Mort’s Rescue at Kham Duc

It would make a rousing movie, the same genre as the siege of Zinderneuf in Beau Geste, the firefight around the DC-3 in The Wild Geese,the evacuation of the ice planet Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back, the fall of Osgiliath in The Return of the King.

A Special Forces camp is overrun.  Defenders desperately hold off a swarming attack.  Fighter jets drop bombs ever closer to the shrinking perimeter to keep the attackers at bay.  Other airplanes land under heavy fire, lifting out frantic civilian, dependents and combatants.

The last team is almost left behind, surrounded.  A pilot makes one last landing for a dramatic rescue.

 

 

 

 

 

On May 12, 1968, 40 years ago today, Technical Sergeant Mort Freedman was rescued at Kham Duc, Vietnam.  He was the last man out.

Kham Duc had a 6,000 foot runway, surrounded by mountains.  The North Vietnamese had the high ground.  There were 1,700 defenders – Montagnard tribesmen, their families and dependents, American soldiers and US Green Berets.

Before dawn a decision was made to evacuate the camp.  C-123 and C-130 cargo airplanes launched from Cam Ranh Bay, Danang and Tan Son Nhut for the evacuation.

A three-man Combat Controller Team, or CCT, was already on base.  The CCT was composed of a C-130 pilot and two enlisted combat controllers.  Their mission was to control air traffic in the combat zone.  They were now the control tower, working with a radio jeep by the runway.

Every fighter and bomber mission in Vietnam was diverted to Kham Duc.  Cargo airplanes, some based out of Mactan air base in the Philippines, orbited overhead, with helicopter gunships, fighter jets, B-52s, and Forward Air Controllers flying small Cessna 0-2s.

A CH-47 Chinook, a UH-1H Huey and a Cessna O-2 were shot down in the middle of the runway.

A C-130 Hercules, still loaded with cargo, landed under fire and was mobbed, people running into the propellers in a frenzy.  Fuel gushed from bullet holes in the wing, and a tire was shredded.  The pilot aborted his takeoff.  The passengers abandoned the airplane.  The crew hacked the rubber tire away from the wheel and tried again.  With just 4 passengers aboard, they made it out.

The passengers were the 3-man CCT and another officer.  They flew to safety in Cam Ranh Bay.

Another C-130 landed and slammed to a halt.  Hundreds of civilians mobbed the airplane.  Women and kids were crushed in the rush to get in.

The airplane stayed on the ground for only a couple of minutes, then hurriedly took off.  As it rotated off the runway, it was hit by ground fire, and crashed and exploded a mile from the camp.  All who had made it on board died.

Another C-130 crash landed on the runway, hit the CH-47 wreck and slewed into a dirt mound off the runway.

Other C-130s, a C-123 and helicopters landed and lifted out 600 remaining civilians and defenders.  A last C-130 picked up the crashed aircrew and the last rear guard.

The camp was now almost entirely in enemy hands.

  

  

Then one more C-130 landed.  The same 3-man CCT got off.  In the confusion of the battle, they had been ordered back to control air traffic for the evacuation.  They ran into the camp and found it empty. 

They were the only ones left in Kham Duc.  They were stuck in a base that was now in enemy hands.

The C-130 could not wait.  No one came to be rescued.  The pilot saved the airplane and flew out.  As he climbed out, he heard the order to the orbiting fighters to destroy the entire base with bombs and napalm.  The C-130 pilot screamed into the radio that they had just inserted an American Combat Controller Team.  The entire frequency went silent as the blunder sank in.

The CCT — two enlisted Combat Controllers and a C-130 pilot officer – hunkered down in a ditch beside the runway.  They held off the North Vietnamese with their M-16s.  They had just 220 bullets among them. 

A C-123 Provider then landed on the runway, the pilot hoping to flush out the CCT.  He had to immediately take off again because of heavy fire.  As he banked left, his crew members saw the CCT running back to the ditch.  They were alive!

The next C-123 in line made a steep combat approach and stopped on the runway.  The CCT ran out onto the airplane, and the last men out of Kham Duc were finally rescued.

  

  

The C-123 pilot, Joe Jackson, got the Medal of Honor.  One Combat Controller, James Lundie, met Jackson again by accident at the Charlotte Speedway in North Carolina in 1997, 29 years after the battle.

 

The other Combat Controller, Mort Freedman, made the Philippines his home.  He has been the skydiving safety officer at the Philippine International Hot Air Balloon Fiesta for 2 years now.

Mort is a gentle, quiet person.  He told me about Kham Duc at the Fiesta.  He holds the C-123 pilot in very high regard.  I’m glad Mort was saved.

  

  

 

 

The picture is the only known photograph of an ongoing Medal of Honor action.  The wrecked C-130 is in the foreground, the CH-47 in the middle of the runway.  A crashed Cessna O-2 is just above the C-130, and across the runway from it is the wrecked UH-1H Huey.  At the top of the photo is Jackson’s C-123.  Three tiny dots to the right are the CCT running for their lives.

Kham Duc is annotated in Google Earth.  You can still see the broken up asphalt runway.

 

 

“Rescue at Kham Duc”, an article by John Correll published in the online Airforce magazine, is a detailed narrative of this exciting episode.  Some of the photos here came from that site.  There is also a book, The Airlift Evacuation of Kham Duc, by Alan Gropman.

 

 

 

Posted from Manila, May 12, 2008.

  

 

    

  

  

  

  

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The Bucket List

I’ve taken 33 airline flights so far this year.  More than 2 per week  Imagine running through airports every 3 days.  I live in airliners. 

My peeve list is long – 

–  The asinine US Homeland Security

–  The kilometric linear Bangkok airport terminal sans people movers (with bathrooms at extreme ends of the 800 meter long terminal)

–  Airline captains who wake me up with useless drivel, as if anyone in the airplane cared whether we were at 31,000 or 35,000 feet.  Imagine the  jet lag and cardiac strain on the third leg of a four-city business trip across 2 continents.  And when I finally fall asleep, he wakes me up to tell me how high we are. 

But the worst has nothing to do with aviation.  Once in a while you see some of the most beautiful movies in the world, and there is no one to share it with.  You watch one like The Bucket List, which makes you laugh until you cry, and in the end you turn on your side to hide your eyes from your seatmate.

 

 

 

 

It’s the old story about impending death.  Two men share a hospital room.  One an acerbic, sardonic billionaire, the other a mild-mannered auto mechanic.  Both very intelligent.  They take turns heaving their guts out into their toilet, writhing in agony from chemo, and playing gin rummy.

Then they are told within hours of each other that the cancer is non-survivable.  Terminal.  Six to twelve months. 

Two doomed souls stare at each other for a few seconds.

“You want to play cards?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

 

 

They collaborate on a Bucket List.  Things to do before they die.   A trite blend of plot and character, for sure.  But the writer exceeded my expectations with dialogue.  He had me from the first line.

Then add two masters like Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson into the plot.  Imagine what a good director can do with that.  Well, how about Rob Reiner (The American President, When Harry Met Sally, Stand By Me)?

 

 

Watch for the scene with Jack Nicholson horizontal in bed, the camera looking right up his chin and nostrils.  His infamous facial expression totally out of sight.  But you can see his eyes, because he is wearing magnified periscope glasses to watch the baseball game on TV without lifting his head.

That’s when the doctor tells him he has six months left.  The mirrored eyes are the only tools Nicholson has to work with.  Watch how he might win an Oscar for that scene alone, with just his eyes. 

Watch also his wrap rage as he tries to open a TV dinner.

And Sean Hayes‘ expression after Nicholson tells him, “Nobody cares what you think.”

 

 

So what’s on the Bucket List?  Freeman starts with

1. Witness something truly majestic
2. Help a complete stranger for the good
3. Drive a Mustang Shelby

Boring.  So Nicholson adds

1. Skydiving
2. Get a tattoo
3. Kiss the most beautiful girl in the world

 

 

I filled the KLM Business Class cabin with peals of laughter.  These were good lines!

 

“I wish I’d met you before we died.”

In Nepal, they talk about reincarnation.

“The Buddhists believe you keep comin’ back, moving up or down based on how you lived your life.”

“See, that’s where they lose me.  I mean, what would a snail have to do to move up in the lineup?  Lay down a perfect trail of slime?” 

Nicholson’s face had a field day with that line, just daring you, the viewer, to confirm he is slime.

 

 

Then Nicholson and Freeman sit on top a pyramid in Egypt, looking at the other pyramids against a spectacular sunset.  After a poignant moment talking about heaven, Nicholson brings them down to earth with,

“How do we get down from this tomb?”

After the death-defying skydive, where Nicholson pulls his tandem instructor out the airplane, “We lived to die another day!”

 

 

In the course of the short friendship, they push each other to add their deepest desires to the list.  Even to resolve deeply suppressed conflicts that they never had the courage for before.

They didn’t get to cross off Freeman’s top wish.  To see Mount Everest.  A storm covers the mountain.

“Well, when do they do they expect the weather to clear?”

“Uh, next spring, sometime.” 

Next spring.

 

 

For all the inevitability of the ending, it’s a bucket of surprises, which I won’t spoil.  You will be misty-eyed when you learn how one of them crosses off  “Kiss the most beautiful girl in the world”.

“I couldn’t remember what it felt like when I could not walk down the street without holding her hand.  We’d lost something along the way.”

And then you might will lose it when he crosses off “Help a stranger for the good.”

 

 

This is a good one.  See it.  Do NOT wait for next spring. 

For heavens sake bring a loved one.  Don’t watch it alone. 

And will someone tell the damn airline captain to shut up?  Life’s too short for drivel.

  

  

  

  

  

Posted from Manila, May 10, 2008.

Stills from movies.com

  

  

  

  

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The Film Club

Once in a while, a book comes along that you wish came 20 years ago.  “If only I had known… .” 

On a flight to Amsterdam, that book hit my heart like a hammer.  I was going to post another article here about flying.  But I must get this hammer off my chest.  If you read but one book this year, do this one.  Warning:  Dads with teens will get that blow in their hearts.  Remember, this is non-fiction.

  

  

  

  

     

The Film Club, by Canadian David Gilmour (Random House, 2007), came lightly recommended.  “The back cover looks nice, you might like it.”  I left it unopened in Bangkok for weeks.

It was my visiting 16-year old son Julio who cracked it.  Julio, like 16-year old Jesse in the story, isn’t a rabid book reader.  But he devoured The Film Club in a day.  He finished it on the airplane from Bangkok to Manila, handed it to me and said, “This is a good one, Dad.  Read it.”

 

 

An unconventional deal:  Jesse could leave school, sleep all day, not work, not pay rent - but he had to watch three films a week … of his father’s choosing.

Week by week, father and son watch the best (and worst) films.  The films get them talking - about girls, music, heartbreak, work, drugs and friendship.  Gradually the son develops from a chaotic teenager into a self-assured young adult, but as The Film Club moves towards the bittersweet conclusion, Jesse makes a decision which surprises even his father.

The true story of one man’s attempt to chart a course for his son’s rocky passage into adulthood.

  

That’s the back cover.

 

 

For three years, David, then 50, and his 16-year old son Jesse watched two or three movies a week.  Jesse’s reel education consisted of 120 movies, from Alien and Annie Hall to Tootsie and Unforgiven.

 

The deal started badly with the first movie - Jesse found 400 Blows boring.  But the second choice was a winner.

   

The next day, for dessert, I gave him Basic Instinct (1992).

“Paul Verhoeven. Dutch director, Robocop.  Great visual attack.  Made a couple of excellent films, ultra violent but watchable.

We started in, a tawny-skinned blonde butchering a man with an ice pick while engaged in sexual intercourse with him.

And then there’s the dialogue.  The writer Joe Eszterhas was paid three million dollars for this kind of stuff.

Detective:  How long were you dating him?

Sharon Stone:  I wasn’t dating him, I was fucking him.

Detective:  Are you sorry he’s dead?

Sharon Stone:  Yes, I liked fucking him.

Jesse couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“Can we pause it for a moment?” he said and raced off for a pee.  He hurried back, stocking feet thumping the floor, holding his pants by the waist, and vaulted back on to the couch.  “You have to admit it, Dad.  This is a great film.”

 

 

David worked each movie into the life-stages of his son.  After stifling a quarrel over Jesse’s choice of a job, David knew that a shootout between them was inevitable.  A shootout that fathers always lose.  So he chose their next movie:

 

“I know what you’re thinking - did he fire six shots, or only five?  Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track, myself.  But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and would blow your head clean off, you gotta ask yourself one question:  do I feel lucky?  Well, do you, punk?”

 

A CBC film critic, David seeds the book with small gems — how Marlon Brando was discovered, Jack Nicholson’s artistry, Clint Eastwood’s technique.

But the book’s real jewel lies beyond the movies.  Everywhere, fathers and sons share the same adolescent experiences that shape their lives.  The Oedipan tragedy is that the age gap blocks life lessons from seeping from one to the other — both ways.

 

He put down the phone.

“What is it?” I said.

“Rebecca always chooses the strangest times to want to talk about stuff.”  For an instant I thought I saw tears misting up in his eyes.

“What stuff?”

“Our relationship.”

We went back to the movie but I sensed he wasn’t there anymore.  He was watching some other movie, the bad things Rebecca was going to do because he’d pissed her off on the phone.  I turned off the TV.

“I had a girlfriend once,” I said.  “All we ever talked about was our relationship.  That’s what we did instead of having one.  It gets to be a real bore.  Call her back.  Clear it up.”

 

 

David’s agony over his son’s crushing breakups with two consecutive girlfriends awakened haunting memories for me.  It will for you too.

You remember the nightmare after breaking up with the girl of your dreams:  after a gazillion sleepless nights in lonely isolation, you find out that she, just as lonely, called one of your friends over to sleep with her.  (Then she cuts her hair short.  Remember?)

 

How do you explain to your son that it’s not the end of the world?  Because it is.

This is a book that relives our lives as teens, and then as adults.  The pain and joy in these pages will be your own.

  

The retired principal of a high school had told me, “Don’t be fooled.  Teenage boys need just as much attention as newborns.  Except they need it from their fathers.”

 

Jesse OD’ed on cocaine after the second breakup, a tragedy averted because he had the sense to call for an ambulance himself.

  

“I so miss that girl so much,” he said.  “So much.”

“I’d do anything to help you.  Anything.”

We sat there, both of us, sobbing.

 

 

 

Read the book.  It only takes half a day.  Ask Julio, 16 going on 50.

“It’s a great book, Dad.  Read it.”

 

 

 

 

Postscript:  There’s a list of featured movies in the book.  Ironically, Julio and I watched three of them when he was visiting me in Bangkok.  The Godfather and The Godfather II, and Dr. Strangelove.

   

  

Posted from Nijmegen, May 6, 2008

  

  

  

  

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My Polish Date

“What is it?”  Her question didn’t sound as if she was asking what TYPE of
airplane it was.  She was asking what that… that thing… standing on the
grass like a giant aluminum praying mantis was.  If I’d told her it was the
aeroclub’s motorized lawnmower, she would have believed me.  And if not for those magazine and internet articles, I would’ve believed me too.

 

    

I’ve been keeping this Polished  jewel as a secret weapon.  One of the BEST aviation tales I’ve ever read.

Kevin e-mailed me this letter in November, 2003.  Nearly five years ago.  I have his permission to post it here, as I am certain it will be gut-wrenchingly hilarious for all of you , too!

Kevin is a fellow pilot and Cessna owner, one of the best writers and story-tellers I know.  I first met him in 2000 in the PFSG Forum.  The next time we met he let me fly his airplane (3 years before I got my PPL; he let Carlo fly his airplane on their FIRST meeting.)  I count him as one of my fast friends, and his website is linked in our Special Friends section, above.  Kevs is destined for bigger things in his aviation career.

Please welcome Kevin to Flying in Crosswinds, and enjoy his GREAT story about flying!

  

  

  

  

MY POLISH DATE
by Kevin

Enclosing pictures of my Polish date.  Her name is Wilga (Pronounced Vihl-gah).  Really ugly but very sweet.  And I am totally in love.

We were passing through the town of Nowy Targ on the way to Zakopane when I saw a plane crossing over the highway, apparently on final to a nearby field.  We pulled over and asked a local, who told us there was a glider club in town.  Hmmm… .  it wasn’t 2 PM yet and we were only 22 kms short of Zakopane.  The hotel wasn’t expecting us until 4 PM.  The sun was still high over the horizon and it was a beautiful day.

I made a quick U-turn and like a bloodhound locked onto a scent, headed in the direction of the airfield.  We soon found ourselves driving up to a vast meadow with a line of pine trees at its margins.  On the southern edge stood a hangar marked “AEROKLUB NOWY TARG”.  Beside it stood the clubhouse, topped with a mini-tower cab.

Outside the hangar, laid down on the grass like model aircraft, sat three ivory-white sailplanes, tipped over on their sleek, long wings.  Their streamlined shapes and glass-smooth composite finish gave the impression they were hardly capable of disturbing a molecule of air in flight.

But my eyes quickly passed those over for what sat beyond.  Parked only a few meters away was the ugliest contraption to ever take to the skies (next only to the Airbus A340).  After years of seeing it only in pictures on magazine articles, I was finally face-to-spinner with a real live PZL-104 Wilga!

“Quick,” I told Joy as I moved towards the Wilga, “take my picture!”

“What is it?”  Her question didn’t sound as if she was asking what TYPE of airplane it was.  She was asking what that… that thing… standing on the grass like a giant aluminum praying mantis was.  If I’d told her it was the aeroclub’s motorized lawnmower, she would have believed me.  And if not for
those magazine and internet articles, I would’ve believed me too.

Much has been said and written about how ugly the Wilga is.  And now standing in front of one I couldn’t help but shake my head at just how so true it all was.  The corrugated fuselage looked like it was made out of Oscar The Grouch’s garbage can–that the right-hand passenger step looked like a trash bin cover only reinforced the notion.  The expansive windshield stood almost straight up, just like a tricycle sidecar’s windshield.  The wing, with its fixed slats, strakes, corrugation, flap hinges and external mass balances, looked as aerodynamic as a drawbridge.

I noticed the leading edge was coated with the splattered remains of thousands of insects.  They probably thought the Wilga was one of their own and didn’t get out of the way until too late.

The bent-knee trailing-link landing gear conspires with the rest of the airframe to encourage the praying mantis image.  They look massive enough to support an Airbus, and do much for the plane’s ability to operate from unimproved fields.  It is said you can drive the Wilga up and over a sidewalk
curb.

This particular Wilga, SP-EAB, was a model 35.  That is, it had the original Ivchenko 260-HP radial, not the wimpy flat-six Lycomings and Continentals the manufacturer later hung in front to attract Western sales.  As with Russian radials, it had iris-like cooling shutters that could be closed all the way to guard against freezing temperatures.  And no self-respecting radial wouldn’t be without oil leaking all over the belly.  The large paddle-type prop blades looked wide enough to row the Titanic across the Atlantic.

I was convinced there are three reasons for the Wilga’s STOL performance: First, it has a powerful 260-HP engine; second, it has fixed leading-edge slats, slotted flaps and drooping ailerons; third, it is so ugly the earth repels it.

The Wilga served as the aeroclub’s glider tug, a role for which it is supremely suited given its powerful engine, STOL performance and slow-flight prowess.  In its other guises, the plane has been used for border patrol, crop spraying and even clandestine flights to insert spies–as the CIA did in Poland and East Germany.

You might think of the Wilga as a Helio Courier in caricature.  Or a Tonka Fiesler Storch. Or a Flying Polish Joke.

Call it what you may, but for all its undisputed ugliness, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to the plane much in the same way one is drawn to a pug–it is so ugly it’s actually lovable.

We were hustled into the office of the club manager.  With Uncle Steve translating,  I was told I could go up right away.  HOT DOG!!!  The price seemed reasonable enough, so a deal was struck.  I met up with the instructor, a pleasant fellow who introduced himself as Krzysztof–”Christopher” he quickly added, in case I couldn’t pronounce his Polish name.

We walked out to the plane and clambered up–and I do mean UP–into the cavernous cabin.  Uncle Steve also decided to come along and climbed into the cabin with the agility of a man much younger than his 70 years.  Somewhat winded at the effort, I found myself seated in the right front seat.  I’d just belted myself in when Chris cranked up the engine.  With a hiss and a wheeze (pneumatic starter) and finally a bang, the radial burst into life and settled into a deep-throated rumble.  The smell of exhaust and burnt oil wafted into the cabin, mixing with the faint smell of sweat, tired fabric and other trappings of a working plane.  As we sat there waiting for the engine to warm up (minimum 100* C, Chris explained), I took in the instrument panel.  The gauges looked familiar, but only that.  The altimeter was in meters, the VSI in meters/second and airspeed in Km/H.  Everything was in Polish.  The only English words were on a plate on the left hand panel that said, “MADE IN POLAND”.  The instruments were scattered about the panel in no logical sequence I could discern.  I could just imagine the scene at the assembly line: one worker throws all the instruments into the cabin and a second one bolts them in where they fall.  I couldn’t spend too much time trying to translate the gauges–the vibration had reduced the entire panel to a dizzy blur.

With a burst of engine power, we taxied out.  We were in a large meadow and I couldn’t see any runway marked out.  Chris simply moved us out a short distance from the ramp and faced the wind.  A few hundred meters in front of us sat a grassy knoll and a stand of pine trees.  We were going to take off
from here?  Yes we were!  After a short run-up, Chris reached up and clicked in 21 degrees on the flap lever (mounted at the left hand wing root, right around where the soda-can air vent on the 152 is).  I took note of the drooped ailerons.

Then he turned to me and asked, “Would you like to do the takeoff?”

Gulp.  I hadn’t logged time in a taildragger since 1997.  “Uh, I think you should follow me on the controls to be safe.”

“Tak.  Dobsze.”  Yes.  No problem.

So I leaned waaay forward to get to the throttle.  Poles must have really long arms for though I had the seat adjusted to where my legs could operate the rudder pedals, I could barely reach the throttle.

I sucked the joystick back into my gut–yes, a joystick, for the Wilga is a REAL PLANE flown by REAL MEN–and gingerly added power, at the same time adding a touch of right pedal in anticipation of  torque.

Oops!

Just as Eastern-bloc planes are different in the way their instruments read, they are also different in the way their engines turn.  Russian-built radials (or at least the Ivchenko) turn in the opposite direction.  Therefore, torque and p-factor are all the “wrong way”.  I was somewhat surprised when the plane swung strongly to the right.  I countered with left rudder and the Wilga swung back onto the proper heading.  By this time I had the throttle all the way forward and the plane was charging down the meadow, straight at the grassy knoll–and the tall pine trees that were only growing taller by the second.

I kept the Wilga in a three-point attitude and before I could settle down after the wrong-foot routine, the plane levitated into the air.  Levitated is the correct word.  It didn’t claw its way up into the sky on engine power. It certainly had the oomph to do it, but the rather unaerodynamic-looking wing
produced a surprising amount of lift.  The fixed slats, slotted flaps and drooping ailerons really worked.  We seemed to float off the ground after a ground run of not more than 300 feet, and I wasn’t even trying.

As we vaulted over the trees with plenty of room to spare, Chris ratcheted the flaps up, throttled back slightly and sat back with his arms folded, feet on a sill just below his seat, knees drawn up almost to his stomach.  With a recommendation that I climb at 100 to 120 kph, he left me to my own devices.

I departed the pattern and steered us south.  Joy and Uncle Steve had their heads on a swivel, marveling at the verdant, snow-patched landscape.  Only 10 miles away, the snow-capped Tatra Mountains thrust majestically into the horizon, their faces glistening golden-white in the afternoon sun.  The generously-proportioned windows, which looked like they were taken out of a tour bus, made the plane a perfect sightseeing vehicle.

And I was delighting in flying the Wilga.

The radial rumbled along almost effortlessly as we climbed at a strong 3 to 4 meters per second.  I tried out the controls and found the plane to be light in pitch and heavy in roll. Heavy, but not sloppy.

Chris told me to level off at 1,000 meters (the altimeter was set at QFE).  I eased the stick forward, lowered the nose and reached for the trim wheel. Er… where was the trim wheel?  Chris leaned back to show me where it was– all the way on the left sidewall.  He took the controls, trimmed the plane and
handed it back to me.

Once trimmed the plane was rock-steady.  I looked at the airspeed indicator and it wasn’t a hair above 140 kph. A Cessna 152 could walk away from us.  The drive to the field was faster–the BMW had easily topped 170 kph on the highway.  But hey, I wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere!

Even so, I bumped the throttle up to see what would happen.  The engine grew louder, the vibrations increased, but the ASI needle hardly budged.  I read somewhere about top speed being 195 kph, but they probably got this figure with the plane pointed straight down.  And the engine at full power.  The
official PZL website doesn’t quote a top speed at all.

I don’t remember what the engine RPM was.  As a matter of fact, I wasn’t really sure where the tach was.  I was flying the thing by feel, and the Wilga gives the pilot a lot of feedback.

“If you give me a moment, I will show you a nice castle.”  I gave the controls back to Chris.  He suddenly trimmed the nose down and dove the Wilga towards a lake.  Oh yes, there was a castle all right, growing larger and larger on our windscreen.  I took note of the airspeed.  It hadn’t gone much past 160 kph.  He took us down to about 100 meters (I had started to think metric) and then pivoted the plane on its wingtip.  Joy was making faces in the back, signaling me to stop throwing the plane around.  But Chris was showing off what the Wilga could do and I was enjoying the ride.  We buzzed the lake at only 30 meters or so, passed by the ruins of another 14th century castle on the opposite bank, stood on a wingtip and came back around.  He handed the controls back to me and I stayed at the same height, skipping above the treetops and small villages along the way.  It’s always great to do a buzz job on someone else’s license.

We turned back to the field and climbed to 200 meters.  Minutes later, Nowy Targ hove into view.  We were perfectly positioned to enter a right downwind for Runway 09, Chris said.  They actually had runway headings here?

“100 to 120 on downwind is okay,” said Chris.

I pinched the throttle back–if I actually moved it back any appreciable amount we’d fall out of the sky.  I maintained 120 as we turned base over the highway.  Just over an hour earlier I’d seen this same plane in this same piece of sky, and now here I was.

Chris put in half flaps.  I countered with forward stick and then released pressure as the plane slowed to 100 kph.  The plane nudged into a gentle descent.  We turned finals.

“Where’s the runway?”  All I could see was a large, open field ahead of me.

“Oh, you can land anywhere you want.”

“You’re sure you’re letting me land?”  It’s always better to screw up on someone else’s license.

I turned the Wilga parallel to the flight line.  Pine trees guarded the threshold, and that same grassy knoll stood at the far end.  I could’ve moved a bit farther out where there was a long, unobstructed strip of grass, but I was by now feeling confident enough with the plane to land close to the “ramp”.

Full flaps, one final check of the ASI: 90 kph. You’d be antsy flying a 152 at that speed, but the Wilga was rock-solid. Stall speed is 62 kph, or around 35 kts.  I had plenty of margin.

Throttle squeezed back a little more as we crossed over the pine trees.  When it seemed we were at about the right height, I eased the stick back and slowly brought the power back.  With a faint rumble the Wilga settled gently onto the grass in a perfect three-pointer.  Chris nodded his approval.  A few gentle taps on the rudder pedal to keep us straight, and I had to add power to get to the hangar.  We could’ve gotten down and stopped in a ridiculously short distance if we had even half-tried.  It was almost like landing a chopper.

Once again in front of the hangar, Chris pulled the mixture back and the engine clattered to a stop.  Sigh.  It was over too soon.  I couldn’t wipe that S.E.G. off my face.

“You fly the Wilga very well,” said Chris.  The S.E.G. grew even wider.

“This is so much fun it should be outlawed!”

We piled out of the plane and posed for a few more pictures.  I particularly like the one with the Wilga in the foreground and the Tatras in the distance.

Walking back to the clubhouse, I spied a beautiful blue Antonov An-2 tucked away in one corner of the hangar.

I think my next date will be Russian.

Kevin

  

  

  

  

Posted from Bangkok, Thailand, April 17, 2008  

 

    

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Time Flies

    

   

    

Flying in Crosswinds turns one year old tomorrow.

Over 24,000 views, from over 2,000 unique IP addresses.   That boggled our minds.  Why would so many people come here?

Then we looked at our stats.  Of 52 articles this year, your all-time favorites are

• Touring Our Backyard in a Flying Soda Can — 1,175 views
• Angelina — 781 views
• My Dad and His Delicious Airplane Tales – 689
• The Great Raid — 688
• Flying Into a Volcano — 554
• The Belly Dancer – 454

There you go!  Flying, sex, fire and brimstone, and war stories.  The winning formula 

  

  

  

  

Time flies. 

  

    

Since I wrote the Angelina article last year, she has added another child.  She’s going to need a Pilatus PC-12 soon (I can’t see Lara Croft in anything less classier). 

  

  

Carlo and I still tour around in our flying soda can, but mostly at the ‘Charlie’ training areas, doing steep turns, chandelles, lazy eights and spins.  That’s about all the aerobatics Cessna certified the 152 for.  I crave for my monthly 3.5 G fix in Meynard’s Decathlon.

  

  

My Dad told his last airplane tale 31 years ago.  Dads, and even memories of Dads, are a treasure box of stories, advice and experience.  Navigating the world without a Dad is hard work.  

In two more weeks I will have lived as long as my Dad did.  After that I will be older than he ever was.  That worries me, strangely.  The torn edge of an aeronautical chart.  I’ve come to the end of all his experiences. 

He died so young.

  

  

    

Yesterday Carlo graduated from university.  The fourth in a line of eldest sons who benefited from Jesuit education.  

I now get to save or spend $10,000 a year.  Would a Garmin 530 be excessive in a 152? 

Carlo and I are flying to Switzerland, as I write this.  The Himalayas are to port of our B777, and the Gobi desert is to starboard.  

Carlo was asleep, 27 rows back in Coach.  I woke him up to look out his window.  The highest mountains in the world.  I thought he would like that.  The incurable romantic.  Wonder who he got that from?

If you haven’t yet read Carlo’s Fate Is The Hunter, and In Life, Two Things Are Certain, you must spare the 5 minutes to do so now.  The best writing here in Crosswinds.

  

  

  

  

I suppose it’s time to reveal that Carlo is my eldest son.  I thought it would be obvious, but lots of readers prefer to think we are a couple.  Someone actually once asked me which one of us is gay.    

We thought it was a hoot.  We had to keep editing out the word “Dad” from his articles.  He couldn’t get used to calling me by name.

  

  

  

    

We move on to a second year of stories and pictures.  Thanks for visiting here, and thanks for your comments.  Sorry the site turned out to be straight (there goes the gay half of the readership!).  Hey, we’ll do an article on John Travolta!   So you can look forward to more flying, sex and war stories in Flying in Crosswinds.

  

  

Posted from Lausanne, Switzerland, March 30, 2008.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

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Julio Rescued at Sea!

The three survivors float in the open sea in waterlogged life jackets, wilting under the brutal sun, weak, despairing, losing hope.  No drinking water, no food, no land in sight, no chance of survival.

Then a Britten-Norman Islander spotter airplane roars overhead.  The Coast Guard!  Salvation! 

Just 50 meters away, the audience cheers.

  

  

Audience?  Cheers??

Well, yes.  This was a Search and Rescue demonstration at the Hot Air Balloon Fiesta.

The Philippine Coast Guard was scheduled to do SAR demos on Saturday only. 

They hoisted volunteers from the audience by winch into the rescue helicopter. 

This was so much fun that we did it again on Sunday.

When they asked for volunteers, my intrepid son Julio was right there.

     

  

  

It was cool.  After the Islander marked the locationwith flares, the Messerschmitt-Bolkow Bo-105 helicopter arrived over the “survivors”. 

Each volunteer was winched up into the helicopter, one at a time, clutched safely in the arms of a rescue specialist.

    

Julio was the last to be rescued.  It turns out that after a survivor is winched aboard, the helicopter flies away and makes another approach, to avoid rotor downwash on the remaining survivors. 

  

  

    

Imagine you’re the last one, sharks are closing in, weather worsening, but after your friends are winched aboard, the helicopter flies away… 

“Wait for me!”

But it only takes seconds for the chopper to come back, and the rescue crewman is ready again. 

  

    

This must be a fun ride! 

The Bolkow flew off with my rescued son, made a couple of low passes with the Islander, and we went on to the next event.

Julio didn’t appear until an hour later, cool and loose from his helicopter ride.

  

  

   

LTJG Christine D. arranged the demo with us, and did the commentary on some of the demonstrations.

     

  

  

  

  

  

  

In another demo.  Captains Ezra H., a newly-minted helicopter pilot and Xavier E., her instructor at Airworks, displayed hover and pattern maneuvers in front of the crowd. 

Except that the instructor was not inside the helicopter.

Ezra, flying a Robinson R-22, followed hand signals from Xavier, who was on the ground.  It was almost like Xavier was flying the aircraft like a genie, merely pointing to where he wanted the helicopter to magically appear next.  

Of course it was really Ezra, in the cockpit, making it happen. 

Which just goes to prove that women are really in charge, but men are smarter than helicopters!

Or something like that

  

  

    

   

We had a lot of helicopters at the show — Air Force and Coast Guard Reserve, civilian, even US Marine CH-46 Sea Knights that were passing by :-) 

The airplane pilots among us watched them with wary skepticism. 

A gazillion moving parts, ‘wings’ flapping in circles, rotor blades changing angles every split second, the entire caboodle teetering on the edge of controlled flight, with all the control inputs backwards.  

Ask any airplane pilot:  helicopters are beyond comprehension, and fly only because they are so ugly the earth repels them

  

But then again, if you need to be rescued at sea… .

‘Shipwrecked survivors” pose with PCG’s LCDR Tito Alvin A., pilot in command, PO3 Eugene B., crew chief and hoist operator, and SN1 Harold B., Rescuer

  

  

  

  

Photos by Carlo, Pinky and the Philippine Coast Guard

Posted from Guangzhou, Mar 25,  2008

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

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Canopy Cacophony

Like the balloon bursting event, skydiving was a crowd pleaser at the Fiesta.  Sixty-six skydivers from the Philippine Air Force, Army, Marines, and National Police jumped out of 28 aircraft sorties by five aircraft.  They were joined by six civilian skydivers from three countries, 215 jumps in all.

 

 

Impressive statistics.  Yet the best number here is zero.  Zero accidents and zero reserve parachute deployments at the 12th Philippine International Hot Air Balloon Fiesta.

  

  

  

  

  

  

     

The Philippine Army skydiving team jumped the Philippine flag every sunrise.  This heavy flag would span four parked cars.  The jumpers were flown by Army pilot Major Alex A. in ”Army 072,” a Cessna 172. 

Maj. Alex was a sharp aviator.  On Sunday I briefed him for an 0555 engine start and an 0625 TOT over the drop zone, one minute before sunrise. 

He hit every time hack on the dot — on the dot.  Disciplined flying.  

    

  

The day before, the flag jump was delayed an hour.

The wind muscled at us, 16 knots gusting to 26.  We held the airplane on the ground, and again at altitude, until our skydiving safety officer OK’d the jump.

Descending with that BIG flag in those winds was like towing it behind a car at over 50 kilometers per hour.

  

Atypically, as the sun rose, the wind got worse.  After two more jumps, we regretfully grounded skydiving for the day.  

Our Skydiving Event Director hosted a ”boodle fight” for skydivers and pilots instead, at the 505th Search and Rescue Squadron hangar. 

“Ready on the right…?”  

  

  

  

  

    

Here, Philippine Army skydiver Major Jess D., does a “dirt dive ” — formation practice – with two other Army skydivers.

Sgt Pangga F., rightmost, is one of our flag jumpers.

  

  

Maj. Jess recently deployed to the Sudan as part of the Philippine contingent there.

At the Fiesta, he helped us pool aircraft from four different service branches of the Armed Forces to lift a mix of skydivers from the Air Force, Army, Marines, and Police.

  

  

  

  

  

Every morning at 0530, Fr. Ronnie A. (with the helmet-mounted camera on the right), a PNP skydiver, gathered all the skydivers on the field for a short prayer. 

It was a comforting routine, and some of us who were not skydivers began to attend also.  

  

    

  

The Army and Air Force teams flew these house-of-cards formations – CRW or Canopy Relative Work.

Two or more skydivers stack up in the air, with the higher skydiver wrapping his ankles around the risers of the lower skydiver, so that both jumpers go down mated to each other.  Is that kinky or what?!

The crowd loved these, especially when the skydivers flew the formation all the way to the ground.

  

The Army skydivers also flew a “downplane” formation, legs locked together, canopies sideslipping in a heart-stopping descent.

This one had the audience “Ooohing”.

             

  

We had four jump aircraft, and we worked them hard most of the day.  Many of our lifts were unscheduled — we plugged idle time with skydiving.

At times we had four lifts in the air at once, converging on the same jump altitude over the same drop zone.

We briefed the pilots for different climb corridors and sequenced them by time-to-climb, for separation. 

      

    

The jump pilots were led by Army Maj Alex A. in the Army Cessna 172, , the PNP’s PCI Alex C. in an AS350 helicopter, PCG’s LCDR John E. in the Coast Guard Islander, Navy LT Leah G. in the Naval Air Group Islander, and Air Force Capt Jorge P. in the Air Force Search and Rescue UH-1H Huey helicopter.

  

Great aviators and team players all — professional, always accomodating and most of all, safe.

      

  

The Skydiving Event Director was Gigi A. 

A USPA C-license holder with over 350 jumps logged in Asia and the US, Gigi is the only active female (if you squint ) skydiver in the Philippines.

This was her first stint as our Skydiving Event Director. 

  

  

  

For the first time in the Fiesta, military and civilian skydiving were managed as a single, unified event.

Gigi integrated a grab bag of aircraft from four service branches of the Armed Forces into one lift pool. 

She recruited an old friend and ex-USAF Combat Controller as skydiving safety officer, crafted procedures to mitigate risk, and personally organized every load manifest.

    

Not one of the testosterone-laden hooyah macho skydivers questioned her.  Clearly an indictment about who really wears pants in the Philippines

  

Gigi was always hustling us for more skydiver lifts, more skydiving time slots, more pilot briefings.

We threw her every free slot we could scavenge from the schedule. 

It was hard to turn her down, really.  The crowd loved the skydivers.   

  

  

  

On Sunday, 75 skydivers and static line jumpers poured out of an Air Force C-130.

The C-130 staged out of Villamor Air Base in Manila, so the skydivers commuted overnight from Clark.

When the C-130 unloaded thirty-plus parachutes out of both side doors at 1,200 feet, it was the Band of Brothers reincarnated.

  

  

  

Then forty-plus skydivers stepped off the cargo ramp from 10,000 feet, free-falling thousands of feet before popping their canopies.

  

The first skydivers landing in the video are the civilian Thai team — Capt. Pow, Khun Muoy, Khun Jak.  Their small, fast canopies made for dive-bomber descents and snappy landings.

A cacophony of colorful canopies popping open in the skies above us.  The audience loved it!

  

That made delaying four UPS cargo flights out of Clark almost worth it 

    

  

     

  

  

  

  

Flag jump photos by Princess and Tonet, videos by Julio, other photos by Dong Vytiaco, the Naval Air Group and Robbie Ruiz. 

Pass your mouse cursor over the pictures for individual photography credits and captions.

Next:  Julio Rescued At Sea!

Posted from Bangkok, March 20, 2008.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

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Mike Oscar and the Hovering Helio

Clark, or Diosdado Macapagal International Airport, never stopped commercial operations during the Hot Air Balloon Fiesta.  So Air Traffic Control was a critical resource.  Our ATC partner was no less than the Tower Chief himself, call sign “Mike Oscar”.

  

MO worked side-by-side with us all four days.  Then he went on duty in the Tower at night on Saturday and Sunday.

He never refused any aircraft movement.  Unscheduled aircraft demos, more skydiving events, even unplanned flybys by Air Force S-211s. 

Linked to Clark Tower on a discrete frequency, MO made sure we never interrupted commercial operations at Clark, and found a way to clear every show aircraft for flight.

  

MO was at our operations tent by oh-dark-30 every morning.  He caught up on sleep with 5-min naps on any flat surface.

On Saturday night high winds grounded most non-aircraft events.  We were worried about the mass parachute jump scheduled for Sunday morning. 

The jump C-130 Hercules was staging out of Manila.  We needed updated wind data to decide to go or abort the expensive lift.

  

MO was on duty in Clark Tower Saturday night, so he texted me weather reports every hour until dawn on Sunday.   

Buddy, our Program Director and show announcer, strikes a classic Philippine pose to ensure MO gets some 

  

  

  

  

How many radios does it take to run an air show?

The only thing MO ever asked for was a radio, so I lent him both my handhelds to use. 

He used up every battery I had.  After that he used up all of Buddy’s.

  

  

  

On Saturday, when the wind was unraveling the Fiesta, MO and I heard the Tower clear RP-43 for landing.

    

Why was that call sign familiar?

Then I remembered.  The Helio Courier!

  

The Helio Courier, an STOL aircraft, was once synonymous with the CIA and its proprietary “airline”, Air America. 

Used extensively in the 1960s on rough mountain strips in Laos and Vietnam, the Helio will land at max gross weight with a ground roll of less than 200 meters, given the right wind conditions.

And Saturday’s winds, 16 knots gusting to 26, were perfect for a Short Takeoff Or Landing demo.

MO and I ran to the ramp and marshalled the Helio in ourselves.  I met Brian Graham, the pilot, who has flown STOL demos for the Balloon Fiesta before.

   

MO, Brian and I walked out to inspect his landing site, the overrun of runway 02 Left, half a kilometer from the crowd. 

Brian stopped after only 100 meters.  Looking at the grass at his feet, he suggested that he might just takeoff and land on the grass right there.

  

Huh?

We asked him if he was sure.  He paced the grass, looking for ruts or holes.  He said it was much better than some of the “airstrips” he has used.

  

MO made it happen.  Clark Tower was advised that an airplane — a 3,000lb airplane — was to be cleared for takeoff on the grass in front of the crowd.  The twin 10,000-foot concrete runways of Clark were a million miles away.

It was a hoot.  The video shows it all.  Two hundred meters, heck!!  The airplane landed and rolled to a stop in less than twice its length.

  

     

Brian also flew slow pylon turns with the airplane nearly in a motionless hover.  He bobbed the airplane up and down to demonstrate how the lift-enhancing leading edge slats moved in and out, triggered entirely by air flow, an ingenious design feature of this amazing airplane.

  

  

RP-43 works hard for JAARS, which provides aviation services to worldwide missions, and the Summer Institute of Linguistics Philippines, a mission organization that does research and documentation of indigenous languages and translates scripture into the vernacular.

SIL Philippines used to have a beautiful grass airfield at Nasuli, Bukidnon, which I have flown into with a good friend, Kevin.  But that’s another story for another time.

    

  

  

  

Next:  Coast Guard Search and Rescue, and Skydivers! 

Photos by Carlo and Jaime Unson

Posted from Manila, Mar 16, 2008.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

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Close Your Eyes And Let The Force Be With You

I could only watch the aerobatic displays with envy.  But Carlo and I did actually fly an aerial dogfight, against the Navy, Malaysia and SEAir!  Well, sort of.

  

  

  

  

The balloon bursting boondoggle - airplanes prowling above the crowd and hunting down helium-fattened prey.

Most pilots quail at colliding with an object in an airplane! 

But there we were, chasing drifting targets that bobbed and weaved with every breath of wind.

  

Eleven airplanes joined the 4-day balloon-bursting competition. 

They chased over a hundred party balloons, one by one, and killed 34 of them. 

Who was the best of the best, Top Gun?

  

  

  

  

The defending champions were the Philippine Navy, led by Lieutenant Commander Lued “Patriot” L. of the Philippine Fleet’s Naval Air Group. 

The Navy pilots – focused and keenly competitive – had won the trophy for 2 straight years.

  

  

They fielded two aircraft — Navy 330 flown by LCDR Lued and LTJG Rodiaro “Hot Rod” B., and Navy 324 flown by LT Edie “Archer” D. and LTJG Dennis “Marauder” R.

Cool crew, always respectful and friendly.  People who you wish would be your friends forever.

  

     

Captains Peter B. and Anton R. of Omni Aviation were rookies, competing for the first time. 

Peter, a student pilot at Omni and a founding member of the Philippine Flight Simulator Group, flew with me on Thursday for tips. 

So I did my best to hit only one balloon that day 

  

On Friday, Peter and Anton (an instructor at Omni ) joined the fray in Omni’s RP-C8832. 

They stunned us by taking out 4 out of 4 balloons, 100% kill rate! 

The Navy had major competition now!

   

  

  

    

The Navy flyboys fought back Saturday.

LT Edie killed 4 of 6 targets.  He even bulls-eyed one balloon dead center on the point of his propeller spinner! 

It doesn’t get better than that.

  

  

  

Also competing were the Philippine Coast Guard with LT Reimond S. (1 Kill) in command of an Islander. 

LT Reimond flew civilian Islanders before joining the Coast Guard.  

He hit his balloon on his first pass.  Not easy with a heavy twin, propellers off to the side. 

     

    

Captain Pancho C. (2 Kills) flew RP-C1914, his Bellanca Citabria.

Pancho is a hardworking Let 410 pilot for the airline SEAir.  He took time off from a brutal flying schedule to compete at the Fiesta.

What is it about pilots?  They take time off from flying . . . to fly.   

  

Another airplane joined the contest on Saturday, a sexy Beech Sierra with winglets, RP-C1038. 

The soft-spoken pilot, Captain Robert L., simply walked up to our fence line and asked to join the contest.  

He got 3 kills!

   

  

Other contenders were the Philippine National Police with Captains Mar T. and Noel D.,  both from the PNP Special Action Force, in RP-C8680. 

Capt Noel wanted so much to join the proficiency test, and I’m glad their CO authorized it.

  

    

Then there was Captain C.K. Beh, a heart surgeon.  He flew a twin-engined Piper Seneca all the way from Malaysia! 

He joined the contest on Sunday,  good naturedly radioing the ground crew to please launch the balloons closer to his airplane’s flight path!

  

  

Each pilot buzzed the show line one by one, and radioed on the ground crew to “Release the balloon now-Now-NOW!”.   

Here, on Saturday, Carlo releases one with his customary elan.

It was hysterical. 

Some pilots never saw the prey.  They zigzagged half a mile away to find a target while the balloon escaped unseen behind them, bobbing merrily in the prop wash.  

      

The wind was fickle, teasing and unpredictable, adding to the fun. 

The crowd loved it.  Some of them actually cheered for the balloons  

  

  

     

   

  

When Carlo and I flew Sunday, one balloon (barely visible in photo) miraculously made it past RP-C1513’s propeller and bounced off the wing.

That was one tough rubber!

  

  

   

  

On Saturday we had a TV crew film the entire contest.  

Ten-year old Sam Turingan joined us on the field, and later interviewed me for the GMA News Q TV program “Kids on Q”.

   

  

  

  

By Sunday, Navy 330 had 7 kills, and Navy 324 was tied with Omni’s 8832 at 5 kills each. 

On the final round, LCDR “Patriot” Lued hit his 8th balloon on his first pass.

Then, on his second pass a helicoil blew out and his engine lost a cylinder. 

In one continuous maneuver, he hit his 9th and last balloon, then landed his airplane on the runway below.

  

  

I razzed him later about being shot down by the vengeful balloon, but LCDR Lued proved his superior proficiency yet again, ‘three-peating’ First Place, his third championship in a row. 

Navy 324 and Omni 8832 matched each other kill for kill and tied for second place.

  

  

Carlo and I gatecrashed the final round and killed 4 of 5 balloons. 

We were in it just for fun, though, since this was an event I was running  

  

  

  

  

Carlo and I awarded ourselves balloon kill markings, drawn on Carlo’s glass window with a red grease pencil.

  

It’s not Top Gun, but it does showcase pilot proficiency and precise airplane control.  Plus good-natured competition, fodder for hangar flying stories and “pogi” points for months to come. 

  

  

A week later, the Navy sent me a picture of their dunking pool back at Sangley air base.

The new trophy holders were no longer part of the great unwashed.

  

    

   

    

Every pilot got an “Air Warfare Pilot” cap with special embroidery on the back. 

The caps were prized souvenirs and quickly ran out. 

  

  

  

  

  

  

      

And the big secret to hitting the balloons?  Why, it’s just like landing airplanes – close your eyes and let the force be with you.

  

    

Those red marks on the windshield?  Nah, just random grease pencil marks.

  

  

  

  

Next:  The Hovering Helio and skydiving at the Fiesta  

    

Photo credits:

All aerobatic images by Princess

Balloon bursting and other pictures by Carlo, Dionex, Jaime Unson, the Philippine Coast Guard, the Philippine Navy (pass cursor over photos to see individual credits).

  

Posted from Bangkok, Mar 6, 2008.

  

     

  

  

  

  

  

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Real Men Do It Upside Down!

 So there we were, behind schedule. 

The gusting winds had grounded the hot air balloons, skydivers and paragliders.  

The crazed windsock threatened to rip itself off its pole and blow away altogether.

The morose crowd packed the ramp.  

Buddy Lopa, our untiring “Voice of the Fiesta” Program Director, kept apologizing for the wind.

We were stressed!  The airshow was dying.

     

That’s when our aerobatic pilots, Bill Wright and Meynard Halili, walked up to the operations tent and asked what time they could start their engines.

Resurrection!

  

  

  

I‘ve written written about Meynard Halili here before.  Former cigarette vendor.  Now a successful business owner.

Learned to fly at 40.  Earned his FAA PPL, CPL, ATPL in one fell swoop.  Rotary and fixed wing CFI, MEI, glider, powered and unpowered aerobatics, CFII, … .  

Owner of Airworks flying school.  The only aerobatic instructor in the Philippines.

  

     

Bill Wright used to be a helicopter mechanic.  He became a pilot, flew all around Southeast Asia, then settled in the Philippines after retirement.

He now owns an airplane factory here that manufactures the Vans RV-4 aerobatic airplanes.

  

Bill’s own RV-4 has an erupting volcano painted on its tail. 

The airplane was buried in ash by Pinatubo’s eruption.  Bill dug it out, restored it and named it “The Phoenix”, after the bird that rose from the ashes.

It looks almost like a P-51 Mustang.

  

  

Bill and Meynard tore up the Fiesta sky with a rigourous 30-minute aerobatic display in the Bill’s RV-4 and Meynard’s Super Decathlon, twice a day, every Fiesta day.

They whipped through Cuban and lazy eights, hammerheads, spins, rolls, loops, immelmans, and ripped past each other in an opposing pass break they had never displayed before.

They flew thirteen sorties at the Fiesta –  that’s seven hours of gut-wrenching aerobatic flight in four days!

They have been a part of the Fiesta for a long time and are one of the crowd favorites every year.

    

  

Buddy, our Program Director, ran a commentary that went thus:

“That’s an immelma… no, a Cuban Eight, … into a wingov… no, that’s a lazy eight… ,” as I whispered to him what I thought Meynard was doing

The pilots’ radio chatter belied the intensity of their maneuvers.

“Do you see me, Bill?”

“Oh ya!  What are you doing in that cloud, Meynard? Zooming up to you now.  Nice closure rate there, huh?”

“YEEhaaa!”

  

  

I did Meynard’s Basic Aerobatics Course last year, 10 hours of aerobatic flight training in that same Decathlon.  In my mind, I could see and feel every control input he was making in that airplane.  

I fell hard for aerobatics.

Pure stick and rudder flying, absolute precision, sucking every ounce of aerodynamic capability from the airplane.  Every control surface in motion, plus P-factor, torque — all in play.

Straight and level is for wimps.  Real pilots do it upside down!

  

From the ground, I watched the Decathlon longingly, close to tears of envy. 

My hands and feet moved unbidden, in sync with Meynard’s every maneuver.   

Left rudder to the floor, stick forward, then to the right, top rudder and stick neutral, then back… . 

Sigh.

I need to get back in the air.  Upside down.

    

  

I look forward to their performances every year.  They, by themselves, are the best aviation act in the country.  I wish they never stop aerobatics, flying or simply being great friends.

  

    

  Meynard Halili and Bill Wright with Gigi, Skydiving Events Director

  

  

  

Next:  Close Your Eyes and Let The Force Be With You

Photo Credits:  All aerobatice sequence photos by Princess, other photos by Carlo, Darrel and Jaime Unson (pass cursor over photos for individual credits)

Posted from Kuala Lumpur, March 4, 2008.

  

  

  

  

  

The 12th Philippine International Hot Air Balloon Fiesta

Over 90 aircraft sorties, not counting hot air balloons.  STOL airplanes, helicopters, microlights, paragliders, S-211 jets… .

Brass bands and silent drill teams.  Rocketeers.  Six volunteers winched from the audience into rescue helicopters.  Three lost parents found and returned to their worried children.

Thirteen aerobatic flights.  Plus two Air Force training jets doing chandelle rolls low over the show. 

Zero accidents.  Zero incidents.  Four UPS cargo flights delayed.

Balloon-bursting – 11 airplanes vs. 111 party balloons:  34  balloons died, four flight crews earned ace status with at least 5 kills each. 

And of course, the hot air balloons.  Twenty this year,  bigger than dinosaurs, from countries all over the world. 

  

  

       

The 12th Philippine International Hot Air Balloon Fiesta.

  

As always, the hot air balloons exuded magic – children scampered around them, couples hugged, drivers stopped on the highway and got out of their cars to watch. 

I’ve seen the hot air balloons many times, but they still lift the spirit and warm the heart.

  

    

Like the Grimm’s benevolent dragons, the balloons loomed three stories high, nodding gently against each other, breathing fire. 

How could  they not bring the child out in anyone?

Then, fat with lift, they tiptoed ponderously past each other into the sky. 

    

 Photo by Darrell

     

  

I’ve written before about the Fiesta’s events and aircraft in previous years, at PFSG’s Forum.  This year I’ll focus on the people.

Many of us who work at the Fiesta reunite but once a year.  We renew old friendships and form new ones.  Bold new faces recharge jaded veterans.

 

Image submitted by Pinky

    

Airshows are supposed to be masterpieces of meticulous organization.  Not this one.

Serendipity, plus self- initiative by unpaid volunteers, are what really keep this Fiesta on track.  Every participant, from air traffic controller to aerobatic pilot, is a volunteer.

  

  

It’s a modest show, by global standards.

But it’s all-volunteer.  We pay for our own avgas and lodging, buy each other meals, and donate talent and time to fill four Fiesta days.

Tens of thousands of tickets are sold, and scores of concessionaires sell goods at the Fiesta.

Photo by Jaime Unson 

It all goes to a cause, somewhere, somehow.

  

  

  

  

Serendipity.  Initiative.

Two Fiestas ago, as the Philippine Marines Drum and Bugle Corps performed for the crowd, Gen. Ed Calvo of the Air Force told me that ”MARINE” stood for Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential (A US Marine with a PhD. told him that). 

This year the Marines played Lupang Hinirang on Thursday morning.

They came out of nowhere, marched silently onto the field, and played the anthem just as an Army skydiver unfurled the flag 4,000 feet above their heads. 

Then they serenaded us with pop hits and Filipino classics, before marching off again.

Who got them here?  How did they know where to go, when to start?  Initiative.

  

The Marines never came back, though.  At dawn on Friday, we suddenly needed a recording of the anthem! 

The Philippine Air Force had a CD at their base.  A runner delivered it just as the skydiver exited over the drop zone.  The anthem played as the flag came down.  Perfect timing?  Serendipity.

Photo by Dong Vytiaco

Next year, someone will remember to donate a backup CD.  I guess.  A checklist would be good.  Or serendipity and initiative

    

  

  

  

Stressed Out Over Safety

At dawn on Saturday the wind howled at 16 knots, gusting to 26.  The balloons struggled to inflate in the gale.

Hot air balloon pilots need winds to be 5 knots or less. 

A hopeless cause.   The wind sock mocked us, standing straight out horizontally.  A storm in February??

Saturday had the biggest crowd, too.  People packed the entire fiesta ramp, and the balloons could not fly.

  

The Gulf Air balloon of Don and Debbie Conner inflated briefly, later that day.  Don, a balloon pilot for 34 years, has 3,700 flying hours (that’s a lot, ask any kind of pilot!).  

But even he and his wife could not fight the strong winds on Saturday. 

The crowd, which packed the Fiesta grounds that morning, was clearly disappointed.  But we had to put safety foremost, and reluctantly but firmly cancelled balloon flights.

In the photo, you can see the tip of the windsock, stretched rigidly horizontal by high winds. 

    

As the wind muscled against us, I held the flag jump airplane, an Army Cessna 172, on the ground, and didn’t dispatch it until 0615.  Air traffic control then held them at altitude, at our request, until our skydiving safety officer cleared the jump.

Mort F., our skydiving safety officer, is a former USAF Combat Controller, one of those special forces units that even the special forces know little about. 

He has been in desperate, vicious firefights that rarely get written about, where courage is genuinely above and beyond the call of duty. 

Photo by Dong Vytiaco

Mort is retired, has made his home in the southern Philippines, and has volunteered himself to the Fiesta for two years now.  The advantage of having Mort as our safety officer is that he has seen it all.  “There’s no war here, Tonet.  We don’t need to put anyone on the line.  We’ll wait until the winds calm down.”

  

The wind dropped briefly to 12 knots at 0730, so Mort quickly cleared us for the flag jump, an hour behind our target time.  The delay was the least of our worries.

We now had big holes in our schedule.  The crowd had already missed seeing the balloons fly.  We had to keep the airshow going!

Photo by Jaime Unson

    

The ultralights didn’t even try to brave the wind.   The paragliders launched, then quickly headed for the ground.  At one point I thought they were being blown backwards!   

The flag jump went off well, though. 

That flag has the same footprint as 4 cars parked side by side. It was quite a burden, but the Army skydiving team has had 3 years of experience with this.  Sgt. “Sprite E., our flag jumper, did well.  You can see the brute force of the wind, on that flag.

Photo by Jaime Unson

  

    

It got worse.  We thought the winds would die as the sun rose.

Wrong.  A cold front was pushing across Luzon, bringing tight pressure gradients, chilled air and sustained winds.  

The paragliders came down, totally intimidated. 

  

    

Our flag jumper reported worse winds aloft.  After two more skydiving lifts, we grounded skydiving for the day. 

Philippine National Police skydivers, right, repack parachutes on Saturday morning.  They didn’t use them again that day. 

Mort stands pensively on the left.

    

So there we were, an hour behind schedule.  The balloon pilots had given up, the skydivers were grounded, the paragliders had departed in defeat, and the windsock threatened to rip itself off its pole and blow away altogether.  

We had thousands of people in the crowd.  School buses with kids lined the Manuel Roxas highway to the show grounds.  Two tents blew down.  Buddy Lopa, our untiring “Voice of the Fiesta” show announcer, was reduced to apologizing for the wind.

We were stressed!  The airshow, perfect safety record and all, was dying.

  

  

That’s when our aerobatic pilots, Bill Wright and Meynard Halili, walked up to the operations tent, asking what time they could start engines. 

Resurrection!

  

  

  

    

Next:  Aerobatics at the Fiesta, a hovering Helio, skydivers galore, and the Helium Dispersal Team.

  

  

Darrel, one of the best photographers I’ve ever met, has pure art at his site here.

Check out Dong’s site here for more excellent photos of the Fiesta!

Jaime, a professional photographer, has his masterpieces at his site here

A big thank you to you guys for the use of your photos.

More exciting images on the Fiesta in the next article.

  

Posted from Nashville, Feb 29, 2008.   

  

  

  

  

  

  

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A Three Hour Tour, A Three Hour Tour

There are actually 124 islets (one less at high tide).  Long associated with Alaminos, Pangasinan, the Hundred Islands are actually reached by boat from the coastal town of Lucap.

You can also fly over them.    

  

  

  

    

After our flight over the Hermana Sisters, we went feet dry near the beach resorts at Tambobong, Pangasinan. 

The inlets and bays of Zambales and Pangasinan are rugged but beautiful.

Coral formations are clearly visible below the azure surface of the South China Sea.

  

  

   Masinloc Bay, Zambales  

 

Palauig, Zambales  

  

Near Iba, Zambales

  

The Zambales mountain range and western Pangasinan are a womb for cloud and rain.  Moisture from the double coastlines of the