Though My Heart Quiver

The spine of the mountains is clear against the sky

I shall sail in my vessel but I shall not ride too high

Should the needles fall to zero beneath the midday sun

Into the embrace of mother earth shall I make my final run

The wind can lift me safely if she favours me today

And upon the palm of her hand I slowly meander my way

May the mists rise to show me the valleys below

And draw me away from the cols fraught with turbulent flow

There are days when I feel like the sky is surely mine

Skirting at treetops in a wingdance as the river winds

The beauty of God's tapestries in greenstretch beneath my feet

My hat be nimbus, the cirrus, cumulus and stratus sheets

I see the Brahminy sweep along my shoulder in pairs

The swallows and swifts ignore me as if I weren't there

I thank the heavens for the graciousness of CAVOK
Till the skids kiss the grass let good weather hold its sway

Each time I fly my life is a supplicant offering

As I look down  at the mountains like ceaseless carnivorous rings

Will that tropical rain forest be my bridge to the the life hereafter

Or will I be consumed by ebony clouds that cloak the way yonder

What can we seek refuge in, be they the written or unforeseen

When all knowledge is overshadowed by the frailty of being

My only way back is the pavement of many whispered prayers

As the rotorbeat pulls me homeward bound through the air

Where does my mind run to when the sun has hidden his face

Back to my dear woman and the lovely ones she has raised

Though my heart quiver my hand steadies the cyclic stick

Raise the collective and ease forward and clear that rugged peak

Now the backbone of the mountains gazes at me from on high

There is no whisper of a storm lurking in the bright open sky

To my Shepherd I commend the means by which I make my bread

And through each quiver of my heart, He shall steady my way

BO Flights

Oh, BO in this case does not mean the Bolkow 105 helicopter. How I wish.

Thursday, 02 June.

My flying for the month began with ferrying an MP and his 7-man party from Penampang town to a kampong called Kalangaan, 9 nautical miles Southeast of the town. It seemed simple enough, and 9 miles didn't imply that a night stop kit was really needed, as surely I could make it back on a 9 mile-leg!

I was to fly them in at a quarter to seven and draw them out at 1400H. The Garmin was clamped onto the glare shield, and the climb to a thousand feet showed me Penampang town in the shimmering distance along the heading and mileage away as indicated by the Garmin. The ground crew had already reached the district council field by road. I was in radio contact with them and I was informed that a shutdown would not be necessary as the passengers were ready on ground. I was glad for this, as it meant that the task would be expeditious: swiftly in, swiftly out, in 2 shuttles and then back to base to wait till the aftenoon extraction bit.

My first load was made of normal passengers, and we shot towards Kalangaan at 1500 feet. I was pointed straight into the mountain range, and I kept looking down for Kalangaan, as the Google Earth shot I had perused the night before showed a riverbank village. However, after noting that Kalangaan was supposed to be 0.2 miles to go, I was puzzled as all I could see ahead of me was the foreboding rise of the mountain wall. I circled a few times just in case I missed something, and I could not see any village in 0.2 miles' distance, and certainly no river either. My instincts told me that by the shape of the terrain, Kalangaan was likely to be behind the mountain, even though the Garmin GPS indicated dead ahead on an evidently unlikely to be inhabited mountain wall. Besides, it was not in keeping with the Google Earth picture I had looked at in reference to the GPS coordinates.

Feeling very unprofessional and crimsonly defeated, I pointed the Bell's nose back to Penampang and got onto the company's frequency. "Sabah Air, 9MAWC, unable to loacate Kampong Kalangaan. I am heading to Penampang and will call ops to reconfirm the lat and long." Roger, Whiskey Charlie, we will check the coordinates again, came the reply from ops.

Then Penampang Ground, also our ops boys, came up with a brain wave through the company's radio, "Captain, maybe you can ask one of the passengers." It seemed like someone was in fact listening over the headsets, because I heard an unfamiliar voice say, "Okay Captain, I have the coordinates." It was one of the MP's staff, George.

Seeing that we were overhead Penampang already, I approached for a landing and made him swap seats with the front passenger. I had  a look at his coordinates for Kalangaan, punched them into the Garmin and got airborne once more.  I flew the route while reading the terrain and sure enough, the spot was behind the mountain. What I had received from ops was off by a few seconds both in Northing and Easting, but a few seconds in this kind of terrain can make all the difference between make or break in a mission. I  discovered after sending MP Datuk Phil in on the second shuttle, that instead of heading back to Kinabalu to wait for the noon extraction, another load was waiting for me. Here I once again learned how different Bell operations are from the Nuri.

On the Nuri we have a flight deck. The "cockpit" so to speak. It is somewhat separated from the cabin. There are no doors or bulkeads partitioning the flight deck from the cabin, but even without partitioning, an open design with a designated flight deck is effective enough in delaying the travel of unwelcome fumes into the pilots' nasal cavities. I realised this when the last two passengers boarded for a one time flight into Kalangaan. I say this without prejudice: they had body odour to infringe the defintion of bilogical and chemical warfare, and there was no tempering of the effect as in the Bell, the passenger sits next to you just as close as a passenger in a car would.

Then after dropping them off in Kalangaan, I flew direct to Kinabalu and shut down the aircraft. I advised the ground crew that I would need the Bell fuelled to 60 gallons and ready by 1345H. Then I marched off smugly to gobble down lunch at the company canteen.

When 1345H arrived, I started up perfunctorily and transitted to Penampang at 500 feet. It was the view from 500 feet that altered my mood for the evening. Penampang looked like it was about to be inundated with storm clouds. The flight path to Kalangaan looked worse. I had to land in Penampang to off load one tech boy who would assist me with passenger handling while I carried an ops boy into Kalangaan for the same purpose.

Even the ops boy could see that the weather was rapidly deteriorating. He kept his eyes on the route appraisingly. "Ni tak baik lah Cap. Kalau hujan lagi teruk nanti saya tidur dalam sini pula Cap. Tapi rasa rasa boleh lah nak habiskan bawa keluar semua." I optimistically agreed with him, that the weather would hold till we had withdrawn everyone out. As I skirted 'round the storm cell crowning the mountain, turning left to ride the valley to Kalangaan, I felt instead that this was not going to be as simple as anticipated. The rain had begun to fill the valley, blurring the outline of the slopes. A touch of sun from my back cast some shadow which helped me see the slopes on the left, and I navigated my way to Kalangaan by them. I picked up the initial four heavyweights, all the heavier for the alcohol they were reeking  of and turned 180 degrees to climb out of the valley. The valley ahead was coal grey. Gone the sun, and I was ready to kick the tail back to Kalangaan if the valley ahead was indeed walled in. As I gradually picked up to 80mph, there was a small backlit spot to my ten o'clock. I chased towards it and safely exited the valley, flying through obscurring rain back to Penampang.

The second attempt was not fruitful. Even at 1000 feet, the valley into Kalangaan was solid grey, impervious to my need to accomplish my mission. I circled the valley and descended to 500 feet, hoping to read the valleys' outlines from a lower altitude and sniff my way in, but it was a no from mother nature. I had seen this before, many times. I was past the point of arguing with her. You can ask her only so many times. If she still says no, no it is.

I headed back to Penampang, and the tech boy came running to the aircraft. He donned the headset and listened to my brief. The valley is blocked. I will shut down here and wait. If by four o'clock it's still bad, we will have to abort and try again tomorrow. Now I will just reposition the Bell at the corner of the field as the schoolkids are having their games. He nodded acknowledgement, and jumped in as I was going to use him as my "crewman", to look at the  tail and advise me of the clearance as I "re parked" at the corner.

I shutdown and did my post flight checks under the rain. Then I took shelter at the nearby Tun Fuad Stephens Hall and watched time creep slowly by with no improvement to the weather. To make matters worse, one of the passengers I had brought out of Kalangaan was Datuk Phil's aide, who had gotten separated from his leader in the argument as to whom would leave first on the chopper, and he, fully sloshed, decided graciously to improve my 18 years of flying acumen with his personalised lecture on aviation sciences. I entertained him for pity's sake till my better sense told me that the weather was not getting better even by waiting in Penampang. I walked over to the Bell with the aide chasing after me, telling me that it would be good to land at Kalangaan. Ignoring him, I beckoned to my tech boy and we got into the aircraft, wound up and flew back to Kinabalu.

After shutting down at the company dispersal, I advised the ground crew that I would need the aircraft fuelled again to 60 gallons, as  I would reattempt the extraction at 1700. But it was not meant to be. Although the rain subsided, even from the airfield it was clear that fog began rising thick from the troughs and valleys. I was there with the start-up crew, staring at the distance. The tech boy who was with me earlier shook his head, saying exactly the same thing about the rising fog. Prior checks on the meteorological websites also showed the area was choked with scattered precipitation. Hmmm. I couldn't be the only one thinking I could succeed. These boys have had far more time on the job than I did in this area, and their intimacy with local weather had to be respected. Plus, I realised I was trying to push it. Now, that is never the attitude with which to get airborne. I relented. I headed home feeling dejected. Frozen fish curry from Brenda's kitchen back in Labuan was reheated for my comfort, and I slept restlessly from about 2 in the morning till six.

When Lauren Wood's Fallen buzzed over my cellphone alarm, my first step was to head for the balcony. The fir trees in the distance were brazen with the rising sun, and I was sure this day would end better than the one before. I had my breakfast enthusiastically and went to the company hangar for pre-flight prep.

Before I walked out for start-up, Andy from ops informed me that the ops boy in Kalangaan had managed to contact him from a hilltop near Kalangaan's LP. The information was that everyone was on the hill, and there was an LP of sufficient size to take a Bell. Hmmm. There were no coordinates...so I guess I would have to wing it. 

As I reached Kalangaan, I contacted the ops boy on the company frequency. He clock-coded me to the LP and I went up and down the valley as I gauged the approach to the LP. Somehow the breadth of the valley didn't seem enough for me, whilst flying the length of the valley only enabled me to see the LP when abeam its position. Discomfort began to set in and I appealed that the passengers walk down to the original LP, the field at the riverbank. The agreement was reached, and I landed, with two veteran mongrels comprising my welcoming committee. Dogs can be anywhere, city or glen, and always have soft eyes sparkling with loyalty.

As I exited the aircraft, out of nowhere a hobbit-sized lady with a toddler papoosed on her back walked up and started yakking with me, and I squinted to read her lips because I couldn't make out what she was saying through the lump of tobacco tucked into her upper lip. Here, lip reading was pretty much commensurate with the sounds emanating from her mouth. I got something about Datuk spending the night uphill, and the clearest thing was, "MABUKbah Datuk semalam!!!!" I chuckled. So it wasn't all suffering in the jungle was it? And hey, this tiny and obviously fit woman was the grandmother to the toddler. Mmmm Hmmm.

Meanwhile, two youngsters came out of the thickets and chatted with me. They were cheerful, and spoke of a night of inebriation. They reminded me of my younger days in the base, when we had a functional bar life. Yes, even they called me Cap!! Cap dulu tentera ka? Boleh nampakbah yang Cap dulu pilot tentera dulu. Cap pusing helikopter macam lain, banyak yang masuk keluar sini tidak pernah pusing macam Cap. I was speechless. I didn't know these young lads could tell so much. So my air force background showed in my handling huh? Or was I like Donkey, wearing it all on my sleeve? Hey...my ops boy spent the night here. Did he give away too much under the influence?

When Datuk Phil finally arrived, I apologised to him for both the inability to take him out the day before and the baulked approach to the hilltop LP. He said neither was my fault, and he appreciated the call to exercise early in the morning. We made small talk, and he described how by its very location and inaccessibility, Kalangaan was sure to never be void of its crystal clear babbling brook. It would remain as it has always. It was heartening to hear this. It seemed that the quality of this MP was to preserve, not to change in the name of progress or mileage. Soon after, George conjured a photo op, and then we clambered into the Bell to expedite the start-up and completion of the task. It was almost nil wind conditions cruising out of the valley, and it was minutes shortly after when we landed in the district council field.

Datuk Phil shook his head and slapped his thighs in  glee. "Mmmm!! Smooth, smooth, smooth!!!! Thank you Captain!!" He gave me a broad grin and shook my hand vigorously before getting down. Right. Now for another two shuttles.

 On the second shuttle, I had George with me. He bagan looking out into the Penampang valley and pointed out his house to me. "Okay George," I said. "Get your camera out, because I am going to circle your home from a hundred feet above it." I made a rapid descent, George snapped his pictures, and we headed happily to the district council field where the four-by-fours were waiting for the remnant passengers. A third shuttle brought my ops boy out and I retrieved the tech chap from Penampang before turning towards Kinabalu.

It was indeed as it turned out, a better end this time around, as promised by the sunrise. I gazed out on the sprawling town I now lived in, remembered Kalangaan and its  idyllic huts and hills and softly hummed Seminole Wind before reporting to Kinabalu Tower that I was east of the airfield.

I guess that some days are diamonds, and some days are stone.

That'll Do

I believe that children are our future. Teach them, well....

For most times, I think I like kids though my own wife and kids say I have a face to scare children into hiding.

Unflattering as that thought may be, I sometimes wish that such an affliction of the countenance could be called to bear upon children who draw out the exterminator in me.

It was a cloudy Saturday morning at ten when I had to fly Tan Sri, his son and bodyguard into Sinua, a hill-locked hamlet where Tan Sri had some political business to see to.

I could not cross the range into Tambunan, nor at Papar as the cloud base sat below the crests of the Crockers, so the reliable route through the Melalap gap was employed. I overflew Keningau and went on to Sinua, keeping Tan Sri briefed on every election of route and diversion thereof, till Sinua lay sprawled beneath our feet. A sweep over the village allowed me to select the best approach into the village football field where the crowd stood upon the grandstand waiting for his arrival.

As Tan Sri and company disembarked from the Bell, I sat in to plod through the shutdown. The sight of kids glaring at me in swarms at the edge of the field began to petrify me. Again, I missed my old Nuri, her sheer size and noise signature intimidating even soldiers, while the Bell, I feared, could do little scarier than to court enamoured dragonflies into a mating dance.

Post shut down, I clambered off the skids slowly, securing all the doors one by one. There was a sweet old grandma who came up to shake my hand. I reckon she couldn't tell the politician from his pilot. The grandstand was now void of the entourage which had proceeded to the community hall yonder behind the headman's house. All that remained were alarmingly numerous children and one lone and clueless looking school security guard, his face a showcase of all steely courage as was on Beni Gabor's in The Mummy.

At first I thought my fears were unfounded, as crowds of waist-high children trailed in chatters after me like a gaggle as I walked towards the grandstand to begin the interminable wait for my passengers to finish their function at the hall. I was both touched and flustered, as kids, both boys and girls, runny noses and red-eyed, coal-toothed and flea-bitten, pocked skin and raggedy clothed, jostled and squeezed to sit next to me.

Then the teenagers began what I have seen grown men shamelessly do: pose for photographs with the Bell. Oh, I am fine with that. I am so used to these photo op sessions, girls imitating Kirsten Dunst's moves as Mary Jane posing for Peter Parker. Then came the moment the money shot involved leaning on the pitot tube. I stepped off the grandstand to tell them never to lean on any protrusion. Yes, and to tick off a cool dude wannabe for smoking near the aircraft. I turned back to the grandstand to see the kids' jaws dropped at the display of stern words. For just five seconds. Then they too began swarming the aircraft like it was the Bastille.

And so began 3 hours of prising off these children who converged on the Bell like wave after wave of scurrying roaches, and no amount of impassioned pleading that for their own good, not to touch antennae for fear of decaying radio emissions, grab for the HF antenna they did. One simian was hanging from the tail rotor guard!! Yelling at him just made him turn his back on me in cold dead silence, making me wonder if he had some mental disability, as he responded neither to me nor to the caution-filled yells of his schoolmates.  To add pressure to my already dreadful day, cows began to amble into the field, and storm clouds were gathering in the hillslopes that crowned the village. Did Tan Sri have a window in the balairaya through which to observe the encroaching weather?

I was getting wearied as I watched cows grazing idyllically around the Bell, leaving their cellulose signatures here and there. The guard who had been assigned to take care of the Bell had long disappeared as Beni would have in the face of a million scarabs. How life does indeed imitate art. I surrendered the Bell to its history of having served in these hamlets under the rule of The Lord Of The Flies and yet lived to tell the tale. I turned my attention to the packed rations in the baggage compartment and consoled myself with lunch. At long last even the number of children imparting unwarranted physical contact with the Bell subsided.

Late in the afternoon it was when my passengers finally arrived at the field. The Tan Sri's son called out to me with a sky ward glance, "Okay kah Cap?"

I nodded vehemently to release pent up rage, "Yes, Arthur, we can push through weather like this." I must have sounded reassuring as taking note of my weather assessement, all my passengers headed for the bushes for the obvious before getting on board.

I did a quickstart, the cows scattering as I pushed the Bell past transition into forward flight. As I climbed to 3000 feet, I looked in the direction of Tenom, noting that the gap still looked clear. I advised Tan Sri that I would do a running refuelling at Keningau where I knew my groundcrew were standing by, and push thereafter for the Tenom gap to clear the range before weather sealed us in the Keningau valley.

At Keningau I radioed the groundcrew to alert them for a running refuelling. I called for 70 gallons to cater to diversion, as I was anticipating bad weather. The top up took about ten minutes, and I was soon airborne for Tenom. Hardly two minutes out, the groundcrew radioed me, saying that Capt Haji, who had been flying around the area a spell earlier, advised that only the Melalap gap remained available for crossing the range. Hmmmm?? I thought, that's peculiar. I see differently from here...

However, as I approached the Melalap gap, I found every trough filled with stormcloud. I tried every valley the ridge had to offer but it was shut. I turned for Tenom and provided the feedback to the company ops room, asking them to hold the groundcrew at Keningau till I had crossed the Tenom gap. I then advised Tan Sri accordingly of my intentions. He was listening to the radio chatter and asked, "What about the Melalap route?"

"Well, Tan Sri, that's what we turned away from just ten seconds ago. The way is shut. Semua pintu dia sudah tutup."

The view of Tenom from 3000 feet showed stormclouds cascading over her crests too with only the narrow gap backlit from  the other side. I watched the torque meter and noted I was slowly creeping above 85%. That was tension. I forcibly lowered the collective to 70% and kept the speed at 90mph. The tension was accumulating over weather, and also because of the gap's venturi effect which could accelerate wind speed within the narrow crevice. I lowered the collective further to 60%, sank to 1700 feet to clear the stretch of high tension cables across the gap and slowed to 70mph, hoping it would allow for turbulence penetration. The buffets began to slap the Bell left and right, the rotor beat audible above the windrush. Still, she teetered through till the gap was cleared. Looking right to Beaufort, the normal path of least high ground, I saw the sky ebonied and ashened to the ground. I pushed forward for Weston instead and resumed normal cruise speed before altering heading for Kinabalu.

The worry was over. I radioed Kinabalu and provided my ETA. Then I advised the company that I was safely through the gap.

I turned to Tan Sri and told him, "We are okay now. We are clear from bad weather."

He nodded, looking past me to the right, where the range was featurelessly smothered in black thundercloud. "You're right Captain. All those gates are tutup."

We flew through some spots of rain to land without further incident at the company dispersal. As the rotor wound down idly, Tan Sri reached out to shake my hand. "Thank you, Captain." I smiled and nodded at him. After shut down and postflight inspection, I patted the nose of the Bell.

"That'll do, Donkey. That'll do."

Cappin'!!

Cap.

That's what they call me. Not at all as any sign of rank, but because nobody is bothered to call me by, even less remember, my name.

The staff manning the frontdesk counters at the Department Of Civil Aviation call me that. The cops and officers at the crash site in Sibu called me that. Cabbies call me that when I am buying a ride to the airfield. I find it as rude as tv talk show hosts who call their guests Doc and Prof.

I had the pleasure of such pristine company on my maiden task from KK to Sandakan to Keningau and back to KK. The clients were staff of a government agency and they were to be on board, snapping photographs of various 'hotspots' exhibiting environmental regulatory violations. The plan was to fly KK to Sandakan for a nightstop, thence overfly the hotspots enroute to a nightstop in Keningau. The third day was for us to fly from Keningau to KK to refuel, as the agency had such an agreement with the company as to not pay for refueling in the field, but only for refueling at aerodromes. Right...

I had a sleepless rolling in bed the night before this maiden flight of mine, all solo with no senior pilot to so much as fake a cough should I be slipping in flight. Two incidents in succession clouded my  mind, and when no cause code is disseminated the speculation looms like a bloodthirtsy demon lurking in the shadows. What few hours I had in slumber stirred  my agression to wrestle with the spindly Bell in the cheery light of morning. I rose early and headed for the company hangar to check the manifest, the loadsheets and flight plans. I scanned throught the manifest and saw that I would be carrying Thad, whom I had acquainted myself with during my line check, and Dweeb, a hulking 5-foot 9 porcine drip with a camera.

It was indeed starting on a wing and a prayer as I pulled the Bell into a buoyant climb astride the Kepayan ridge for the first leg of the task. We were to look for the hotspots along Inanam, Telipok and Tuaran before heading for a hotspot in the vicinity of Gana. Dweeb sat in up front armed with the camera and asked me, "Point-point dia di mana Cap?" His question truly reflected not merely his intelligence but also his prep for what was essentially his own job. I pointed to the map display on the GPS clamped onto the glare shield shrouding the instrument panel. "This is us. That's the track we must fly. And that's the point at which you start taking your pictures."

I was tense. I knew that after Telipok's hot spot, I would have to turn for a hotspot near Gana, and that would mean crossing the range. As it stood, the track would cross just behind Akinabalu, the 13 455 foot behemoth. The vision of the Bell going inexplicably into a spin did keep flashing across my mind.  I dead reckoned at crossing the range through Kundasang, and raised the nose to 70mph to gain height as I transmitted my intention to Kinabalu High Frequency 6825. The steep rugged mountains rose like voracious canines and incisors as the little Bell waddled at a virtual inchworm pace across the range. I looked left to glance at Mount Kinabalu. It was dressed like the Grim Reaper, black clouds from her head billowing down to her feet, casting the Kundasang valley into shadow. I could feel my clenched fist on the cyclic beginning to emboss the cyclic's grip pattern into my lambskin glove. I knew I was getting way too tense to ride the wave should turbulence set in. I forced my hand to unclench. The leeward buffeting rocked the Bell gently, but she pulled faithfully across the jagged peaks and I was soon looking down into the plains of the Ranau Valley. I began to breathe again, and circulation to my right palm resumed.

I made Sandakan at 1130H. The company's Sandakan branch operations guy, Ram, took the entire bunch to a popular grilled fish spot, where we stuffed our faces more with fish than orisa sativa. I chased it down with the stall's proprietary fish and lemongrass soup, extra large bowl. Then to a hotel to re-fold my map, iron the next day's uniforms and nap.

The second day, the gods must have been smiling upon me as weather was beautiful. Prior to take off, Thad informed me of a change of plans. There would be no night stop at Keningau. Instead we would track direct for KK. That made sense to me, and I had wondered why they originally wanted a night stop in Keningau when refuelling was not an option, with KK a mere 35 minutes away from Keningau. I just did my "Very good sir." and flew accordingly. I accomodated a landing at what they called a suspicious looking sawmill, encountering brownout as the sawdust and dry soil suspended in the downwash. I had previous brownout experience while carrying out a special forces task during a localised drought so that didn't  faze me. By the time the timber camp kids came running out for a view of  the Bell, I lifted off to track for the other hotspots.

The third day, weather was again, simply beautiful. I assessed it as I stood on my balcony, knowing that days would come when weather woud not be as fair and my judgement would be further tested than these  three days of grace.

I parked in the company's lot, thinking of a nice breakfast at the canteen and walked to the ops room. Thad was smoking at the door, and cooly turned to me and said, "Cap, I will take on one more passenger."  Last minute additions spoil the flight and fuel planning, and an extra passenger was not in the air transport request. I gestured with my palm at him to hold on, uncertainty over the feasibility of his impromptu requirement making it imperative for me to fine-tooth comb the performance charts. I checked my load sheet at ops and found that the manifest was for two passengers only. An extra passenger would tip the Bell beyond its safe power margin. We were overweight and would run out of power should we need it for a landing or to counteract turbulence or weather. A few of the ops boys began recalculating the flight time and fuel requirements, but we still ended up overweight. I returned to Thad and explained the situation to him, using the performance charts to clarify the precarious situation we were in. It slowly dawned on me that Thad was no clearer on the problem than he was on the sexual cycle of the heartworm, as with every point I explained to him, he asked "So???" I was flushed with annoyance, but kept my poker face on.

I explained his options step by step. He could summarise the itinerary so that the fuel required would be lessened, freeing up more weight as payload to offer. He shook his head adamantly. He would not cut short the hotspots.  The other option would be to leave behind one passenger. He retorted in unmasked arrogance, "Yes, I will decide." And while he was deciding, he primated himself on the telephone line for many minutes. I went out to the dispersal to preflight check the Bell. When I returned to the ops room, I was informed that the flight had been cancelled. I shrugged and went back to the flight planning cabin to surf on line. A few minutes later the ops staff came up to me and said that the flight was back on again. Was it now? What was with the cancellation then? It seemed that Dweeb, weighing almost 200 pounds, had been turned down by Thad in favour of the new passenger. And so in 5 minutes we were airborne and tracking for Tambunan to fly down to Tenom. The new passenger sat in the rear, looking distraught. Thad took to the front with the camera. The first point was to land in some field in Tenom for what purpose I was not bothered to know. I was merely the cabbie here.

I crossed the range at 4500 feet, then dove down to 2000 feet to cruise past Keningau on route to Tenom. We overflew Tenom town and Thad identified the footbal field I was to land in. After landing, the newbie got off the rear seat and rushed out to meeet an elderly chap, handing over a mysterious looking small brown envelope. The way he handled it made it look like he was handing over money. "This is an emergency thing," Thad explained over the intercom. I nodded like being so informed made all the difference in the world to me

I completed the sortie, overflying all the remaining hotspots from Weston to Menumbok and Kuala Penyu and returned to KK just before noon. I completed my paperwork. Just before I could scoot off for lunch, Capt H, the KL branch manager and company safety officer, drove in from the airport and chided me over a complaint being raised on the very first task I was assigned. "Hey, I may be far away in KL but I know everything that goes on here. What happened, you offloaded a passenger is it?"

When I realised that I was under cross examination, I suddenly began to miss my air force flying days because the words of General Maximus of Gladiator echoed true: "A soldier has the advantage of being able to look his enemy in the eye, Senator."

As I explained the events of the day, Capt H's terse tone mellowed. He seemed to see that he was rused into thinking that I had offloaded a passenger in the field. In mitigation, he pep talked me into checking with the passengers at the end of each flight, if they had any complaints to register. Amongst other things, yes. Plus some homework he wanted out of me to complete the preliminary report on the Sibu mishap.


So Thad's subordinate staff tells him about a compassionate case he has with his kin in Tenom. So he tells his lad that he can have him flown in to Tenom so that cash to tide them over can be handed over directly, and in style. So Thad does not clear the additional passenger with ops, but tries to deal directly with me. When ops and I calculate the all up weight, we find it bordering on the limited power graphs and advise him accordingly. Then on the pretext of decision making over the phone, Thad gets miffed with me and complains to Capt H instead of registering a legitimate complaint on paper.

I would love to know why he cancelled the flight and then put it on again.

I have little regard for juveniles who know absolute nuts about aviation, who haven't the common courtesy to adress me by name, calling me Cap instead, and  after I provide them with professional caution, go bitching behind my back like some jilted lover to her girlfriends. These are the kind of people who forget that no matter what they pay the company, if I go down, they go down with me.

They can sod off!

On The Board

Monday.

I walked into the ops room to see whether the new roster was up for May.

Then I noticed my name was all over the roster.

Yes!!!!!!

Now it is time. I apologise in advance for this, but I am in transition no more.

Incomprehensible

On 11 April, my friend who was flying the Deputy Prime Minister and his entourage to selected campaign spots encircling Sibu sustained fatal injuries when, after returning the passengers to the town square, the helicopter he was flying rolled over to the starboard side from a hover, the very side where he was strapped into his seat. He breathed his last before Sunday night dinner time.

I was in Sibu on Tuesday to aid the DCA's airworthiness cell coordinate the investigation process.

After sending my friend's coffinned body on a chartered flight back to Kota Bharu, where he was to be laid to rest, I returned to Premier Hotel for a short rest, which was shortened further by Capt H's call. The DCA aircraft accident investigation team was to arrive at 1730H, headed by Dato' Y. I was to meet them and help them check in to their hotel and take them to the crash site.

The number of a cab driver was given to me and the meet up with the DCA men was arranged. "Ahpo" the driver, coursed through heavy traffic and the monotonous patter of rain to the airport. This was election time, and Sibu, like the rest of the state, was all abuzz with contending parties, swirling into the town via the arrival gates. This Sleepy Hollow was stirring with dreams and nightmares.

I got Dato' Y and his men into the little Avanza and we chatted as Ahpo exhibited his trade skills all the way to the town square. As we arrived at the Sibu Municipal Council's field, I saw the wreckage. Not my first. Yet, being at a crash site and seeing a mate's last venue of life floods me with emotions I have never acclimatised to.

I noted the people of Sibu standing outside the police perimeter tape. They stood with an air of sacred reverence; like a funeral wake over the spot where my friend's life was taken or given, I know not which. I have been made to understand since that Sibu has not seen a tragedy of this nature yet.

I approached the two cops who were on sentry duty there, introduced myself and pointed out Dato' Y to them, explaining the purpose of our arrival, which was to begin evidence gathering. We were received well and escorted into the cordoned off area. Dato' Y and his two-man team began their work aided by cameras.

I have no bone to pick with journalists. They have a job to do, I acknowledge that. But 26 years of service in the air force and knowing how obscenely they handle our fatal accidents, a journalist at a crash site strikes my patellar tendon.

Here he was, and his obesity lent no redeeming charm to his shamelessness as upon seeing us, he crossed the perimeter tape and began shutterbugging. With a huge telephoto zoom lens, he still chose to be inside the perimeter. This isn't about denying your press rights. It's about keeping the crash site untampered and undisturbed. It is also about sensitivity towards the friends and family of the deceased. The cop who stood with me clicked at him and waved him away with "Encik!". The journalist just walked a few feet away and started again.

Yes, my patellar tendon had definitely been sledgehammered.

I walked up to him, with the constable chasing after me.

"Encik, kamu dari mana?" I had to identify whom he worked for.

MSM, he replied.

"Encik nampak kah tidak pita yang megatakan ini kawasan penyiasatan polis dan anda dilarang melintas?' In effect, did you not see the perimeter tape that says this is a police scene and you are not to cross in?

He threw a glance over his shoulder and did not deny understanding the significance of a police-scene-do-not-cross perimeter tape.

"Kalau begitu apa yang menyebabkan Encik rasa yang Encik boleh melintas garisan pita itu?" What then made you think you could cross over?

The MSM journalist apologised profusely and backed off. I had nothing further to say to him.

And I laud the people of Sibu for remaining outside the perimeter tape in spite of the journalist's behaviour.

Remember Man......

Yesterday, I successfully evaded Ash Wednesday Service for the umpteenth time.

I cannot remember my last proper Ash Wednesday service. It may have been 2007 whilst still enslaved to the fashionably religious and pretentiously intellectual parish in PJ across the Federal Highway.

Yes, I know that this is a time of fast and abstinence.

Instead I spent the day sorting out the niggardly unserviceabilities of my ol' faithful 1992 SEG, then cycled 33 measly kilometres to Universiti Malaysia Sabah and back and finished the night pigging out on Basmathi and dried prawn sambal courtesy of Harry's charitable wife.

Her advice, relayed through a most emphatic Harry, was to only heat up what was necessary for a meal. So after I prised off the lid of that tupperware, I glanced at the rust-red heap and took out a huge droolworthy tablespoon to be refrigerated and did justice to the remainder.

I admit that I am not the most exemplary of Catholics, and the reason for a delayed death is that my pyre in Hades is still under continous construction to befit my calibre.

I am not proud of my departure from my Catholic upbringing, even though I did not really undergo any version of a sackcloth and ashes regimen.

Yes, whilst I lived with my aunts and uncles and cousins, my grandmother would keep everyone faithful by administering a rassam and salted fish diet during the fasting period. Yeah, absolutely no meat on Fridays. I didn't feel the loss really. It was pre-adolescence and it formed Pavlovian in less than three weeks, and stayed with me till I left home.

It was service life that finally exorcised me of almost all Catholic fast and abstinence, hurriedly replacing it with all manner of indulgence.

Food was probably the only satiably good thing that I had in Cadet Wing. The rest was hell. The seniors, the unceasing ironing, polishing, digging trenches, claymores, leeches and worst of all, watermanship, were the stark contrast of unpleasantries whilst food was not. So when Fridays came, the special lunch spread they had in the cookhouse before mosque parades was nigh impossible for me to turn my nose up at. And so yes, I ate of the flesh of the fowl on Fridays.

Now, this rolling stone has amassed so much moss that it is no closer to the foci of its ever expanding orbit by growth of its girth.

Maybe over these forty days I may go white dwarf, get back to the centre, and return to some honest Lenten practise.

Lest I forget, that I am dust, and unto dust shalt I return.

See Off Tee

THERE!!! I WANT YOU TO LAND THERE!!!

That was the scream I heard from my training captain as he sideslipped the whining Bell206 over the edge of a clearing.

I looked down at the patch of green and thought, "Oh, bollocks; I couldn't get in there in a Mini Cooper let alone a helicopter." YES SIR!!! was the only thing I could say. After all, this was my conversion sortie and the morrow was supposed to be my Certificate Of Test Flight to be endorsed as a Bell206 Captain.

He handed over control to me and I swung the chopper into a right handed orbit over the LP (landing point) and rolled out on finals approach. "Running in!" I called and commenced descent.

"Where are your finals checks??"

"No updraft, no downdraft, no windshear or turbulence and power in hand is good at 40 percent torque," I prattled. But as I passed half way through into the LP, committed to the landing and lowered the collective, I sensed audibly the sound of an engine winding down. A quick check on the rotor rpm had me turning pale and I immediately wound my left hand hurriedly to power up the decaying rotor thrust, and I caught in my peripheral vision, the training captain's left hand also reaching down at the secondary collective to wind up power. I heard a stifled roar of profanity and then it came out.

"Jeffrey!!! Why the HELL do you keep lowering power when you lower collective?? You're going to kill yourself one day Jeffrey! You're going to kill yourself!!!"

His demeanour turned completely Zen upon landing and shutdown.

He wanted one more hour with me to complete all the mandatory exercises. The conversion was far from over. We were supposed to fly on Sunday but he didn't show. On Monday he got tied up at a meeting, so we missed our slot time and the heavy traffic at the airfield discouraged circuit flying. All we could do were hover manouvres and engine failures. Seems I completely mastered the latter judging from my confined area exercise.

The normal conversion programme takes seven hours. All the other guys had seven hours, in Keningau for St Jude's sake. I had just clocked three hours and the one hour more would make only four hours. And I was doing my conversion in Subang!! Thursday was to be my C of T. Could we pull it off? Could I pull it off?

While I did clock the final hour on Thursday the 24th, the C of T was arbitrarily set for Saturday as weather was coming in and the training captain wanted me to spend Friday seated in the cockpit, practising my start up checks. Yes, I am a guy who must get all things annoyingly wrong before I get it delightfully hardwired correctly.

I carried out my C of T on Saturday morning, using an abandoned Macademised road alongside Shah Alam as my runway and LP, witnessed by many unhelmeted palm oil estate workers on motorcycles in typical estate style. I was cleared to be a Bell206 Captain, and had my license endorsed accordingly on 28th Feb.

So, after more that two-and-a-half decades, at age 46 going 47, some fundamentals have not changed, with alarmingly evidential consistency.

I still garble matters even though I understand a system completely. I still infuriate the hell out of my instructors.

And I am still insanely in love with the helicopter.

New Baby

This is my new baby.

Every town has its own hazards to cycling. I am lucky that Labuan was a good town to ease me into beligerent drivers and near-jacknifing my Giant Rincon when they'd pull over and open their driver's door without a backward glance, and worse, looking at my approaching strobe light and opening up full ajar anyways.

Maybe the ravenous dogs along Merinding were easier to sympathyse with in comparison and even come across as a higher life form, I say such in hindsight.

My first ride in KK was with my old air force mate, Capt Fadhli "Jambu", whose lemming sense garnered my awe when I noticed he rode without a single lamp anywhere, front or rear, and we both knew our ride would end well after sunset. Nonetheless, I learned under him that Kota Kinabalu was a shade more civilised than Labuan. I didn't find anyone deliberately swinging into us...yes, but then again, that was my maiden ride in town. I was woken up to how marginally lighter that shade was when the manga-emulating youngsters with spiky long hair in oversouped MyVis pumping bass out of their boots to shame Dr Alban unapologetically tried to shave my shin hair with their skirting.

Coincidences congeal into the strangest residual forms sometimes. A few rides with the group from Kinabalu Hyatt hinted to me that I may have to consider a different bike so that I was not always the straggler at the foothills. It was just about this time that I spotted an xds with 30 gears sitting at the LBS in Tanjung Aru. Yes, a few reads of Bicycling magazine has embedded into me the cyclists' abbreviatrix for local bike shop. Oh, that baby looked pretty!! And it was going cheap, so I began to wonder what gave? Internet research did not yield the conviction and comfort I sought over my choice of bicycle. Surely something must be good about 30 gears!!! I could thrash the upstart cyclists with their 8 kilogramme bicycles in an uphill dash if those 30 gears were burning my rubber...couldn't I?

Hence when the means were made possible to me by way of gratuity, I dropped by the LBS and was served with a rebuking at having thought of taking the xds as an owner of a Giant, all this by the owner of the shop no less. After much deliberation and cross-examination, I decided to wed the Merida MATTS500. Adjustable suspension while riding, hydraulic disc brakes and 27 gears won me over.

And we live happily ever after, to the end of our days.

Saved By The Bell

Capt Az burst into the pilots' cabin to sign his authorisation sheets.

"Hmmmm...it's my day off, but they called me in. Both Long Rangers are out in the field and one has gone u/s. Battery conked. I must send them a spare, and I would take you along with me but I don't want to waste your time."

I was beginning to salivate. Two weeks with nary a soul to chat with, bored out of my skull at being on the ground and wondering when my ground school would start, this hesitant offer sounded really good. "Sir, time in the air is never a waste. You seriously saying I can get airborne?"

Capt Az looked at me for a minute as he deliberated on whether I would be worthy as ballast. Then he snapped, "Follow me!"

It was about 1400H when we strapped into the Bell206. It belched to a start like an old Volkswagen. The smell of hydraulics and avtur (aviation turbine parrafin) wafted lazily in the heated cabin air to stir many fond memories of the Alouette and the Nuri's odours, making me feel much at home in the seat. In a few minutes we were climbing to a thousand feet down to Sipitang to deliver a spare aircraft battery to the two Bell206 Long Rangers serving Bear Gryll's shoot near the Sabah Forestry waterfall at Malua.

I read out the stormy weather patterns that were brewing in the east, cascading in black billowing clouds down the Crocker's slopes to fall as thick sheets of ebonied rain into the Papar-Beaufort plains. I pointed out also, the tall white cross atop the hills of Papar, to which Capt Az responded as if it were the first time he had seen it in his seventeen years as a Bell operator in this area.

His hands would sweep and point at the instrument panel, as he must have done each time he flew. These familiar air force mantras of cyclical checks in flight were evident in his flying style, and we spent the air time alternating between the checks and chatting away, crowding out the intercom so much the technician in the back seat was hushed till landing time.

I took this chance in the air to watch the engine and flight instruments, the green arcs and the cycle of activities a solo operator pilot would carry out in the Bell. The Air Speed Indicator needle hung at 90, and I thought, okay, that's the Alouette cruise speed as well, so I should survive losing the 110 knots of the Nuri. Then noting the unit measure at the centre of the ASI, I shuddered as it dawned on me that it wasn't knots that the instrument was calibrated to read, but MPH!!!! Now, that's a real bush pilot's airspeed!

Capt Az reminded me that while I was behaving like a copilot in helping him with the lookout, the spotting of clearings and weather predictions for the return leg, I too would be facing all these alone in good time. I would not have a copilot. I traded the fact with him that I had flown with copilots so incompetent that I had to man both engine speed levers through the speed trim switches on the collective during a flight test in Airod Kuching, therefore feeling alone in the cockpit was not exactly going to be novel to me. Capt Az started laughing. "Yes. Been there too."

Closing in on Sipitang, he rolled left and we both started looking out for the two helicopters. Capt Az spotted them down yonder, sitting line astern on a timber trail and a pick up truck in company which carried the technicians for the task. Capt Az selected an approach path and drew down to land next to the pick up truck. Three Bells, on a timber trail! I am going to have a lot to get used to. This spot would not have accomodated one Nuri.

The battery was taken out of the rear passenger cabin. Then we lifted off to slowly and pleasantly cruise out of the hills and point ourselves back to KK.

We landed as the rain started to fall in the muted evening light of a KK day at its burnished 1600H end. Capt Az thanked me for the company, and assured me that my day would come. I thanked him for letting me hop on, and headed home for a cup of Sheridans and Ottmar Liebert.

A Bell! A Bell! My kingdom for a Bell!