This morning there was a new issue of FLYING in my dad's mail. As is my habit, I skimmed through it looking for something interesting. I usually skip over the accident reports, but today one caught my eye.
Specifically, the word "cattle" caught my eye.
Now, "cattle" is not a word I'm used to seeing in aviation accident reports (and I used to read "Aviation Safety" religiously, so I know whereof I speak). "Ducks", "Seagulls", "Geese", and similar: OK, they populate the reports pretty often, as anyone who knows the name "Sullenberger" must be familiar with. But "Cattle"? No. Not at all.
Anyway, the FLYING report indicated that this pilot, flying an R-22 (small helicopter) had landed after using it to herd some cattle from the air. He intended to leave immediately, after fiddling some corral gates, so he left the engine running. Apparently, a cow, never the most intellectual of creatures, was spooked by the engine and spinning main rotor, and leaped the fence.
Now, if YOU were just escaped from a corral after being spooked by a noisy machine, what would you do? That's right: run RIGHT TOWARD THE MACHINE. And collide (or, in the language of the accident report "make contact") with the spinning main rotor.
The collision caused the chopper to jump around a bit, scaring a few more cattle, who proceeded to run right into the chopper, causing it to "become momentarily airborne".
This did not end well. The summary report only mentioned that the pilot was uninjured (except, no doubt, for his "incredulity" gland, which must have suffered a severe sprain.) No mention of the cattles' injuries was included in the summary. The R-22 did not survive.
Poor cows.
Anyway, this reminded both of us of a tale from Dad's time in Korea. Apparently, returning from a ground-attack mission (flying F4U Corsairs), they were so low to the level of the local rice paddies, that various water buffalo on the dikes between the paddies were, shall we say, "too high to avoid". A little cannon fire solved that problem. At least there was no collision between the buffalo and the Corsairs, which would, no doubt, have been hard to explain to the squadron CO.
Dad claims they were probably North Korean cows.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
New and Old
Took my father to the eye doc today. When we got there, the receptionist asked for his insurance card, which meant I had to plow through his wallet looking for it. I eventually found it, but among other thing I also ran across a card from the FAA.
His Air Transport Pilot rating card.
I did not even know such things were issued. When I was training, I only got a 4x6 cardstock thing with PP-SEL printed on it, along with some dates and vital statistics.
Curious poke-nose that I am, I flipped it over. On the back was a list of the aircraft he was rated for (back in 1988 when it was issued). CV-880. CV-990. CV-340. DC-8. Lear-24. ... and so on and so forth. Most of the other interesting stuff he flew either did not require a FAA rating (e.g. pre-certification Concorde) or had expired.
But, way down at the bottom, the last item was: DC-3.
Wow. I don't think there's been a DC-3 at NASA Ames since the mid-60's. What the heck was it doing on the currency list?
Ames had run a series of tests using the DC-3 as a platform, to see if video camera and display technology could be used for flight, especially landings, without "looking out the window". This was prompted by two things: the prototype designs for SST's, many of which did not have forward visibility, and the anticipated advent of weather-penetrating cameras using IR or similar (this was in the days before HUD were imagined.)
But all Dad wanted to talk about was a trip he flew in the Ames DC-3 to Philadelphia, stopping there and back at Glenview NAS (Chicago) and the then-new O'Hare airport. (He never did get around to explaining WTH they were doing in Philly.) Glenview NAS is no more, having been completely redeveloped into a small city / suburb of Chicago in the intervening years. I was just out there with Dad's brother, at his wife's funeral, and in passing Glenview he pointed out the street that used to be the main runway, and the houses under the approach whose resident's used to complain about those obnoxious Navy boys flying too low in those noisy Corsairs.
Anyway, back to the DC-3. Dad actually had no idea (or more likely could not remember anymore) why it was still on his ticket. Personally I suspect it had something to do with some private joke at NASA. No doubt, something to do with the old saying:
Real pilots fly behind Round Engines.
His Air Transport Pilot rating card.
I did not even know such things were issued. When I was training, I only got a 4x6 cardstock thing with PP-SEL printed on it, along with some dates and vital statistics.
Curious poke-nose that I am, I flipped it over. On the back was a list of the aircraft he was rated for (back in 1988 when it was issued). CV-880. CV-990. CV-340. DC-8. Lear-24. ... and so on and so forth. Most of the other interesting stuff he flew either did not require a FAA rating (e.g. pre-certification Concorde) or had expired.
But, way down at the bottom, the last item was: DC-3.
Wow. I don't think there's been a DC-3 at NASA Ames since the mid-60's. What the heck was it doing on the currency list?
Ames had run a series of tests using the DC-3 as a platform, to see if video camera and display technology could be used for flight, especially landings, without "looking out the window". This was prompted by two things: the prototype designs for SST's, many of which did not have forward visibility, and the anticipated advent of weather-penetrating cameras using IR or similar (this was in the days before HUD were imagined.)
But all Dad wanted to talk about was a trip he flew in the Ames DC-3 to Philadelphia, stopping there and back at Glenview NAS (Chicago) and the then-new O'Hare airport. (He never did get around to explaining WTH they were doing in Philly.) Glenview NAS is no more, having been completely redeveloped into a small city / suburb of Chicago in the intervening years. I was just out there with Dad's brother, at his wife's funeral, and in passing Glenview he pointed out the street that used to be the main runway, and the houses under the approach whose resident's used to complain about those obnoxious Navy boys flying too low in those noisy Corsairs.
Anyway, back to the DC-3. Dad actually had no idea (or more likely could not remember anymore) why it was still on his ticket. Personally I suspect it had something to do with some private joke at NASA. No doubt, something to do with the old saying:
Real pilots fly behind Round Engines.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
R.I.P. Florence Elizabeth Jones Drinkwater
I have never seen anything quite so angelic as the body of my mother, gently wrapped in a clean white shroud.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Attitude Indicator
Insisting on perfect safety is for people who don't have the balls to live in the real world.- Mary Shafer (not speaking for NASA)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Right Rudder
Dad's power chair has a little joystick controller on the right arm.
He stopped every few feet, to look up into the trees. I tried to remember if I had EVER got him to go out with me like this before - maybe once before, most of a year ago.
Halfway down the first block, we heard the distinctive droning whine of a Coast Guard helicopter coming from the north. When the bright orange copter appeared over the trees, we stopped, peering at it as all pilots do when a different sound flies over. It's partly to ID the plane, and partly to see if the pilot is doing anything dumb. Dad would never own up to it, but I think he held every flight he saw to his own standards, in the back of his mind. I remarked "That's an Aerospatiale design, I think. With a ducted rotor in the tail. The Coast Guard seems to love them."
Dad nodded agreement, and I could SEE him remembering those test flights.
We watched it until it was out of sight in the south. Nothing dumb happened.
"I remember you told a story, long ago, about a Marine chopper that went down in the Sierra. One of those big old birds with the big radial engine in the nose. There was a guy on board, what was his name? I think you called him the Big Indian?"
"The Chief" Dad said.
"Right. And the punch line was, when the base commander asked what he had used to set the fire which had caught the attention of the rescue flight, the rescue guy had this stricken look on his face, and the commander said Oh, no, he didn't. But he had. The Chief had set the downed chopper on fire, since it was the only thing handy."
Dad shook his head. Maybe a bit of a smile. Definitely. "A Sikorsky something-or-other. I stood on his foot once."
"What?"
"Sikorsky. His foot. Not the real one, of course. In the 50's"
We made it to the park, and trundled around the paths under the trees for a quarter of an hour. "How do we get back?" "You make a 180, right here. I know you used to have a navigator, but you'll have to cope with me now."
Back on the sidewalk, next to the clinic.
"Are you trying to go cross country, up onto the grass?"
A head shake, No.
"Then I think you need a bit more right rudder - you're drifting left of the centerline." That got another chuckle and an actual grin.
I said, "Some of the planes I trained in had electric trim. One of my favorites had the 'hat' on the yoke for elevator trim. I thought that was very slick, but after a while I decided I didn't like it. I liked the manual wheel better - it gave me a much better feel for how much trim I'd dialed in. And how much trouble I might be about to get myself into."
No response.
"Remember in the 195, you told me once you didn't like to use the flaps for landing because they were electric, and you didn't trust the motors to get them up in case of a go-round?"
"Did I?"
"Sure. But my favorite bit in Four Two Charlie was the calls from the tower asking if we needed help, since we looked like we were taxiing sideways, with the crosswind gear."
Another chuckle and smile.
I did a quick guess at what percent of Dad's experience I had. By logged hours, it worked out to around one-twentieth of one percent. In reality, I still had a long way to go to catch up.
[I just realized what his problem with the chair is: the joystick is on the right-hand side. Pilots expect the stick to be in the left hand, throttles in the right hand. I never flew a side-stick, myself, so it didn't strike me as wrong. The C-195 was N2142C. Some guy in Napa owns it now.]
He stopped every few feet, to look up into the trees. I tried to remember if I had EVER got him to go out with me like this before - maybe once before, most of a year ago.
Halfway down the first block, we heard the distinctive droning whine of a Coast Guard helicopter coming from the north. When the bright orange copter appeared over the trees, we stopped, peering at it as all pilots do when a different sound flies over. It's partly to ID the plane, and partly to see if the pilot is doing anything dumb. Dad would never own up to it, but I think he held every flight he saw to his own standards, in the back of his mind. I remarked "That's an Aerospatiale design, I think. With a ducted rotor in the tail. The Coast Guard seems to love them."
Dad nodded agreement, and I could SEE him remembering those test flights.
We watched it until it was out of sight in the south. Nothing dumb happened.
"I remember you told a story, long ago, about a Marine chopper that went down in the Sierra. One of those big old birds with the big radial engine in the nose. There was a guy on board, what was his name? I think you called him the Big Indian?"
"The Chief" Dad said.
"Right. And the punch line was, when the base commander asked what he had used to set the fire which had caught the attention of the rescue flight, the rescue guy had this stricken look on his face, and the commander said Oh, no, he didn't. But he had. The Chief had set the downed chopper on fire, since it was the only thing handy."
Dad shook his head. Maybe a bit of a smile. Definitely. "A Sikorsky something-or-other. I stood on his foot once."
"What?"
"Sikorsky. His foot. Not the real one, of course. In the 50's"
We made it to the park, and trundled around the paths under the trees for a quarter of an hour. "How do we get back?" "You make a 180, right here. I know you used to have a navigator, but you'll have to cope with me now."
Back on the sidewalk, next to the clinic.
"Are you trying to go cross country, up onto the grass?"
A head shake, No.
"Then I think you need a bit more right rudder - you're drifting left of the centerline." That got another chuckle and an actual grin.
I said, "Some of the planes I trained in had electric trim. One of my favorites had the 'hat' on the yoke for elevator trim. I thought that was very slick, but after a while I decided I didn't like it. I liked the manual wheel better - it gave me a much better feel for how much trim I'd dialed in. And how much trouble I might be about to get myself into."
No response.
"Remember in the 195, you told me once you didn't like to use the flaps for landing because they were electric, and you didn't trust the motors to get them up in case of a go-round?"
"Did I?"
"Sure. But my favorite bit in Four Two Charlie was the calls from the tower asking if we needed help, since we looked like we were taxiing sideways, with the crosswind gear."
Another chuckle and smile.
I did a quick guess at what percent of Dad's experience I had. By logged hours, it worked out to around one-twentieth of one percent. In reality, I still had a long way to go to catch up.
[I just realized what his problem with the chair is: the joystick is on the right-hand side. Pilots expect the stick to be in the left hand, throttles in the right hand. I never flew a side-stick, myself, so it didn't strike me as wrong. The C-195 was N2142C. Some guy in Napa owns it now.]
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
On having the same name
I had occasion to post a short story on usenet news, all true, about the time I almost lost my father his job. It involved a small metal box on a three-foot-tall post, next to the place where all the airplanes were parked. And boredom. I was only 6 or 7, after all, and the conversation up by the hangar was boring. Boring.
Anyway, there was a walkway down to the ramp area, and this box on a post. The door on the side of the box was open, a bit. There was this little lever inside.
It's amazing how much noise the air-crash crew at a Naval Air Station makes when the alarm goes off.
Apparently they wrote the whole thing off as an unplanned exercise. I never heard anything about it, and after all, I lived. And they did not fire my dad.
So after the posting, I get an email from a lady named Mary Shafer.* She asks, Are you the Fred Drinkwater from NASA? Because this story is very familar.
Turns out she was in the group up by the hangar that day. And no, I was not the guy from NASA, just his little kid. Same name, though, more or less.
* Ms. Shafer was heavily involved in the SR-71 program at Edwards AFB / Dryden FRC, and this was probably around the time that Ames had an F-104 program down there, hence the connection.
Anyway, there was a walkway down to the ramp area, and this box on a post. The door on the side of the box was open, a bit. There was this little lever inside.
It's amazing how much noise the air-crash crew at a Naval Air Station makes when the alarm goes off.
Apparently they wrote the whole thing off as an unplanned exercise. I never heard anything about it, and after all, I lived. And they did not fire my dad.
So after the posting, I get an email from a lady named Mary Shafer.* She asks, Are you the Fred Drinkwater from NASA? Because this story is very familar.
Turns out she was in the group up by the hangar that day. And no, I was not the guy from NASA, just his little kid. Same name, though, more or less.
* Ms. Shafer was heavily involved in the SR-71 program at Edwards AFB / Dryden FRC, and this was probably around the time that Ames had an F-104 program down there, hence the connection.
ShopSmith
Back in '59 or thereabouts, my father traded in his golf clubs for a ShopSmith Mark 1. (Update: some checking revealed that our ShopSmith is actually a prototype, an even more basic and even more dangerous device than the Mark 1.) Now, there's two things that strike me about this fact - First, that he believed that golf, and the associated society, was not essential to the advancement of a NASA research pilot, even in 1959. This does not surprise anyone. Second, that this machine, which he used for decades to make furniture for our family, was nearly as dangerous as the planes he was flying*. At least, it was dangerous to me, his first-born son. I almost lost fingers in the drive belt, and almost suffered from a ... penetrating head wound ... a few years later. (The lathe chisel, a finely sharpened piece of tool steel about 12 inches long, with a nice ten-inch wood grip, went straight up, thus missing my face by at least four inches. I don't think it went more than 15 feet in the air.)
The thing had an exposed drive belt, with the upper pulley placed right where a bystander might rest a hand in a stupid attempt to stop the blade. There were no blade-guards, pulley covers, automatic brakes, or safeties of any kind. Totally lethal.
On the other hand, it was easy to learn and use, extremely capable, if not terribly precise, and I still lust for it.
In the 60's, at the same time I was using the ShopSmith to make all kinds of hobbiest bits and pieces, we (the neighbor kid and I) were also roaming the area on bikes, totally out of parental control. No cellphones, of course, but I don't think I ever even used a payphone to call home (except for that one time in the Santa Cruz mountains when I ran out of energy about sunset). HW and I used to flip a coin at each major intersection, unless we had a pre-planned destination (like the Hellyer Park velodrome, about 15 miles one-way). We'd be out all day, with no more leave-taking than 'Bye, be back around dinner time.'
My brother was making illegal brandy in the garage, and later exploding propane gas balloons above night games at our high school. All good fun, of course.
Many years later, I had a teen-age daughter. (How do these things happen? I think no one really knows. Cf. 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter, Chapter 1) Years earlier, I used to joke with the other dads at the school that I was going to solve the looming teen-age boy issue by teaching her to use a shotgun, and making sure this fact was well-known. Turns out I didn't need to actually do that (good thing, too, since I don't know anything about shotguns and would probably have blown off my own hand "teaching" her.) She made a suit of armor which she wore to her high school's freshman 'hazing' day, and evinced a notable (and public) interest in 'pointy, clangy' things - swords, Naginata, etc. Problem solved... (Well, for a while, anyway. It's been out of my hands for some time.)
My son is into golf and math. On the other hand, he can out-ski me on any double-black slope. He's better than me at math, too. Perhaps we have done OK as parents after all, even with the reduced risk of death that's so prevalent these days.
* Apparently this machine was so notorious, it was responsible for the California Supreme Court's version of Strict Liability, back in '63.
The thing had an exposed drive belt, with the upper pulley placed right where a bystander might rest a hand in a stupid attempt to stop the blade. There were no blade-guards, pulley covers, automatic brakes, or safeties of any kind. Totally lethal.
On the other hand, it was easy to learn and use, extremely capable, if not terribly precise, and I still lust for it.
In the 60's, at the same time I was using the ShopSmith to make all kinds of hobbiest bits and pieces, we (the neighbor kid and I) were also roaming the area on bikes, totally out of parental control. No cellphones, of course, but I don't think I ever even used a payphone to call home (except for that one time in the Santa Cruz mountains when I ran out of energy about sunset). HW and I used to flip a coin at each major intersection, unless we had a pre-planned destination (like the Hellyer Park velodrome, about 15 miles one-way). We'd be out all day, with no more leave-taking than 'Bye, be back around dinner time.'
My brother was making illegal brandy in the garage, and later exploding propane gas balloons above night games at our high school. All good fun, of course.
Many years later, I had a teen-age daughter. (How do these things happen? I think no one really knows. Cf. 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter, Chapter 1) Years earlier, I used to joke with the other dads at the school that I was going to solve the looming teen-age boy issue by teaching her to use a shotgun, and making sure this fact was well-known. Turns out I didn't need to actually do that (good thing, too, since I don't know anything about shotguns and would probably have blown off my own hand "teaching" her.) She made a suit of armor which she wore to her high school's freshman 'hazing' day, and evinced a notable (and public) interest in 'pointy, clangy' things - swords, Naginata, etc. Problem solved... (Well, for a while, anyway. It's been out of my hands for some time.)
My son is into golf and math. On the other hand, he can out-ski me on any double-black slope. He's better than me at math, too. Perhaps we have done OK as parents after all, even with the reduced risk of death that's so prevalent these days.
* Apparently this machine was so notorious, it was responsible for the California Supreme Court's version of Strict Liability, back in '63.
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