leaf peeing and sundry things part 2

Whoops, sorry for the time gap, this is a continuation post of our New England trip in October.  

After Vermont we headed down to New York City, first stopping in Kingston to visit with Stewart's niece, Andi.  Andi is an architect working in a very architechy building and in a newly renovated architechy home (well done, Andi!).  While in Kingston we visited the "four corners", the only intersection in the U.S. whose four buildings predate the Revolutionary War.  We also visited Opus 40 just outside of Kingston, a jaw dropping lifetime art project made out of stone using only old-world quarry techniques.  

Then to New York City, to visit friend Peter Buotte.  We ate NY bagels for breakfast, with about a pound of cream cheese on them, spread by the guy behind the counter who does not have more than five seconds to stand there while you figure out what the hell you want.   We visited museums, the 9/11 Memorial, the High Line Park, the Statue of Liberty (my first time), and about a gazillion other places, all packed into three days.  Below is a photo of Stewart and Peter at a local German restaurant.  Good beer and sauerkraut.

After NYC, we attended Stewart's 45th Annual US Military Academy (USMA) (aka West Point) reunion.  I was the only male spouse there, and the only noticeably younger spouse there, too, lol (okay, I'm no spring chicken, granted, but I'm not 67 either).  But I was generally very well received, and we had a great time.   

Following West Point we traveled to Connecticut and Rhode Island, having lunch with Stewart's cousin George and his partner Jack, then dinner with Stewart's Cousin Steve, his wife Gloria, and his Aunt Mary.    Boston the next few days with gracious hosts Dan and Laura, during which we whirlwinded the historic downtown area and environs.  My favorites were the Harvard Natural History Museum, and the Boston Atheneum .  Both were marvelous.  

Airborne

I dutifully track my flight time hours, now more out of curiosity than anything else.  4,886 hours so far, quite low compared to Vietnam-era and younger "production" pilots, but not terrible given the kinds of flights and experiences I've had.  In any case it's not a gauge of happiness or satisfaction for me, as even a helicopter pilot will tell you that after eight hours of flying in one day, day after day, the fun can sort of wear off.  

Below are my flight statistics by type; virtually all of it in helicopters save for a sliver of Cessna 152 time that I flew before entering the Navy, and my military training in the T-34.   The Navy flight time is in blue (dark blue being twin-engine, light for single engine); my time flying helicopter air ambulance with Mercy Air in burnt umber (all twin engine time);  my other "for hire" civilian flying in brown (again, twin engine in dark brown); and finally in gray the flight time that I paid for myself--mostly training for certification, and a scant few just for fun, including flights with my Mamaw and Papaw.  

The aircraft* designations probably don't mean a great deal unless you are so inclined to follow such things, but it provides perspective (at least for me) about where I have spent my career, proportionately, and what I have done.   Back in '97 when I left the Navy, the circle would have been almost entirely blue; after my first seven years with Corporate Helicopters, perhaps a 60/40 split; and now, my military career represents just a portion of my career--a good thing, I think, although it was a very meaningful part of my life and one that I nostalgically miss.  

*If someone uses the term 'aircraft' it could, in FAA parlance, literally mean anything that flies.  Balloons, gliders, gyrocopters, anything.   The term 'rotary wing' could mean a helicopter or a gyrocopter.  

things i learned after six days in north and south carolina

1.  The first highway one encounters coming out of Charlotte is the Billy Graham Highway, and once on the Billy Graham Highway one immediately will see signs to the Billy Graham Library.   Normally that would make me instantly hate this State, as the "threat" of marriage equality during the last Presidential election cycle was the one issue that brought Graham out of the shadows, to rail against the LGBT community with full page ads in national newspapers.  But now that marriage equality is the law of the land in North (and South!) Carolina,  it makes me sort of happy, with just the slightest hint of schaudenfruede.  

2.  One should really drive the speed limit here, there are cops everywhere.  

3.  Google maps is not aware of where the North Carolina town I was driving through dispatches its two thousand school buses, all at the same time. 

4.  The politics of Ayn Rand seem to be a thing here, along with the politics of being victimized by the hordes of welfare leeches.   And the illegal Mexicans, taking white people's jobs.    When I note that the only reason the strawberries they're snacking on don't cost ten bucks a pint is because some hapless Mexican is picking them twelve hours a day, seven days a week for less than what a McDonald's cashier makes, they seem perplexed. 

5.  They make ground ambulances with a semi-truck front and rear cabin to match.  Impossibly huge.  

6.  With a thousand dollar (or so) investment, you can reload your own bullet shells at home.  Because "you don't know what kind of shape this country will be in, in 30 years."

7.  As a long time Southern California resident, I have to say--Charlotte traffic sucks. 

Outland

My Mom had kept this cartoon in my childhood mementos, and I admit I love everything about Opus and its later, more edgy creation Outland.  It has an artistic skill and preciseness to it, more than what most cartoons these days have, and a multi-layered narrative akin to Bugs Bunny shows that made both child and adult laugh, but for different reasons.  

30 years later I still find this one funny, although many will not even know who Quayle is.   I barely do.  

El Commandante

I am airborne, flying a helicopter south from San Diego towards Ensenada, Mexico.  The last air traffic controller in the U.S. clears me to switch to Tijuana Tower, and I can instinctively feel the inevitable, gradual rise in my blood pressure.  

English is the universal language of air traffic controllers, the supposed standard anywhere one flies in the world.  But in a third world country like Mexico being fluent in English is barely a criterion for getting a job as one.  I switch frequencies and immediately hear the tower conversing in Spanish with another aircraft, just departed.  I check in, and am instructed to climb to 1,500 feet for crossing over the airport.  Not because I need to be that high to deconflict with other traffic, but because the controller knows how to give that command in English, and alternate directions would require words and phrases she is likely not familiar with.  I sigh, climb up, and motor on.  

She then tells me to report 10 miles to the south, which I do at 7 miles because I've already dropped back down to a normal helicopter height and she wouldn't hear me that far away.  In truth she has no idea where I am, and so she acknowledges my transmission and tells me to contact Tijuana Approach Control (TAC).   Of course TAC doesn't even know I'm here, because Tijuana Tower never informed them, they would never hear me at my altitude anyway and they wouldn't know what to do with me had I checked in with them.  Or more accurately they wouldn't be able to convey in English what they wanted me to do.  And so I save both of us the headache and motor on to Ensenada in radio silence.  

Five miles north of the airport I check in with Ensenada Tower, and I receive a tortured communication about a non-standard approach she wants me to take to the landing area.  I honestly don't know what she wants me to do, but attempting to have a conversation with her about it would be utterly futile, and so I continue inbound with the expectation that she will correct me if I appear to be deviating from her instructions.

 I wind up deviating, she winds up correcting me, as for some reason she wants me to use the runway (and odd instruction for a helicopter).  I play along, using the first half of the runway and then--which is why helicopters don't use runways--I proceed to create one enormous, billowing dust cloud as I hover taxi off the runway towards my landing spot. 

Tower tells me to land on Spot Number 2.  There are six spot on the left, four on the right.  None are numbered.  I pick one and land, admiring the size of my dust cloud as it slowly drifts toward (and envelopes) a row of parked aircraft.   Tower doesn't say anything, so I presume I chose Spot 2 correctly, or that she doesn't really care.  

After shutting down we head in to the administrative offices to file flight plans and to check in with customs and immigration. There is no walkway for passengers, so we transit via the active airport taxiway, occasionally looking behind us for incoming aircraft.   The check in process takes at least an hour, involves five Mexican officials, three sheets of that inky transfer paper you slip in between multiple copies of a form, and the patience of Job (and all this for a very unbusy airport).  I have been flying into Mexico for the better part of 12 years, and to this day it makes my blood boil.  It process goes something like this: 

1.  Check in at the front counter with a young military officer who thankfully has a better grasp of English than anyone else in the building.  Fill out one form to close out your flight plan from the U.S. (they had no idea you were arriving, the FAA didn't call them to tell them you were arriving, and so you fill it in after the fact).   Then fill out a new flight form for your next destination.  The entries that you make on this form are different each time you arrive at the airport, and they are different for each different airport you go to.  None of it is verified, and none of it is automated.  I fill it out, give it back, they correct my entries and send me to the Commandante.  Elapsed time:  10 minutes; not terrible.  

2.  The Commandante is the one who lords over the airport.  Your fate is in his hands, and so your only goal is to ensure his happiness throughout the process so that he does not decide, halfway through, that your paperwork or documentation is somehow deficient.  Which happens not infrequently.  I smile, give him a warm introduction in Spanish, and he takes my paperwork and begins fat fingering it into the computer.  With his two index fingers.  Without the necessary glasses he needs to see the computer screen, or the requisite familiarity with the software program that one would normally acquire after a decade of using it.  He types, and types, and types, occasionally looking up at the TV next to him that has a telenova (Mexican soap opera) on.   He asks for my Mexican insurance form, although we've e-mailed it to him about a hundred times already in the past.  He studies it, never seems entirely satisfied with it, but continues typing.   He finally prints out a multi-entry permit, the Holy Grail of forms that grants me permission to travel/work/fly in Mexico.  He makes four copies, and has me sign eight times.  Then he brings out his official stamp, and begins stamping my paperwork everywhere.  In Mexican aviation, you are nothing without an official stamp.  He then directs me over to Customs.   Elapsed time:  25 minutes.  

A brief aside:  I am very sensitive to cold temperatures.  I used to be kidded at my helicopter air ambulance base for wearing long underwear when the temperature dropped below 60 degrees, and for wearing gloves in October.  But I am a polar bear compared to Mexicans.  It is uncomfortably warm in the Commandante's office, so warm I begin to sweat and seriously consider taking my jacket off but I feared it would distract him.  He, by the way, is wearing a long sleeve shirt and a fleece jacket.  

3.  The Customs guy is in a small room adjacent to the Commandante.  He is armed with his own stamp, of course, and a spiral bound, lined notebook like the kind used in high school to take notes.  He is humorless, and so I smile weakly and forego my attempt at speaking Spanish as he is clearly not having it.  He studiously copies down my passport information, my passenger's passport information, and my aircraft information in the notebook, as slowly as is humanly possible, and then gives my passenger a painfully detailed declaration form to fill out.  He then takes my flight plan forms and stamps them everywhere, and directs me to Immigration.  Because one person could not possibly do both of those jobs.  Elapsed time:  35 minutes.  

4.  Immigration is the guy I dread most, because he is almost always irritable.  He sits in a (very warm) dark room which is strangely small for what furniture is packed into it.  He's wearing a long sleeve shirt and a jacket.  For some reason he never turns the lights on, even though the Immigration forms are printed using a 6 point font and his eyesight is apparently not the greatest.  He takes our passports and types our information into his computer.  (The Customs guy does not grant the Immigration guy access to his spiral bound notebook, in which he has already copied all of our information, and Custom guy's computer is not linked to the Commandante's computer.)  He is slightly better than the Commandante in this regard, although not great.  He does have the assistance of his ten year old child however, who is sitting next to him (and inexplicably not sitting in a school classroom somewhere).  He actually has a passport reader, which he uses to check us into the Country, then he hands the passports and my flight plans to the ten year old who then makes photocopies of everything on a very large copier in the corner.  We fill out additional Customs forms, sign them, and then Customs guy opens the official drawer and pulls out his official stamp, and stamps everything.  Everything.  My passenger has to pay an entry fee, and makes the mistake of asking for a receipt which sends Customs guy into a rant about how his computer is malfunctioning and that we'll have to go downtown to a bank if we wanted a damn receipt.  I profusely apologize and back out with my forms.  Elapsed time:  50 minutes.  

5.  Back to the Commandante's office, where he checks the 16 stamps now placed on the forms, pulls a few copies out for himself and then sends me back to the front desk.  The front desk checks the 16 stamps, charges me a landing fee and then pronounces that I am free to go.  

Which I do, quickly, before they change their mind.  

random photo

This is probably a bad photo to post, as I can't for the life of me remember the occasion of Stephen Bornhoft's visit, but in any case he is Stewart's nephew and godson, and they are standing on top of Mt. Soledad in San Diego in 2011.  The group of buildings behind Stephen's head is not downtown San Diego, but an archipelago of buildings in the University Town Center area just east of La Jolla.   Like Stewart, and Stewart's sister and brother, Stephen is an engineer who currently lives in Salt Lake City, doing wonderful things in the medical device industry.  

And yes, San Diego is usually this sunny, and this warm.  

Things I Learned After Three Days In West Virginia

1.  There is a lot of roadkill in West Virginia, nearly all of it large deer, and large deer can leave an amazingly large bloody mess all over the highway.

2.  At least a few people still remember Madalyn O'Hair*, and while dead for nearly 20 years she still has the ability to grate the sensibilities of evangelical christians.  (And no, I did not bring her up in conversation.)

3.  The use of the term 'faggot', even with someone you barely know and who happens to be a faggot himself, still happens.  

4.  Venison, when done right, can actually be pretty good.  

5.  Left to my own devices I would show up the full two hours before an airline flight.  But there is no good reason to show up that early in Morgantown.  

6.  You need a serious ice scraper for your car in late October in West Virginia. 

7.  One can get an urban hunting license here.  Officially you need permission of your neighbor should you notice a deer in his front lawn on your way to work, but otherwise be sure to roll down your passenger side window before pulling the trigger.  

8.  Politics is still all about the preservation of the coal industry, West Virginia's way of life.  

*Famous atheist and named 1964's Most Hated Woman In America, after winning a court battle over bible reading in public schools.  

Gone Again

I am halfway through a two and a half week, somewhat unexpected business trip.  Although I retired from full time employment over a year ago, my aim was to remain engaged with the helicopter community in some capacity, primarily because I enjoy it but also in recognition that it gives my life some degree of meaning.  To the extent, philosophically speaking, that is possible. 

So last week I was in and around Cleveland for six days, and now I am traveling through West Virginia for several days.  North Carolina and (briefly) South Carolina next week, and then home for literally an evening before I leave for another trip to Baja California.  

I'm performing Line Operations Safety Audit(s), or LOSA (LOW-sah), working directly for a company called the LOSA Collaborative, and traveling to their client's helicopter EMS (emergency medical services) bases.  LOSA is based upon an interesting, longstanding phenomena in the piloting community, which is that pilots act differently--sometimes quite differently--when they're being evaluated, as opposed to when they alone.  A pilot being evaluated will maintain strict adherence to the thousand of rules that are meant to guide virtually every moment he is in control of, or responsible for, an aircraft.  No surprise there, as an evaluation is meant to gauge such adherence, and the implications of failing an evaluation are what have kept every pilot in the history of aviation awake at night at least once.  

But when the evaluator is gone, pilots rarely maintain the same level of adherence.  And in the less-regulated world of helicopters the deviations can be quite large, which you can imagine can be problematic from a risk standpoint, and so a LOSA observation tries to capture what goes on in this non-evaluation, everyday operations world.  I'm still in the cockpit with the pilot, but all my observations are anonymous and non-attributional for the crew and so it's the closest we can get to the pilot being alone and us still being able to observe him or her.  

Essentially I observe the pilot, make notes of his notably commendable behavior and his errors and non-compliance, and then thank him and head back to the hotel.  He never gets in trouble (or commended), as the notes are anonymous.  In return for their commitment not to sanction a particular pilot the company gets a window into what is actually going on from day to day.  Or not going on, as the case may be.  

This project is actually a first for the helicopter community, and it may lead to other projects (possibly international) in the future.  

Unweaving The Rainbow

“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the grain of sands of the Sahara. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively outnumbers the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinaries, that are here. ”

— Richard Dawkins

leap peeping and sundry things part 1

We just returned from a 1,600 mile driving extravaganza through New England, New York, and (ostensibly) New Jersey.   We leaf peeped, visited friends and family, went to a 45th reunion and became one with the mob of gawking tourists in Times Square.  

Maine.  Maybe the biggest surprise of the trip, as I had subconsciously likened Maine to New England's Mississippi.  But its coastline was spectacular, its towns excruciatingly quaint, and the forests were exploding with fall colors.  Acadia National Park:  one big win after another.  Additionally we stopped by Stephen King's house and took photos, which I'm sure he is a little over at this point, but it's his fault for buying such an easily accessible home in the middle of Bangor.   And please, Mr. King, a Pontiac?  Really?  

Stewart lived briefly in Agusta, Maine, and his sister Mel was borne there so we stopped by the old homestead.  It felt strange for me, and I'm sure for Stewart, to be standing next to the home he last lived in more than 60 years ago.  But still not in bad shape.  

New Hampshire.  A close rival to Maine, sans the coastline (okay, it has a teeny coastline, but we didn't get to see very much of it).  The White Mountains, gorgeous.  Mt. Washington, home of "The World's Worst Weather", was foreboding and mysterious.  And unrelentingly windy (that's me blow, leaning in).    Stewart might add a few more adjectives as he white-knuckled our rental car up the side of the mountain with no guard rails and on a road apparently designed by an Irishman with a penchant for uncomfortably narrow roads.  

Vermont.  Montpelier, big win.  The only state capitol without a McDonald's.  We visited the Rock of Ages quarry, home to the top shelf granite that graces many of the monuments in DC and elsewhere, and we made the pilgrimage to Ben and Jerry's of course.  I had forgotten how politically active Messrs. Ben and Jerry were, and the young docent did not shy away from mentioning it.  Good for them.   Ben and Jerry's has a graveyard, by the way, for flavors that did not quite make it in the marketplace (sweep potato, srsly). 

tamania, ho!

We just returned from a trip to Tasmania, that small island just south of the southeast corner of Australia.  Not to be confused with Tanzania, which apparently happened more than once before we left. 

We camper-vanned the whole thing, ten days; a first for me, and it generally turned out great.  Stewart and I met up with daughter Caroline and grandson Liam in Melbourne, and then we flew to Hobart, staying a few days before heading up the eastern seaboard.  Then inland to the mountains and back to Hobart.  Caroline's boyfriend Ed accompanied us for the first several days, and was unrelentingly gracious as we traipsed from one place to the next.  

I've never really considered myself a nature freak as it were, although I do like granola and loose-fitting pants, but as in Peru and Ecuador my favorite part of the trip was experiencing the flora and fauna of the island: penguins, kangaroos, paddymelons, wombats, tasmanian devils; pristine, world-class beaches, rain forests, waterfalls, mountains and mountainous lakes.  All quite beautiful, and all nearly vacant as Australian schools were still in session.  

Below is a photo of us with a glimpse of Wineglass Bay in the background (more photos in the travel section of this webpage).  By at least a few subjective critics Wineglass has been named one of the most beautiful beaches in the world.

Happy 6th

Stewart's and my 6th wedding anniversary is today.  It's such a cliche to say, but it doesn't seem that long ago when the California State Supreme Court had opened the door to allow for gay marriage, and many of us rushed out to tie the knot before the pending public vote that November.  

It was the start of everything, in a sense.  Not the start of the LGBT community's efforts, of course, but one of the first manifestations of the tidal wave of changes to come.   Obama's election, DADT, DOMA, and an endlessly surprising litany of other victories that have had the gratifying effect of making our marriage nearly commonplace.  

We actually have been together since 1997, when we exchanged rings on top of Mt. Soledad on our birthdays.  It was a time of incredible upheaval in my life, having finally come to terms with my sexuality at the age of 30, while simultaneously switching careers and entering into what I hoped to be a long term relationship.  But again, hard to believe it's been 17 years.  

I'm not sure what we will do to celebrate, but maybe we'll just head to the Imperial Beach pier for fish and chips, and to watch the sun sink below the Pacific.