' , The Sand's Shiftin'

Passing the Terengganu Crude Oil Terminal en route to Tender 9
Many a time I've wondered whether nurturing this blog is relevant.

I've been made to acknowledge that people no longer bother with reading blogs. There is no time to yield for the purpose. Micro-blogging stole the show for a while and its flavour is now a mere aftertaste.
Corporate restrictions become more and more a reflection of the nation's muzzling regime, rendering even one's simple and private pleasures of self-expression painfully constricted.
However, to paraphrase Billy Joel, even "if you said goodbye to me tonight, there would still be music left to write".
And therefore, here I return after nigh a year of sporadic blog posts and absenteeism.
Post-monsoon surface streaks: looking more like scum than plankton
I have had an alteration of job description.
I now hold a secondary post in the base as Base Flight Safety Officer.
As a result I have to do an amoeba split between flying and safety management.
I have done this before. Back in my RMAF days ( rings of Fowler, doesn't it?), I was either Squadron safety Officer or Base Flight Safety Officer, bang from the start of my flying duties. This time around, the familiarity of taking on a job shunned by everyone else is an ample serving of same old, same old.
It's a year now since I took on the appointment. I've reached the borderlines of hypertension and diabetes. My intake of coffee has spiked tremendously in direct correspondence to my blood sugar and cholesterol while sleep apnoea startles me into unwelcomed wakefulness at odd hours of the night.
I feel old. Too little butter scraped over too much bread?
Cruising past the ever distinctive Tapis Romeo
However, when I do get to fly, I feel human again.  The self awareness that age is no longer on my side makes each hour I am airborne all the more a treasure to be savoured. Forget what Hollywood has done, having the laity believe that flying is romantic. The grotesque spin-off from this is the ever ubiquitous notion that pilots are sexy. I work with a lot of pilots, and uuurrghhhh, they are NOT!!!!!!!!!! The fact is, some of them are barely sensible, let alone clever.
Then when management starts prowling around like ravenous carnivores to ensnare those desperate for career progression to keep their families fed, you discover whole new world of deceit and loathing, mostly towards others and sometimes self, when you catch a glimpse of what you've turned into as you pass an importune mirror.
Anyone who is a mere link on the chain of employees cannot lay claim to knowing fraudulence if he's not had to sleep with upper management.
You think translations form Oriental languages are funny? Meet Hai Yang Shi You....later!!
Back to Billy Joel, likewise, shall I continue this labour of love, which is to do what I love: writing. It is not for popularity that I started this, but rather that my mind needs to empty itself periodically and for all I know this hammering away at the keys is what tempered my blood pressure for the many years I have been involved in the mired career of aviation.
Tracking outbound through Lane 4, Kuala Kerteh below.
And as ever, the sights from the cockpit are an unfailing reward.

16 June 2017

Serve To Lead

I have been away from this blog for much longer than I had intended.
I return to it in no happy spirit.
The death of a gentle soul, T Nhaveen, beaten and sodomised, raises many questions on the complete collapse of our moral fibre as a people. We had earlier the matter of Officer Cadet Zulfarhan, beaten and burned till he succumbed to his injuries. This has brought to focus the bane of our society. Bullying.

It does not fall as a sign of the times, or a trait of millenials.

Gauging from the outcry against these incidents of abuse against our humanity, very few people are unacquainted with some form of bullying or its other manifestations.

The incidence certainly does not justify the practise.

My alma mater, the Royal Military College in Sungai Besi, in particular Cadet Wing, was a place that had its own practice of applying pressure and organised violence in shaping future military officers. It no longer exists as a college for Officer Cadets, having aspired to mature into an academy, which it did as Akademi Tentera Malaysia. In its place now stands the Malaysian National Defence University or UPNM.

The recent meaninglessly tragic death of Officer Cadet Zulfarhan had many of us from that alma mater questioning what on earth had metamorphosed from the usual ragging we were familiar with into unequivocal murder. And many an Old Putra of Boys Wing RMC voiced that "We Are Not UPNM" on social media.

Indeed, the two entities are separate. The disassociation is not unjustified. I am not an OP, but having spent two life-changing years in RMC, I understand how we all believe that this would not have happenned under our roof.

I identify and resonate with this belief.

Ragging, as we knew it in RMC, was part of a larger system applied to newbies, Putras in Boys Wing or Officer Cadets in Cadet Wing alike, intended to deconstruct with surgical brutality. But right in the wake of that, would ensue reconstruction. As we were all trained by the army in RMC, I will openly say that the army was professional in breaking you first, then rebuilding you into a better version of yourself in terms of being a military officer.
I am no apologist for the practise of ragging. I do not support it in the public or private institutions of higher learning. That's because none of those are institutions of training for the management of violence. Graduates thereof will not be counting on each other for your survival on the battlefield. They will leave with their scrolls in their hand to fill up various job appointments which will have little to do with each other. The military on the other hand, is a close-knit organisation purpose built for the management of violence. I do not believe that you can breed a soldier by wearing kid gloves. There you have it. It has been said. It has indeed, been done.
But the kind of ragging I faced with my batchmates, whom I fondly call "Squad", was not concealed from the eyes of our instructors. Nobody was isolated from the rest and personally victimised away from observation by superior officers. If one erred, everyone would suffer. Everyone would have their knuckles bleed on the gravel then bake in the heat of the tarmac which made the parade square. Or clean the corridors of our seniors' company line with abrasive detergent and the skin of our backs. Or whatever ingenuity they could conjure to produce discomfort. The "starlight", "hammerlight" or "tongkat-light" were samplings of these. This is not a passage to describe the proceedings, and the life in RMC is far too rich to be captured in a blog post. But what needs to be said is, everything was done with flair. If the picture isn't clear, allow this to elucidate you: that after a ragging session was over, we juniors would be seated in a line on the floor, while at one end of the corridor a senior officer cadet would be boiling us tea in a bucket, while at the other end, another senior and most times a rank holder of Senior Cadet Sargeant or Senior Cadet Corporal, would be passing along packets of cigarettes for us to smoke. The spin-offs from military ragging were cooperation, quick-thinking as a group, comradeship, conforming to rank, maintennance of morale and much much more.
Yes, there were seniors who did occassionally "take it too far". Those were caught, and paid for it. Even commissioned officers who were caught or reported for ragging would be discharged if found guilty. Because we were raised in it, we had an eye for what constituted "corrective training", and what was going beyond reason. I respect the military I served in for having such a clear demarcation through experience and its justice system.
The fact is, ill-treatment of a junior officer (junior officer being subject to further interpretations under the Armed Forces Act 1972) remains an offence under military law. We were told, "You can order a soldier to march forward to his death, but you may not lay a finger on him". Well, of course there were always deviations from this rule, but the rule still stood.
While many of us servicemen, of today and of the past can recollect such days with a touch of humour entwined with nostalgia, this trip down memory lane can never enlighten us on the justifications for what happenned to Officer Cadet Zulfarhan.
For just as ragging is intended to deconstruct and subsequently reconstruct, without control, it becomes a beast bent on the sole purpose of destruction.
A murder has been committed.
We are in serious need of introspection and reparation.
I cannot help but see parallels in the way political entities have outsourced the culture of bullying to NGOs which discriminate and torment segments of our society who do not conform to their understanding of gender, orientation or religious practise. Differences will exist, with or without our approval, but to be inhumane to those who are merely different from us but do not harm us cannot elevate us to higher moral standing.
Until we come to our senses and decide that bullying should never be a mechanism for carving the electorate, we will fail to set the right example for the various microcosms of our society, down to our schools, whose only pursuit should be the moulding of young minds to be future stewards of this country.

Let us remember that it is in giving that we receive. It is in restraint that we liberate the truth. It is by serving that we show our leadership.
If we don't get this corrected, I wonder what manner of stewards we shall mould, and more significantly, what manner of country it will be that they inherit.

12 November 2016

Temperature Variations

There is an old joke, sourced before the ubiquity of mobile phones and Google/Web MD  that goes somewhat like this:
A doctor gets a phone call in his clinic bright and early in his workday, from a rather irate husband. "Doctor, what is this I hear from my wife about how you were rude to her last night? We've been with you for 12 years, with our kids from when they were born. Of all things I never expected you to use foul language on my wife for goodness sake!"
The doctor's brow furrows in strained recollection. "This is Vincent right? Right.....well perhaps there is some explaining to do on my part, and no less on the part of your wife, in the cold light of morning. If you remember I told you I would be outstation for a few days. Last night I had just survived a very long day on the east coast, drove back five hours in horrid traffic and blinding rain. If you understand that the monsoon has set in and I arrived at home drenched from the pit stops I had to make in the torrents and no let up on the weather on this side of the country. You do remember the weather last night yes?"
Vincent's silence suggested acquiescence. "What was my welcoming committee then at two in the morning but the phone ringing off the hook. As I fumbled in my satchel for my key ring I realised that I had probably dropped them at some pit stop and I had now no way of getting into my home, way past midnight. And there went the phone incessantly. I realised that now I had no choice but to break my way in, so I whacked the kitchen window panes with my satchel and all this while with the phone ringing after every disconnect. As I reached for the latch I cut my palm. Making my way in bleeding and clambering over the kitchen sink is no nimble feat either Vincent. Can you feel me on this?"
"Yes, doctor I can a bit."

"Then bleeding my way to the phone in the darkened hall, I manage to pick it up before the next disconnect to hear your wife asking me how to use to use a thermometer. Through clenched teeth to mask my pain, so that she wouldn't think I'm screaming at her, I merely told her."
Rain-obscured finals approach to Runway 16
With that thought in mind, the monsoon seems to be heralding its arrival in fits and starts, with the calm between them growing gradually more brief with each passing squall. What this means is that my cycling programme gets adversely affected. Along with the fewer night qualified crew for night MEDEVAC standby, I have been placed on day flying in the noons to proceed with night standby in rather perpetual motion. My monthly tally of hours clocked in flight is beginning to suffer. So it will till more crew are made current for night deck landings by the ever busy training captains.
The mornings are often wet with rain that began the night before. So it was yesterday as I gazed out from the rear balcony, assessing the likelihood of taking that 20km ride and coming back in one piece amongst the substance-infused drivers of the Kerteh metropolis. It wasn't raining, just wet roads and I realised that with the monsoon set to reign supreme for half a year, or so it feels for that duration of the worst 6 weeks of any monsoon, I had to go the wet road route rather than being baptised on every ride.
And so I set off boldly in my longjohns and skeletal patterned vest. Turning in to the Kijal coastal roads, things still looked like they would hold till I completed the remaining 14km home. Optimism can be myopic can't it?
Then the turn towards Al-Safinah's resort and restaurant through the rural lanes brought the coast and the fir lines into view. The sky and the sea were both black. The headwind over the single-lane bridge to the beach told me I would not get back without being soaked.

Ye Olde Bridge and Telekom Dish
Then it came down before I completed crossing the bridge. I often braved the rain because it is all part of being a cyclist. Today though I was to learn that I cannot take the rain for granted. As the initial pelts seeped through the spandex, the first sign of a difficult ride was that my riding glasses fogged up. Normal difficulty degree. Cold mornings, misty mornings, all do that. Pffft.
It took only 30 seconds before the sky lost all restraint and it just came bawling down. My eyes stung like I had been trapped in teargas. Hey, I know what that is like because I had done riot control training under the Public Order module in RMC. Blinking didn't work. The rain kept washing sweat from my scalp straight into my eyes and it was really painful. I started meandering as I cycled single-handed and tried shaking my glasses out to clear the nasty elixir out of the lenses. Realising the hazards of riding this way if a car should approach from  my 6 o'clock, I stopped at the Telekom dishes, wiped the glasses with my wet gloves and rubbed my eyes with my fingers in windshield wiper fashion. Relief. Continue!!
However, the moment I was moving again, the cycle of forward motion, rain and sweat repeated. Perhaps the design of these Limar glasses pooled the water-sweat mix over my eye sockets and kept  stinging and blinding me. I refused to relent. I would complete this ride without stopping aside for shelter!! I groaned and gasped in pain and pushed on.
As I passed Pantai Penunjuk and approached the Moslem graveyard, my cell phone began ringing...off the hook if there was one. Pedalling against pain and anxiety at what this untimely call could portend, I found a safe spot on the roadside just next to the graveyard gates where most people parked when they were out in better weather tending the graves.
I picked up the call by dabbing through the clear plastic of the top tube bag to the capacitance touchscreen, immediately hitting the speaker icon thereafter. It was the voice of the morning's duty Operations Officer.
"Cap!! Cap where are you? Can you come in now for immediate flight for Exxon?"
I suddenly had the intense desire to explain how to use a thermometer.

04 October 2016

Straighten Up. Fly Right.


Nobody knows what would have gone through your minds in those moments between heaven and earth.
Such experiences are the hallows of the privileged few who have encountered emergencies and system failures in the Nuri and brought the old bird back to ground without taking precious lives in the wake of the only means of reacting they had.
It is enough that you breathe yet. It is enough that you are all alive as a crew.
Whatever the political and service shenanigans may be that you must face, they are secondary to the fact that you're still here and have not lost any of your friends to your handling of a situation gone wrong, and likely unforeseen in the Nuri's aviation history.
Congratulations to the aircraft commander and the crew. Get up, get well. Get past this.
You're more relevant to the aviation world now than many who would stand as judge over you.

15 June 2016

Pissmops and Suspenders

I would be hard pressed to meet anyone from across the ages who isn't familiar with The Jungle Book, whether as a Disney remake or the endearing original works by Rudyard Kipling.

Next to JRR Tolkien, he is my favourite author. His letters from the warfront are eloquently moving. I particularly enjoy his Just So Stories, with How The Whale Got His Throat ranking as amongst the top of these tales. There is a line narrated by the 'Stute Fish to the Whale in describing how to find the shipwrecked Mariner, which runs, "you will find, sitting on a raft, in the middle of the sea, with nothing on but a pair of blue canvas breeches, a pair of suspenders (you must not forget the suspenders, Best Beloved), and a jack-knife, one ship-wrecked Mariner, who, it is only fair to tell you, is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.'' I'd say unashamedly that the best rendition of this tale is in the audiobook snippet by Ralph Fiennes. 
While I wish I were a man of infinite resource and sagacity, one episode in the offshore world sadly revealed that alas, I am not so, mostly because I did forget the suspenders, and had continued to forget for many a sector offshore. Or so the story goes, in a manner of speaking.

Build me a crude oil terminal worthy of Mordor!!!!
It was indeed a fine sunny morning last month, running an inter-rig sector from Kerteh to Lawit to Jerneh Alpha and back. The start-up and taxi to the pick-up point next to the terminal building was uneventful. Dull might have been a better description.
The routine is that once the last passenger has boarded the aircraft and they are all engrossed with strapping in, the non-flying pilot will provide the pre-departure brief. Normally it runs somewhat like this:
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Weststar 203, with Captain Jack as the aircraft commander and I am Senior First Officer Jeffrey your co-pilot. We'll be flying you soon at 4500 feet and about an hour's cruise flight time to Lawit Alpha. During this time please ensure that you are comfortably seated with your harness on and get to know your emergency exits with further information on your safety leaflets placed underneath your seats. In the unlikely event of an emergency, take directions from the aircrew. If there is something you wish to bring to our attention, please come forward, tap us on our shoulders and we will respond accordingly. We expect fair weather on this flight so sit back and relax. Another brief will be provided before we land. Thank you." 

Silver linings and rose gold. The shore slips away as we head out for night deck landing
This pre-departure brief is given on the tarmac and on every deck when new passengers get on board the aircraft so that everyone is clear as to what to do and expect at any time, outbound from or inbound to mainland.
There are times when the passenger load is light, as was this day with only 7 passengers, leaving little luxury of time for me to provide such a mouthful of a brief before taxying out to line up on the runway became imminent. So after notifying them on the flight duration, I abbreviated the emergency drill to: 
"If there is an emergency, we will brief you as to what to do and if not, just sit back and enjoy the flight. Be talking to you before landing, thank you."
I always believed it covered the pertinent facts. But back to the flight, climb out to 4500 feet was expediently carried out and soon we were cruising through Kuala Terengganu's control zone and giving the air traffic controller our route details for transit clearance and traffic information. Lawit Alpha was indeed just shy of an hour's flight time away, where we were to drop off four lads and pick up another four back to Kerteh, while three were destined for Jerneh Alpha, a rough 16 minutes from Lawit, with approach time extending the inter-rig proceedings to 20 minutes.

The sun sets on a sleepy offshore world
The Lawit drop off also was uneventful. I got down on deck to oversee the passenger exchange while the captain remained on board to set up the flight management system for the next leg and brief the new passengers. I was already hoping that upon landing at Kerteh, this dull turn of events would eventually read as a split duty, meaning I could head back to Kijal with all the chance of a split for good.
Hardly had we settled at a low cruise en route to Jerneh Alpha when we heard voices from the cabin. A Ramli Sarip-ish passenger was beckoning wildly at us as if to pass a message. I gestured to him to write his message down, passing him the only expendible sheet of paper I had on my flight board: the rig weather report. Looking backward to understand the nature of his urgency, I noticed he was crouched over the cabin floor. Soon he was gesturing for more paper. Through vehement waving of arms and other uninhibited gesticulations, I understood that the poor lad had wet himself, and he was using the paper not to write anything down, but to clean up after himself.
The aircraft captain was at sixes and sevens over how to handle this. He suggested that the Helicopter Landing Officer at Jerneh Alpha arrange for rags to clean up the aircraft. I pondered this and realised that was not quite right. I considered that rigs were akin to ships dead in water; a maritime op, and more appropriately a swabbing of the deck would be the better an option. My radio call to Jerneh Alpha for that purpose was greeted with affirmative answers from the HLO and we went steadily in for finals approach.
Once on deck, the guys at Jerneh Alpha were ready to set to work with a drenched mop and to my impressed delight, aerosol Dettol. Our Ramli Sarip Doppelganger helped swab the helicopter cabin floor. He looked ruefully at me and shook his head as he bellowed into my earpiece, "I really couldn't tahan anymore." I nodded. It could happen to any of us. He then rushed below deck to a hurried shower and a change of clothes. We were longer on deck at Jerneh Alpha as we waited for him to return to the aircraft, but everyone, from aircrew to offshore brat, was sympathetic towards him.
I wondered aloud to my aircraft captain why the poor chap didn't just come forward and let us know he needed to take a leak instead of springing one. After all, the drill for us aircrew when facing any passenger with a bellyache is to radio the nearest rig and provide the fellow with speedy relief rather than he burst his bowels. I realised that in fact, he may not have known that options were available to him if the brief given to him did not include the part that he could notify us of any urgency mid-flight, if a brief was in fact given at Lawit Alpha. I do know of some pilots who keep mum while passenger disembarkation and embarkation is in progress. I decided then, that I would never again omit the part of the brief where I tell the passengers what to do if any of them were to have something urgent to bring to the pilots' attention.
Somewhere on the return leg to Kerteh, I clearly heard Ralph Fiennes saying most personally, "now, you know why you were not to forget the suspenders!"

And the pictures herein are like the plot of Whose Line Is It Anyway? They don't matter and their relevance to the post is utterly made up.

02 June 2016

Silence Isn't Always Golden

Sometimes, it is just plain yellow.
My mind and heart have had their hands at the plough for the last three months. Three months of fear and worry congealed into night after night of dreamlessness and timelessness, without texture or taste. I have not had the time to look back on my flying life as it took a back seat to Brenda's tussle with the possible Big C, just as I had with my episode with glue ear. In her case, it was a thymoma, and she is still recovering. She is however, a model patient and is progressing better than expected except for pain management. We will know more in three months.
And now that life seems to be creeping back to normal, I can finally break this silence.
Sunset for the EC225?
The helicopter world, especially those involved in offshore operations would have been shocked by yet another incident involving the EC225 about a moth back, this one being fatal, at Bergen Norway. An EC225 was returning to Bergen and on finals approach, the main rotorhead separated from the fuselage. All 13 persons on board perished. The horror of the tragedy carries with it the second time that the EC225 gets scourged by a media nightmare. Offshore workers' unions have been clamouring for the expungement of the entire Super Puma lineage from offshore operations, Those in the industry would remember the 11 months of grounding the aircraft type underwent in 2012, although the two ditchings were safe with the passengers literally stepping out of the buoyant aircraft directly into the rescue boats.
What this means for us across the tarmac is that we have now got to shoulder the vacuum left by our competitor's stop-flight instructions as the offshore flight ban has been applied across the world fleet. I'm not lamenting, as I do enjoy flying two sectors a day and raking up the offshore hours, especially since I haven't had profitable hours recently. The local oil and gas industry has reduced the intensity of flight scheduling in keeping with the global slowdown, keeping parallel with the world crude oil freefall. Even though the price of Brent crude has clawed up to 50 USD a barrel, the slowdown has not converted into an upswing yet. I do wish for enough time to cycle regularly though. With my annual aircrew medical coming up, I will have to cram in some miles on the Apollo Exceed even at the risk of heatstroke because sweltering evenings are all I have left, if I get evenings at all.
I can't imagine the offshore world without this workhorse
In fact I feel bad for my friends in what is now my rival company. I have been exactly where they are now, facing uncertainty. I was a pilot in their fleet back then. I remember the insanity of month after month of waiting for a lift to the grounding, the frustration at how our authorities played the waiting game, watching for who across the globe would set foot offshore first before letting us off the hook. I recall disillusionment, hopelessness and loitering at the company simply because I couldn't bear being inside the walls of home. I pray that they can remain calm and patient in this most trying of times. With any luck, this will not be an extended wait, since the industry rumour is that the investigation board has wound up their findings and concluded that it is not a design fault that led to this catastrophic rotorhead failure.
These doldrums are not unusual in the flying profession. It happened to Dreamliner pilots circa the same period the EC225 was facing problems in 2012 to 2013. Pilots faced loss of currency, loss of license and joblessness, with no marketability as their aircraft type was not flyable. These same sentiments were expressed by my old stablemates as they saw the almighty unions in the North Sea succeeding in their push to extinguish the Super Puma from the aviation world.
Let's hope that non-aviators do not prevail in determining what flies and what does not.

08 March 2016


The church at midnight mass 24 Dec 2015. Looking like gingerbread by moonlight.

How quickly we have moved away from the hushed celebration of Christmas, whizzed past the Chinese New Year and now we are squat in the middle of a rather un-austere Lent.
The acclimatisation from east coast to west coast takes its toll differently on each one of us, predominately in the availability of choices, and whilst we were all enrapt within ourselves, we overlooked the totem truth that what we are to each other matters more than what we can get out of the place we are situated in.
Antonio. So named was this kitten of a stray when he walked in,
 reasons being obvious
Eleven days of anguish visited us when Antonio took his late night walk on the 18th last month and failed to turn up at his usual spot at the front door the morning after.
Such agony over a pet, and the unimaginable horror over anyone's loss of a loved one formed the chromatography of emotions and memories that flogged our minds, such that the passing of another great life from my own, that of my grandmother, ran in somewhat muted parallel while we hoped and lost hope over Antonio. The fact is, I know what my grandmother's troubled life did to her, and this eternal rest was given in such timeliness at her laudable age of 92, to nobody better deserving within my little circle of kith and kin. I found more peace in being resigned to her going than the void of not knowing what happened to that infuriating but sweet feline. How true it is then that closure is a means to coping with, while not mitigating the sting of, loss.
My grandmother, the grand matriarch on my mother's side of the family, passed into the great beyond on the 17th of February, after a very brief struggle for breath, having survived a failing heart from as far back as 2008. With her departure, went also the only ally I ever had on my mother's side of the family. She may have needed someone better sighted than herself for the passage ahead, and took Antonio along with her as a seeing eye cat. The timing thereof seemed logical.
Or perhaps, as Brenda would put it in her irreverently macabre way, that Granny had already begun interceding for her grandson without so much as a siesta upon reaching the other shores. She would be in the know from her current seat, that the rosaries I offered during the nightly prayers for her over the week were rife with entreaties for Antonio rather than for her soul, which I knew had already found a good place in paradise. At least that would explain the utterly bizarre manner in which one week after Granny's funeral, Antonio meowed indignantly outside our bedroom window on the roof ledge no less, at 0300 Sunday morning. Just the night before, not four hours back did we toast the cat replete with a deserved eulogy, and awakened by an unbelievably familiar voice, we both literally leapt out of bed to reel him in through the window. Presented for proof before the court comprising our well awakened children, there were tears of relief and joy.
Life sucks. We really ought to be glad when it doesn't. And utterly jubilant when she beams at us.

Thank you, Grandma.

25 October 2015

The Coolest Guy

The arrow pointing to The Coolest Guy
This little panel is technically called the guidance controller.
It is used to arm the "upper modes" or preselected altitudes, tracks, runway approaches, navigational modes and various other autopilot functions for hands-off flying.
A closer look at the panel, just above the captain's finger will reveal a button etched as PFD with a little green backlit arrow. In the picture, the arrow is backlit in the direction of the right-hand seated pilot or the aircraft captain. Jabbing the button will change the backlit arrow to the left-hand seated pilot, moi. Jab it again and the reversion occurs. Simply speaking, the arrow indicates which pilot's Primary Flight Display's references are being used to arm and capture the autopilot parameters for automated flight, navigation and corrections thereto.
In our offshore world, we take turns flying the aircraft. If the captain flies outbound to the rigs or barges as the flight detail for the day may be, then the co-pilot customarily gets to fly inbound and executes the approach to the heliport. This builds proficiency and hands-on hours for the co-pilot, as well as provides for a fair distribution of the workload.

Clockwise from bottom left: Clarity Aloft, David Clarke, Bose and Zulu Lightspeed. Courtesy of the web, and moi.
It was my first flight with an Argentinian Captain, Alfredo. He is husky voiced, and bears his own style in the cockpit, wearing the Clarity Aloft headset instead of the company-issued David Clark or the status symbols of Bose or Zulu Lightspeed, and graduated Ray Bans, making him look as if he were not wearing a headset at all. He works out religiously, attested to by the veins popping out of his biceps, showcased by his tight jeans and S sized company Polo T-shirt. As Goldmember would say, "Yesh. Toight. Like a toiger." Captain Alfredo is cool. You get it.
We flew outbound, with light banter and my headset filled with an accent akin to a male version of Sofia Vergara. 20 miles before the rig location I made the all-stations descent call and requested for the local weather at the rig. It was all clockwork, all routine. The aircraft seemed to be amicably cooperative.
On the rig, the nice Captain volunteered to get on the deck and supervise the passenger disembarkation and embarkation. Customarily, when it is the Captain's landing at the deck, he also does the take-off because the visible obstacles such as cranes or flues or masts, are on his side. As such, the co-pilot would have to get on deck and do the work. Some nice lads, such as Captain Alfredo is, take it upon themselves to get on deck, as they see that even though it is the Captain's take-off, there will be an in-flight handover to the co-pilot to fly home.
While Captain Alfredo was on deck, I did the paperwork. I calculated the take-off weight, entered the flight times and prepared the Flight Management System and navigation inputs for the ride home. With all the homebound passengers on board, the Captain hopped in and we lifted off uneventfully. As the aircraft was climbing steadily to 4000 feet, he confirmed that I was ready to assume control of the aircraft, and he jabbed the PFD button.
Now who's the Coolest Guy?
The green arrow pointed my way for all of half a second and then it jumped back to point towards the right. We looked at each other for a minute. Then he raised his index finger at me to gesture "Un minuto" and depressed the PFD button again to effect the PFD switchover to my side. Again, the left green arrow only engaged for a second before the right green arrow resumed referring to the Captain's PFD.
Captain Alfredo took an audibly deep breath which fed through his Clarity Alofts into my David-Clarks.
"Jeffrey, what does that green arrow indicate?"
"It indicates that the guidance controller has been handed over to me for autopilot selections sir."
Captain Alfredo turned in his harness to face me fully. "That is not correct. Try again. What does that green arrow indicate?"
I was wondering what technical language to use. "It indicates that both FMS systems feed the on-side pilot's PFD for autopilot purposes?"
With his graduated lenses hiding all emotion, Captain Alfredo shook his head and pouted his disapproval. "One last chance Jeffrey. Tell me the truth. Either you know or you don't know the correct answer."
I decided to play along and admitted my ignorance.

"Since you do not know the correct answer, listen carefully to me and never forget this." I nodded compliantly. "The green arrow indicates the location of the coolest guy in the cockpit. Flying out here I was the coolest guy. I thought that flying back, I would let you be the coolest guy, but somehow it cannot happen. You cannot be the coolest guy. I tried hard, but I am sorry, I just am the coolest guy all the time."

I digested this slowly and deliberately. I knew he had set me up for this, dismissing the actual answer to dub himself as The Coolest Guy.

Actually, there is a much deeper implication to this than the premise thus presented.

The Captain can only remain The Coolest Guy with a malfunctioning aircraft.

18 July 2015

Oxfords Not Brogues

Eggsy, this country is going to SHITE!!!!!!!!
It's been a long long time since I have been here.

My absence has not been due to idleness. Nor was it a demise on anyone's part....unless it is my faith in leadership of course.
Last month, some ninety days after I submitted the answers to a questionnaire, the training captain finally had the time to peruse my answer and in exasperation that I could not yet understand, withdrew my line proficiency status. Well, the grapevine had it that the clients were curious about our landing fuel state and wondered why we had ample fuel consistently after every return to base. I became the first experiment to identify the prevailing fuel calculation by way of a scenario pop quiz to be written and submitted, and I had in a spell of blind-sidedness, under duress from tinnitus owing to a profanity-spewing menopausal right-hand-seat fellow screaming at me during my FAMs, inversed the formula and then glory be!! did they come down hard on me. As the scramble to identify whose fault it was that a non-novice to offshore flying could miscalculate so gloriously grew in urgency, I was placed on the training managers' remedies. It wasn't pretty, but I pulled through. Hence my absence.
And in the meantime, we have had to suffer indignity after indignity of failed leadership in media exposes amidst a personal scuffle between a former and serving Prime Minister.
The worst precipitation of this leadership event-horizon came in the form of the Low Yatt Plaza brawl and its attendant copycat crimes buoyant in its wake. I am appalled that any social experiment or mobilisation exercise would be at the cost of blood upon the fabric of our society. What makes it worse, is the disregard for humanity that such sleight of hand incurs. This isn't the first nor will it be the last time for flashpoints, as hate crimes have been with us a while now. The impunity thereof, is telling. If I were to place my trust in social media alone, I am worried that the hatemongers have outbred the peacemakers. There are so many of them under the employment of ill-intended NGOs, and my beef is that our taxes are funding such hatred. What a bunch of masochists we must be that we pay so much to be flogged with regular social scourges such as this.
I cannot harbour this rivalry of Cain. I am a racist of sorts, most assuredly, but I am a racist in humour. There are racial and cultural stereotypes that form a lose and disputable ethnic set of properties for each one of us, at which we can learn to laugh at ourselves with the next bloke in a massive icebreaker, or carry it as an indelible insult like a permanent chip on our shoulders.

Just as we love picking the least sonorous amongst us to be semi-permanently assigned the karaoke microphone for comic relief, I have been dragged in kicking and screaming to represent my squadron in the annual heated sepak takraw tournament, kononnya Cina tak boleh main sepak takraw la tu. And while it was in my case evidently true judging from the resounding laughter at my martial-arts kicks in the court, I will never forget the supportive cheering each time I kicked the rattan ball across the net, and the wild congratulations when my team actually won. Heck, way back, my Non-Commissioned Officers who tortured me well and good in the Royal Military College would yell all forms of racial slurs at me and my other friends till we weren't sure whether we should just surrender and laugh out loud to our peril, or surrender to the desire to hurl what horrid breakfasts we had as we floundered out of breath at the obstacle course.
"Woi Melayu pemalas, panjat tali pun tak boleh ke?!!!" they would erroneously bellow at me, themselves being Malay seeming to be irrelevant to their agenda.
"Saya Cina staf!!!!"
"Busuk punya Cina, berak tak basuh! Cepat panjat tali, jangan buang masa jurulatih ni. Bukan adik adik saya kamu ni semua!"
And then as they whipped us with their whistle lanyards to hasten us, all my upper body strength faltered as I struggled to contain my laughter and shimmy up the rope at the same time.
But the days where our racial tendencies were merely for a good neighbourly laugh have suffered a tragic demise. We have lost the openness of being able to call each other by race with a lame insult and walk home together arms across the other's shoulder with no bitterness. The loss of being able to be secure in our collective inadequacies, is to be disabled towards fortifying each other. Repeatedly, the contra-rotating seeds of suspicion and entitlement have been sown to deeply fragment our society, and create the perception of the haves and have-nots along lines where they do not exist, to blind us to the actual areas where the haves stand apart from the have-nots. Add to this tinderbox the agents of anarchy, and there we get 13 July 2015. 

With this disquieting aura veiling the passing week, I proceeded offshore on Hari Raya pertama to FSO Bunga Kertas, then to Tinggi Alpha with a final pick up from Bekok Charlie. The ship was festive, with every light on the deck, the masts, the exhaust stack and the helideck turned up to full brightness, while the rigs looked for all the world like oil lamps. The Helideck Landing Officers handed us doggie bags of my favourite goodies: lemang with serunding, saffron rice with chicken and beef rendang. In all these, were glimmers of hope.
Seligi Alpha. Should we sing, "warm smell of pelitas, rising up through the air"?
Which brings me to a bone I have to pick with a certain sector of our populace who with smug perpetuity go mantric about how in their states exist inter-religious and inter-racial harmony so unlike what we have this side of the South China Sea. We should all be careful about speaking prematurely about racial and religious harmony. What you think is a reflection of idyllic harmony is but the sheen of the sea without ripples, the dead calm of a boat that has not faced the tempest.

You cannot afford such naivety to blindside you to the fact that there is a difference between tolerance untested and integration fought for. The apparition of a breakdown in racial harmony is on the other hand the struggle for sensibility and inclusivity. Amidst what many believe to be covertly state-acquiesced flashpoints, the true face of what Malaysians are comes forth. There will be the agents of evil squared off against the people who will not see their friends clobbered streetside just on the basis of their skin colour. This pays logic to the fact that peace is not simply the absence of conflict. Indeed we are awake to the sower of weeds amongst the wheat, and we toil that the wheat never gets choked by the evil planted amongst us.

Rowan Gorilla II jack-up rig alongside FOIS Tembikai and Rescue Boat
As regards the hatemongers they are a lot who are oblivious over how the Creator will call them away from this life, and are preparing for it to be a most unsavoury farewell. Of course, the Universal Law of Depravity sees to it that a disproportionate number of evildoers live far better lives, rife with temporal reward, than the lesser numbers of field workers, who endeavour toward and pay the price for peace. Yet, I believe that the least we could do before all eventualities are summed up and concluded, is to forge goodwill, so that should grand misfortune and celestial cock-up have it that our deaths be excruciating, remarks may be passed that we deserve better.

There is no good in allowing hatemongers take centre stage, even, nay, especially if they are state-sponsored. There are none of us who should count the bloodying of a face we know not, as a victory. We are all a part of this teeming social fabric. I rather we were a tapestry than crimson bandages.

Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri, maaf zahir dan batin.

05 May 2015

From The Frying Pan Onto The Griddle

Capt Latt Armeda
Meet my friend, Capt Latt Armeda. He has flown in quite a few places, from Iraq to Bahrain after the United States, and is now amongst us in the company. We often talk at length when our rosters overlap, and it is good to see the United States through the eyes of someone who has served under the military in various parts of the world. As with anyone, from whichever country, who takes pains to step outside his comfort zone, psychologically as well as geographically, fences are dissolved when this happens, and our chats are always refreshing. He is a big fellow, and there are ample cartoon references when we are seen walking together.
Capt Abel Alvarez, with SFO Jay Kumar and Capt Latt
We also have Abel Alvarez, from Spain, who has taught me a few tricks on the aircraft, and we have had a few chats over the history of Spain, her wars with Britain and how she minimised the scourges of WWII.
Senior First Officer Ugo. Never call him Boss.
The new company is a place full of different faces. There are foreign pilots from America, Spain, Italy, the Emirates, Colombia and the UK amongst others. The conversation is always varied, and there are many conspiracy theories being trashed about at any one time over coffee. Then there is SFO Ugo from Italy. Yes, I have heard ribbings and jokes over this too, but cultural ignorance fatally mistaken for humour runs the risk of falling flat on the comedian's face because from each of these persons I have learned of individual struggles to travel anywhere to earn a buck and fend for a family in the carving of better opportunities and futures for their children. In the end, when the coffee cup has been drained, we are all simply tired daddies trying the best we can for the ones we love.
The contenders gathering at the starting line called Intersection Bravo
The regimen of flying in the new place is tighter than in the old place. I find keeping up my cycling programme ever the harder, as snatching time in the morning is just impossible when the first wave mustering is 0630H. You may land and be lucky to be on split duties and skip home for a nap or no mind-load to deal with till the next reporting time at 1400H, or be plain blessed and find that there is no second wave for you at 1400H. Routinely though, your second wave waits for you at 1045H even as you prepare the trim sheet and manifest load at 0630H. Yes, a 1045H second wave means you are back at 1400H or sorts, and the rest of the day is either standby or go home. Still, wait as I may till 1745H, I cannot muster the courage to try cycling under the relentlessly scorching heat of the past three months to date. My prayers are sometimes answered when I get a few days of consecutive mustering times at 0930H. I get to sleep an extra 45 minutes compared to most mornings by waking up at 0615H, starting the ride at 0715H to return by 0830H for a rushed shower before shooting off to work by 0900H.

The mega structured Guntung Delta complex
The past three months have been good months to fly with the prevailing North-Easterly winds giving me ample opportunity to sharpen my approaches using this aircraft. This week, the winds have died down, to pick up feebly from headings exceeding 100 degrees. The aircraft captains have taken over the approaches, and I get to kick back a little and catch up on other aspects of the aircraft, such as reading, which is subservient to Newton's first law of motion.

Angsi Alpha as viewed from the deck of the Tender 10 barge
I have settled down a bit more, in the cockpit, and have begun carrying coffee in a flask to sip between radio calls and entries into the navigation log. The door slots accommodate less than the EC225's but I will have to make do. While the cockpit doesn't feel particularly small, it really is compared to the old French bird, and you will find it to be so when you have things to carry with you. The door pocket will not take a David Clark headset bag; in fact it cannot take any regular bag. Relegating a bag behind the collective control also means it is not rapidly accessible in flight, but I have learned to make do with a smaller bag crammed into the door pocket and have maximised the creature comforts of a smaller cockpit by not taking the kitchen sink along with me.

Have I walked out of the frying pan into the fire?

Not entirely. All employees, and I suppose this applies to any profession, must concede that there is no such thing as a perfect company. Every single one of them has their own brand of politics, and the further the distance an employee keeps from this fatiguing embroilment, the lower the frustration floor. That is the first pillar of truth that must be swallowed. The second, invariably, is that HR is the virally malignant department of any company hell bent of fixing what isn't broken. By both extrapolating as well as interpolating between these pillars, we can either tie our hammocks for a rest or yank the roof upon ourselves as did Samson after his crew cut grew out.

I am just going to have to bite down here till captaincy comes, because I just can't hop companies again at my age. It is not easy absorbing bitch-screaming at maximum amplitude with my already strained tympanic membranes.