My Longest Day

There is something which happenned to me which I think I need to put to rest, as it keeps replaying in my mind and causes me many sleepless nights. What I write here is a rather mishmashed collection of thoughts, ordered as best as I can remember over more than two years past and you can take it as it is because that is all I have on offer. It is not meant to reassign blame or shirk my responsibiliy in the long drawn out incident, but more as a penning down the event before it becomes too murky for recall.

I have not mentioned here, in my blog, the incident which led to my 5 month suspension from flying and being relegated to the left hand seat as a PIC U/S.

Perhaps it is time that I did, as I hope it will clear some headspace and help me see how the incident was the precusor to a chain of events which eventually led to my loss of license due to a haemorrhagic stroke and the end of the entire story.

I will not forget the day, as it was Rowena's 24th birthday, 28th February 2024. After wishing her on WhatsApp, I drove off at 0645H to Terminal 2 Kota Kinabalu International Airport, marched into the company to assess the en route weather and run an appreciation of what I would face on this day's sortie with my copilot to Maersk Viking, situated abeam Kota Belud, drilling for black gold in Sabahan waters.

SFO Neil turned up in a few minutes and we prepped for flight. As the prevailing wind seemed to favour his landing on the drilling vessel, after taxi and line up on the runway, I handed over control to him and let him do the take off and tracking for Maersk Viking.

Everything was uneventful so far, with a bit of haze, yet Maersk Viking came into view about 30 miles to go for the approach. We went through the pre landing checks and Neil settled in to a steady run in for the landing. We touched down at about one and a half hours after departure form KK

Since it was Neil who would be doing the take off, the prevailing wind being on his side and all, I got down to oversee the disembarkation and embarkation of the passengers which on Neil's approach to the helideck happenned to be the port side cabin door. Once they were all in the cabin, I was ready to hop in the cockpit and return to KKIA. However, I noticed that the Helideck Landing Officers were fiddling with the cabin door, and for all appearances, looked like they were having quite a bit of trouble trying to shut it. I allowed them to continue for a while, as sometimes newly trained HLOs took a while to familiarise themselves with the workings of the AW139 cabin doors. However, they looked at me after a while and I thought I should step forward to see what the problem was.

I discovered that something rather odd was going on with the cabin door. Once the door was slid forward, turning the door handle forward didn't seem to bring about that solid flush feel that it usually did. However, trying to slide open the cabin door didn'y work either. I climbed into the cockpit to chat with Neil, but we both saw that on the multi function display, the caption CABIN DOOR was illuminated in amber as a caution light. Normally this would mean that the cabin door was not shut, or not fully shut that the microswitches were fully contacted. Our first step was to refer to the EOP checklist. It stated that if CABIN DOOR caution light illuminates, it meant that the cabin door was not shut. Follow up action was "attempt to shut cabin door". Which we did. 

What if the caption was still illuminated? What we didn't realise at the time, was that the company-published checklist, which was supplied in the aircraft, the one which pilots were to refer to, read differently from the OEM checklist. We found out later that the OEM checklist read: "if caption still illuminated, maintenance action". Well, that would have changed everything, wouldn't it? I would be able to voice out that a shutdown was absolutely neccessary, whatever the pitch and roll of the helideck and I would be relieved of any further responsibility than that. In any case, we weren't at liberty to use our own ideas when refering to the company checklist.

But back to the matter at hand, I thought that perhaps in my old age, I wasn't strong enought to force open the cabin door, so I asked Neil to make an attempt, since he was about a sprightly 32 years of age. He got down and tried and tried but he could not make the cabin door budge. He returned into the cockpit and we looked at the situation. Fuel was running to critical levels, just sufficient to return to Labuan from the current position. I mentioned to him that perhaps a shutdown would be the best option and we would ask for recovery on board Maersk Viking. He seemed to agree. I had a final thought: the SATCOM was working. I thought, why not call someone at Heli Base to confirm that they could recover us from Maersk Viking?

And so I did. Much to our horror, we were told that there was no recovery from Maersk Viking 

There were many uncertainties running through my mind. I dreadfully wanted to shut down the aircraft and surrender to the wisdom of management to sort out the rest of the affair for me. Then again, night stop kit notwithstanding, brake line pressure and whatnot, would it hold against a pitching, heaving and rolling helideck? What if the limitations were excessive with changing sea state? Plus, the fuel state of the aircraft was dipping hazardously low.

We discussed the situation and agreed that we would fly to Labuan at 80 knots, the limitation speed for flying with the cabin doors in the open and locked position, should anything untoward over and above what had already occurred come to pass, the cruise speed would be within the limits of that flight regime. We did the fuel calculations and we were sure that we had enough fuel to land at Labuan just before the low fuel warning lights would illuminate. Neil was confident of flying under these conditions and so was I. We prepped for the lift off and made the lifting radio call.

All seemed to be going well during the vertical climb, till Neil eased the cyclic forward to accelerate into the climb and forward flight. There were loud exclamations from the cabin and as I craned my neck to see what was going on, I saw the two passengers closest to the cabin door handle leant forward holding it in place. Alright, that made me decide that it would be best to drop off all the passengers on the helideck and to fly to Labuan and hope for recovery there.

While the pax were disembarking via the starboard cabin door with Neil on the controls, I checked the cabin door again. No, it hadn't budged. Right. We could proceed with this plan we had committed to.

And off we went. We got in touch with Labuan approach and relayed our ETA and relevant information. Throughout our flight we kept checking on the cabin door, which remained steadfastly shut amidst the caution advisory saying otherwise.

It was a painfully slow flight.

Painful because in my heart I knew how tits up this could go. I knew of cowlings coming detached in flight and striking the rotor disc and how that ended the lives of two captains assigned to fly the Deputy PM on the air force VIP helicopter, the Super Puma we had bought from Indonesia. I looked at Neil, flying dutifully at the controls. His trust in my judgement and our cohesiveness seemed stout, but I had the thought that it hung by a thread and how I could never forgive myself if this did indeed go tits up. I was ready to go down with the ship, and how I wish it didn't involve him.

But!!!!!.....

We had deliberated this. We conceded to the plan. We were in concurrence over flying to Labuan. We had checked the integrity of the cabin door against the other factors running against us. It may have been a poor decision, but it was the best we could do with the resources at hand, at the time.

In good time, after about 45 minutes of flying, Labuan turned up on our horizon. I took over control, being more familiar with Labuan airfield, having served in No 5 Squadron on the other side of the runway. We lined up on runway 32 for a run-on landing and taxiied to the general aviation parking bay. And true to point, as we turned off the runway onto the taxiway, the amber FUEL LOW captions illuminated. I heaved a sigh of relief and triumph, that we were vindicated at least academically, and that the investigative board couldn't penalise us for the conduct of the flight.

Shutdown was perfunctory with the age old checklist, as I had to draft an incident report and text it to the training captain. While waiting for news about the manner of recovery the home base would arrange, Neil and I caught a Grab car and set off to town hunting for my old Indian haunts for a much needed lunch. But in the many years past my squadron Exo days in Labuan, the only Indian eatery left in town was a mere shadow of where I used to savour a good meal, be it breakfast, lunch or dinner. However, food was still welcome, relieving and providing sustanence for a long day still remaining in uncertainty and doubt.

Between mouthfuls of food, I handled calls from various superiors in the company pecking order. First was the incident report, which I texted over to the training captain who accepted it without any need for amemndment. I was completely honest about the sequence of events except for my phone call to the boss before lift off, as I knew not only would there be denial, but also that the decision was ours as a crew and not his. I did not pen a cover up nor in any way pass the weight of respnsibility to my copilot. After sending the report, I waited for the recovery decision from helibase KK.

There was a spot of time for me to inform Brenda about the whole matter. She was always my rock, the one person who stood by me in all my lonely decisions and by that made them less so. I didn't feel lonely because of the incident, but because of what awaited when the wolves would gather to determine how I was to be devoured. The ultimate answerability lies with the aircraft captain. I was ready to face the consequences.

A few other phone calls came in on the matter of recovery. An engineer would be flown in from KK, would give the aircraft the once over and sign off on a one-time-flight back to home base. HQ's engineering was a bit tardy in releasing a civil flight ticket for the chap, but at long last warrants were turned into a flight ticket and he would land at late evening local time. I conceded as the aircraft captain to extend my flying duty period to cover the flight time back to KK.

It was 1915H by the time we finally took off from Labuan to KK. The night circuit was active at KK airfield meaning that Layang Layang Academy would be flying and complicating matters for us with flying students at their aircraft controls. We finally landed at 2020H.

The HSE executive marched us in to a separate room, ran the urine sampling and dismissed us. That ended the longest day I ever experienced as an offshore pilot.

What followed were 5 months of silence from HQ. I was suspended from flying pending the investigation by the base Safety Action Group while the grandstanding by the BFSO had gotten ridiculous. He was literally having a party over being the lead investigator over my incident and did not, in my opinion, conduct himself the way a BFSO would have towards me, "the accused".

I have been a BFSO since I was a flying student in the air force. Suffice to say, the dearth of professional conduct on his part left much to be desired. Although today, all that happenned till I sustained a loss of license due to my haemorrhagic stroke is but water under the bridge, how murky were the waters he stirred.

I shall continue relating the rest till how I arrived at my current state another day.

So ends my tale of my longest day.

It Was Just The Brake Pedal

My attitude towards riding is slowly evolving. For many years since 2005, after my third road mishap, I had been telling myself that riding a motorcycle is like a ticking time bomb, which can at anytime detonate rather tragically. That was the day I gave up riding, having walked away from that collision with naught more than soft tissue injury, musing that I had spent from 1988 till 2005 riding and having fun. It was time to stop, for I could not guarantee that I would walk away from a fourth accident. I had to ensure I stayed alive for the sake of the family.

Over the years, this form of auto-suggestion had taken on a life force of its own and from being such a diehard rider, I stopped turning my head to gaze longingly at passing superbikes, often thinking that the poor riders had no idea how much longer they had to stay alive. Yes, I had even become a touch mean spirited, with a hint of mild bitterness that I had rationalised the fun and love for biking out of my soul.

But then, at Brenda's wisdom and behest, when the walls of my world were closing in on me with my suspension from flying duties, we bought a bike. I trembled with my heart racing when I tried out the bike at the shop, terrified at how much I had lost over twenty one years out of the saddle. Eventually, the more I rode, with Brenda as pillion of course, the more my abilities returned, somewhat sub consciously. 

Oddly though, I wasn't yet comfortable on the little Vulcan S. From brand new, I had not felt the rear brake engage the rear brake disc. I couldn't figure out why it was so. I spoke to my mechanics about bleeding the rear brake line, but they were dead against it, cautioning me about possibly locking up the rear wheel and swinging the bike out of control. And so, I continued riding for nearly two years now, applying, but never feeling, the rear brake. Of course my u-turns were horrendous, but I kept riding nonplussed over the situation.

Finally, last week, unable to bear my frustration any longer, I brought up the matter with the boss of the shop, and enquired if he could do something about it. He told me to bring it in so he could look at it. And so I did.

In the interest of abbreviation, after the discussions with the boss and various supplementary dealings, the  youngest (and latest to join the shop) mechanic tested the bike and reported that the rear brake was fine. Not completely satisfied, I attempted to ask him if he could adjust the brake pedal slightly upward. He stared at the rear brake pedal for a minute, and then got his tools to it and started to adjust. I was delighted to see the brake pedal rotate upward, and told him when to stop. I took the bike for a spin around the block and for the first time ever, I could feel the brake pads engage the disc. The bite wasn't immediate but then again, the pads hadn't bedded to the disc at ten thousand kilometres. However, I could feel the nibble of the brake pads against the brake disc. Of that I was positive.

Now, I felt that the bike was complete; that it was a fully functional organism, so to speak. Now, I felt that we stand a chance of growing together. That she was finally mine. I mean, ours.

A lesson, relearned: it is often the case with motorcycles, that what appears to be an immense problem, often yields to the simplest solutions.

The Ride To TA

The way the church has been going lately, I wonder if I will even get a fair funeral mass should I die soon. They want proof that I am Catholic, that I am part of this church, that I am a serving member of a church community et cetera, et cetera and frankly, I have arrived at a point where I don't care so much about what happens to my body once my spirit detaches from it.

All the same, to not make things more difficult for those who are left saddled with the work of burying or cremating me, I decided that I should settle at least my documentation once and for all and get my "3-in-1" extract from the church wherein I was baptised, St Anthony's Church in Teluk Intan or as it was known back in the day, Telok Anson. Indeed, for as long as I was flying the Nuri, Teluk Intan still had a non directional beacon which we could use as a navigation aid with its identifying morse code. Tango Alpha! How quaint.

Brenda had requested that we also ride over the bridge to Bagan Datoh, the Jambatan Sultan Nazrin because it looked so dramatic from the road leading in and out of Teluk Intan via the southern route. The plan then was to ride to Teluk Intan on Monday 27 April, get the extract from St Anthony's on Tuesday and ride home on Wednesday. Bookings were made for Hotel Anson and come Monday, we set off at 0925.

It was our first time trying out the West Coast Expressway from just after Klang to Teluk Intan. We were well rewarded by not having to endure too many of the jams which plague the normal route via the Shah Alam highways heading north. It seemed that before too long, we were already passing the corner-of-the-world towns of Sabak Bernam and Sekinchan. We took one water break on the highway and one more at the Sabak Bernam Petronas station to stay hydrated in he baking heat. Thank goodness for mesh jackets!

The Android Auto unit on the bike resumed the navigation as we continued on our way. The miles slipped by and before long, it showed Teluk Intan was about 14km ahead. The town council provides a "bike lane" which like many egalitarian facilities in Malaysia, vanishes both sporadically and intermittently. But the TA drivers thankfully, understood the quirks of their town and seemed to me especially tolerant of my adherence to the arrangements.

Riding in Teluk Intan is always a slower affair than in other towns, I find. That's because there are many motorists who are aged, and extra caution needs to exercised while driving to keep the accident rate low. We wove our way slowly to our accommodations, this time at Anson Hotel. It was close to the church and our favourite eatery, the Anson Hainan Kopitiam. The only snag was that it being a Monday, both the Hainan Kopitiam and Ah Lek, Teluk Intan's foremost chee cheong fun outlet was closed. Thankfully, the restaurant right next to Anson Hotel was open and once we had checked in, we had lunch there and it was rather good. Evening was on us soon enough. We decided to call for Grab noodles for dinner and in my utter brilliance, I had neither packed utensils into my tank bag nor had I requested plastic cutlery from the Grab restaurant. I sent a rather vehement Note To Self.

The Anson Hainan Kopitiam. A bit "atas" judging by the clientele.

Our appointment with a Ms Rowena (yes, a Rowena) the next day was at 0930, the office hours of the church admin. We figured we would ride to Ah Lek first, where we relished the chee cheong fun. We managed to have a leisurely breakfast and got to church on time. However, Ms Rowena was nowhere to be found and cross checking with her on WhatsApp revealed that she would be an hour late. I then checked how long she would be around and she said till 1230. That gave us just enough time to cross the Jambatan Sultan Nazrin and get back to retrieve my extract. Yes, a bit tight but this was why we made the trip since 4 months of communicating with Rowena to get the extract mailed to me always ended up in silent treatment. So we kitted up and set off for Bagan Datoh!

A cafe stop at Kopi Saigon, Bagan datoh

The route to Bagan Dato was 45 minutes long via coutry lanes with nasty drivers who didn't care about running right through you during overtakes from ahead. It may have been a bit of an arduous route, but it got us to Bagan Datoh rather congenially, without having to cross roads or traffic. We grabbed a very nice coffee at Kopi Saigon (purportedly Vietnamese). where we seemed to be he only customers in a rather dead quiet little town. Just as soon as we drained the cup, it was time to make it back to st Anthony's or I would have failed the mission.

It was hardly 3km from kopi Saigon where the long stretch of road to the bridge began. Trivia has it that the bridge stands at 10km long, with the overwater span at 1.5km. Rather impressive for a sleepy hollow such as Bagan Datoh!

As we rode, I kept a close watch on the ETA to st Anthony's. It seemed that we would arrive just a few minutes after 1200, which shouldn't displease Ms Rowena too much. We stopped just outside the church office and I went in to get the extract. I held the little sheet of blue paper, a 3-in-1 certificate with the dates and churches where I was baptised, did my Confirmation and was married. I couldn't help reminiscing on Boromir's words: It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing.

But this meant one thing: mission accomplished! It gave us a much better night of restful sleep at the Anson Hotel.

And of course, the ride home was an amble well worth the ride down to TA. It brought back many memories and much resloution to my current predicament to do with the church. Until the next one, as is always the case in life.

And So I Carry On

I have always served in some way or form in every church I've attended. Starting as a commentator in Sacred Heart Cathedral Kota Kinabalu during my confirmation at age 11, to being part of the choir in St Francis Xavier Petaling Jaya, to being a lecter at St Chastan and Imbert Butterworth, I have always sought to render my contributions in some way I could amidst my hectic schedule as a military pilot.

I was unaware that in a voluntary church group like the choir, the priest would find it in himself to dictate who joins, who gets sacked and who serves him as he wants to be served. Yes, you heard me.

And so it happened to Brenda and I in 2020, when Covid19 gripped the nation and a backdoor government was installed, the parish priest of my church here in Somban sacked the choir without providing a reason. One of the senior choir members tried reasoning with him but he was adamant. I didn't think too much of it save for indignation at having no choice but to concede. I was a struggling copilot in the offshore helicopter flying world then, and I didn't have the time premium to let this scar fester.

I was kept busy. The office politics which is difficult for a senior first officer to sidestep and being the Base Flight Safety Officer consumed my energies. Also in 2021 I discovered I was diabetic and had that to deal with. My transfer to Kota Kinabalu base came in 2022 whcih started another round of adapting to a new life and environment and work life took on a form of its merry own.

So when the curtains drew to a close after CAAM's medical board decided to ground me permanently based on my haemorrhagic stroke in 2025, I decided that I could throw my effort into church. Coincidentally, the church notices projected before the final blessing indicated that the evening mass choir was in need of people. Hence, I signed up.

It was all going cheerfully for about a year.

The priest sacked the 0930H morning mass choir. In toto. It's what he does. When one of the sacked guitarists approached him to be reinstated, the priest was again, as ever, adamant over his sacking. Which is when the young punk asked him why it is that a former sacked choir member could be allowed to return to the choir while he could not. Yes, he meant me.

The priest was scandalised. He had no idea who I was even though he had seen me mass after mass for a year. He had heard me singing psalms for a year and was oblivious still. Indeed for the chrism mass rehearsal which he checked with a fine tooth comb, he heard me sing the psalm too, gave his seal of approval and yet didn't realise it was me. And so, he dismissed me once again. Not by telling me personally, but via the choir mistress.

I put in an appointment to see him about this, as was intimated to me was his request via the choir mistress. His clerk called me to inform me that he didn't want to see me and any questions I have should be referred to the choir mistress.

It's bad enough that he is too yellow bellied to meet me one on one. He slandered me during a meeting he had with the rest of the choir members about how badly I sang the psalm during the chrism mass. 

I am not going to insist on meeting him. It is already clear to me that his reasons for the first sacking in 2020 and the second one in 2026 were indefensible, which is why he sacked me again when questioned by the hapless chap from the morning mass choir. 

He draws far too much attention to himself for him to be actually serving God. 

But worry not. He hasn't seen the last of me.

"They shall look upon the one whom they pierced."

I shall revel in that Scriptural reference.

Farewell To Flying

It has finally come to this: my country's regulatory authority over my license has sounded the death knell over my flying days.

It appears that anyone who has had a brain bleed, or what aviation doctors call "haemorrhagic stroke", is considered permanently unfit to exercise the privileges of his license.

ICAO Document 8984 Manual Of Aviation Medicine does permit an observation period of one to two years before medical certification is permissible, therefore I do wonder why my regulatory authority's medical board has deemed me permanently unfit. As I only received the brief letter from them just today, I am unsure of whether I can challenge them or not. 

Assuming that I don't, I am thereby retiring from the flying world.

I have had 30 years of flying, with the potential for another 4 years now forfeit due to my medical condition.

I feel fine. I am still cycling and riding my Vulcan S 650. I understand that the culprit for my brain bleed was the anti-platellete CoPlavix I had to take as prescribed due to my stent, which the neurologist, my neurosurgeon and my cardiologist agreed to stop upon my brain bleed incident. I feel wasted by the ruling of the board, yet nigh powerless against their summary dealing with my fate.

Perhaps they deliberated on the possibility of recurrence because I would have to return to some form of anti-platellete, but it seems ridiculous to presume that I would be placed on the double strength version I was on before. In any case, what's done is done.

Is this the end of The Collective Consciousness?

Brenda doesn't think it should. My blog is supposed to be for me, and not just about flying per se. I am toying with the idea of continuing to write till death take me. I haven't decided yet in this raw moment. 

Till I make up my mind, I am looking forward to another 5-day ride with Brenda to hang around in yet another small town and sample its wares. Mid September seems a nice time to ride off together for a spell. We enjoyed our last coddywomple to Taiping, and a week later to Malacca. Hence the mischievous thought of doing another one soon.

See you in the next one.

I Am Of Two Minds

Yes, it has been more than 6 months since I last logged in here. It seems that way when I am not flying. When the flying slows down, the blog suffers.When the flying seems non existent, the blog is a garveyard.

When I first faced my Decrease in Medical Fitness, I felt that my flying career had ended. Unceremoniously. But quite with the air of finality. I saw myself as being in the preludes to retirement. I still had till June to the end of my contract. Yet, seeing that my 6 months of being medically grounded was just about 4 weeks before that end, I saw myself slowly but surely fading from the world of aviation. 

My touch and go contact with another pilot who had had a bypass a year and a half ago seemed dismal and not at all forthcoming when I did enquire into his health and recovery. Perhaps his luck was not on his side, and I sympathised with him. It isn't easy being off payroll for about a year and recovering from a bypass isn't child's play. Besides, the time frame for recovery from a bypass is never the 6 months spelled out in the ICAO Document 8984. Nobody facing an uphill climb with one's health and consequently career, would want to repetiively explain the details of one's ailments and poor fortune in finding the way back into employment. I could well understand his choosing to ignore my messages.  And so I would feel resigned to reading the pilots' WhatsApp groupchat, inane as it is, and feel mysef on the outer orbit of a rather active circle. 

That's how it felt for the first 5 months of my DMF. And then, all too suddenly, it seemed like only two weeks away from the 15th of May, 6 months exacly from the date of my stent placement. I was due for a review of my stress test with my cardiologist and I could feel myself getting tense the way I always do on the brink of something ominous like a check ride. 

Betwixt all these, I got in touch with the new Flight Operations Manager who informed me that my contract was extended for another 6 months to December. Further extensions would be subject to me clearing my medical fitness and my check rides. Phew! I had just been granted wiggle room!

But I happenned to have cleared my stress test on the 15th of May. I was surprised. And hopeful. I arranged to see my Aviation Medical Examiner a few days after on the 17th. After taking my blood sample he undertook the task of taking my stress test results to the regulatory body and all I had to do was to wait for my DMF to be lifted.

I seem to have swung around in my perspective towards flying. I want to be back in the cockpit again. Yes, while before this I did feel like my days in the cockpit were over, clearing my stress test has given me some glimmer of hope that perhaps my last day in the cockpit is ahead of me rather than behind me. There is a part of me which wonders if I remember how to do offshore flying, or how to carry out rejected take offs or continued take offs from a single engine failure. Many pilots I have spoken to have told me not to worry about anything, that it will come back to me, so I am going to have to hang my doubts and proceed with an open mind.

That is, if I manage to clear jumping through the hoops ahead of me. I have the aircrew medical and my License Proficiency Check to deal with.

I hope that the current positive trend continues. Then I shall hang up my flying boots in a year.

The Battle For Everything

I have held my silence long enough I suppose. Well, not so much out of dereliction or negligence, but I was in need of time to wrap my head around these recent events which have left me feeling like I have no idea about the direction my life is taking me. Now I write, so that I may have them arranged in my mind, and I can say to myself, I have addressed it.

I left KK in early November. Returning to Kerteh meant a reacquaintance with its quirks, client requirements and generally, the feeling of being knocked back to the stone aged provinciality it so proudly is. One of those quirky client requirements is the Offshore Passport, a duplicitous medical check placed upon all offshore workers in order to be deemed fit for offshore installation work. Why they have imposed it on pilots in Kerteh who already have a special to profession aircrew medical, I do not know and my speculations are not polite. But, we are mere wage earners, and we merely comply.

And so I lined up at the clinic, with all manner of other folk to get my offshore passport medical check done. All seemed to go well, except that the doctor raised the matter of my age being past 60 years, and that I would require a stress test. I wasn't particularly peturbed, being a cyclist  and all, so I booked myself into a cardiologist's clinic in Kuantan at first, but the initial results and the dodgy old cantankerous cardiologist made me decide on seeking a second opinion in my neighbourhood private hospital in Seremban.

I was put with a nice young Chinese doctor who had cut his teeth in Institut Jantung Negara, no less. On the treadmill, right up to Stage Three, I was joking and bantering with the cardiac technician at 100% heart rate. When it was over, the cardiologist looked grimly at the graphical printout and sat me down for a chat. I had a feeling this wasn't going so well. He seemed concerned about the curvature on a particular line on the graph which he suspected indicated an abnormality in recovery speed from stress, which in turn, he linked to a possible blockage. He suggested an angiogram, and said he could arrange it for the morrow. So it was an early dinner that night, no favourite soju and no breakfast in the morning.

Early the next day, there I was on the table, fully aware of the wire going through my wrist and snaking its way into my heart. The cardiologist kept me briefed on each stage of the procedure, interspersed with his attempts at humorous banter with his nurses, up to the point when the warm dye was injected into my heart. After that they were quiet for a while, and I heard them conferring in hushed tones. I braced myself for the news.

Yes I had a serious blockage in my left anterior descending cardiac artery, exceeding 70%. They moved immediately for the angioplasty. Initially, the balloon didn't crack the calcification so they used a bladed balloon. The stent they put in was quite long too, at 36mm. Ah, never do anything in halves, right?

I was in the operating theatre for almost 2 hours. I am aware I caused a handful of people much worry. But such is the way things are when life changes in a flash. I was warded in their ICU for a night to be monitored, and the next day was subjected to another examination. Bloodwork was fair and the ultrasound showed my heart was functioning at 70%. If it wasn't for the six months mandatory medical leave and Decrease In Medical Fitness I had to declare to my licensing authority, I could have gone for another stress test in two weeks and tried to get my flying life back on track. Yes I am exaggerating but it's to describe the frustration of having no choice but to sit tight.

Alright, so I have joined the Stent Club now. Once you've done it, then you find out how many people you know have had a stent placement too. And it seems to be fairly common. It's not a prestigous club, but it has many members carrying on noiselessly with their lives.

Of course, in keeping with international civil aviation law, I am immediately suspended from exercising the privileges of my pilot's license, and cannot be considered for review in less than six months from the day of treatment, which was 15th November.

How I see it is this: I am not going to swing into action and double down on my books with the idea that when the hiatus is over, I will be able to mesh seamlessly into the flying world as if I had never left. I am grounded not because of a violation of company procedure or policy, but because I had a cardiac event.

And that is surely a message from the universe to step back a minute. The other senior pilots who had gone through this were encouraging of one thing alone: that I should take it easy for a while. Perhaps for many years I had been pushing too hard. Both in military service and civil life, I have had to chase uphill in both careers, if I can call them those. I was never particularly gifted, and the demographical barriers were constant, therefore pushing against the club members of the pressure groups which exist in these corridors was the only way I could take a step forward at a time though I often felt I was regressing. 

I am listening to the universe speak. I must back off for a while. I must rebuild my physical fitness and resilience. Also and especially since the kids are all employed, I must stop taking life too seriously, champing furiously at the bit. The battle for everything is over. I must now live for myself and for those whom I love.

This means, we're going riding!

Slice

Yes the axe has fallen. Our little base of operations is closed. We had the last remaining rig taken over by the other helicopter operator on 14 September. State politics is an avaricious beast disguised as parochial statesmanship. In reality it is anything but.

Everyone is in shock. The heavy hearts are reflected  in the shipping boxes being slowly and painfully filled with office items, desktop PCs, display monitors and filed records of our operations in KK. It is done,

Pilots and most engineers are being transferred to our alma mater in offshore operations, Kerteh. The cultural change will be massive. Back to a hovel where Grab food, Grab car and Grab Mart does not exist. Yes there is Grab food, comprising the wares you can find served streetside in the most provincial dishes all done in poor taste. The social scene is typical of conservatism under theocrats. Forget nightlife.

But it is a hovel I know. Kerteh and all its lacks can be managed. Kemaman is a 20 minute drive south where a more bustling food and kopitiam scene exists with Indian and Chinese food to satisfy the needs of those familiar with the better eateries of the west coast. Northward to Paka the Thai fusion Sawadee restaurant, ever popular, awaits us in a return to flawless dishes and comfort food. Their roast duck is second to none.

The KK experience was good. The gang at work was amiable, tiffs almost non existent with barbs well tempered by humour. The boys and girls who have not opted for the relocation will be certainly missed.

And in my sunset days, another misadventure awaits.

Turbulence

I know this is long overdue. I apologise for being engrossed in the repercussions of being restricted to the left hand seat over this duration, and the struggle in dealing with the surprising personality changes in the cockpit which followed.

This is my sincere prayer for the crew of SQ 321, the Singapore Airlines flight which encountered severe turbulence over the Myanmarese waters on 29 May 2024.

I always believe that any aircrew who have faced off to an in flight incident comes away a better pilot for it. There will be others who will inherit the from treasure of your misadventure.

I pray that you will weather your career storm and survive the corporate measures that will be served upon you. May you hold your courage under fire and remain as one crew till you reach the other side of these turbulent waters. May the changes which come upon you be the kind which make you better mates, no matter what voices speak to you when the nights have gone quiet and the hauntings resurface to make you second guess yourselves.

Forgive one another. Some things will never wash away with time, and perhaps they shouldn't, for whatever reasons eternity holds in place for you, May you one day as friends, well into the autums of your respective lives, raise your glasses together remembering that you made it to the ground intact.

Be well and fly high.

Say A Little Prayer

 23 April 2024.

A sad day. During a Royal Malaysian Navy Day parade rehearsal flypass, there was a mid air collision between an Agusta Westland AW139 and an Airbus Helicopters Fennec. There were no survivors.

Aircraft crashes attract a lot of attention. That's a universal fact. Flying machines command awe, in the air and on the ground. And certainly irresistibly draw the mind's eye when they come flailing to earth.

It is always and invariably, a tragedy.

The officers and men involved were too far downstream of my generation for me to have encountered them, but I regard their passing into the next with the same sense of loss and regret as I feel in regard of the many of my friends who have perished in service to the nation.

It is also in such times when the remotest of peoples suddenly remember that I am a pilot but it's not to ask if I am alright.

They text me for comment with an opening salvo of the most unsavoury presumptions.

The abrupt loss of life is a standalone tragedy. But adding insult to the crew's training, their knowledge, skills, aircraft and even straying so far as to insult the navy's hardware by quoting submarines which can't submerge is the hubris of those whose breadwinning is from the shelter of a coccoon. And by the way those submarines are fully operational and have been since their purchase in the early 2000s.

I have nothing to offer to even the curious, let alone the judgemental.

Too many, way too many pass the most brain dead comments such as "obviously human error", from watching a 15-second cellphone video capture of that dreadful mid air collision. If that's all it takes to identify the root cause and probable cause of an air mishap, I should burn my certificates in aircraft incident and accident investigation. Besides, that professional market is obviously saturated judging from the many air accident investigators mushrooming all over my phone display. I'll never be able to pull off a side hustle in this field.

Here's the best you can offer the dead who had to leave not knowing it would be their last sortie: say a prayer if you have one to offer. Do not disseminate the video amongst your group chats. Do not judge. I do believe these take less effort than the kilojoules expended in spreading falsehood and prejudice regarding a profession so fraught with risk even in the highly regulated world of civl aviation, let alone military aviation where the undertaking of risk is inherent with flying an aircraft to its full envelope, because the aircraft is their weapon in war.

I have always held the belief that a pilot involved in an air incident is a true asset to his wing, or his squadron. He has seen and experienced something and carries a learning value which has come at cost. Yes, I have had a few of my own and they are in earlier blogposts from before 2010. And perhaps a few after.

I believe that the deceased in this incident are the same. It is sad that we will not be privileged with learning about flying from their incident directly from their account. I am sure they would want to for the benefit of all other same type operators. On that token, may they find their peace where they are now.