Rainman

It was raining when we arrived by cab from our motel at Bundaberg airport on the Morning of Monday, May 10th 1999. A light, warm, misty rain that felt good on your face, I remember that it reminded me of some song lyrics, "...dancing with my baby in summer rain". I though briefly of my wife back in Sydney, probably at work by now. At this point in time the rain was just a minor blip on the radar of my situational awareness. It could have been pelting down for all I cared. This was day three of the great northern helicopter safari and I was settling nicely into the flying, eating, sleeping groove that is a nice trip away. My pax was amiable & good company, the other pilots were a great bunch & I had eleven more days of 'heaven on a cyclic' to look forward to.

The first sense of something out of the ordinary was when I found myself first in line for take off. Contrary to my trip philosophy of 'follow the helicopter in front' I was lead animal for today's excursion. The precipitation cycled as we prepped the machines, textbook 'INTER' meteorology and the rain was increasing as we started rolling. A quick glance in the direction of our intended turn confirmed a worsening situation weather wise. I had decided that we might abandon our run to the coast & do a downwind back to the field when we hit a wall of water at about 300' AGL. Visibility went IMC in the time it takes to do a panel scan & I looked back out on the ghostly shape of trees just visible in the grey murk at 50m range. Quick back stick to arrest the forward motion & a fist full of collective brought us into one of those sudden stop, out-of-ground-effect hovers that makes the blades bight hard and the machine shudder. The engine barked the warning yelp it gives when you have treated it badly and I snatched a quick glimpse at the tachos to check we could sustain this temporary state of suspended animation, a helicopter hung in cloud like a pilchard in aspic. I remember thinking one more time of my wife, but no rotor RPM horn sounded so we were okay.

My passenger made 'glad to be alive' noises & we put down in a paddock next to the airfield. Comrades enquired about our well being on the radio, we made light of the situation.

I did not realise the impact of the event on my flying virtuosity till it was time to leave about fifteen minutes later. A brave soul had lifted off and made a run to the coast. Like Noah's dove he had returned with the Olive branch news of flyable weather. My brain said yes that we should go now, but my heart said no. To leave the cosy paddock, that treeless sanctuary that had beckoned so fetchingly in our moment of need was going to be hard. Part of me yearned to stay wrapped safe on the ground in its comforting embrace. I lifted off as an act of will but that uneasy sense of disquiet hung around till lunch time and the sweet smell of wet grass in that Bundaberg paddock did not fade till after tea. The rain man showered that night in Emu Park and washed away the last of his misgivings, to-morrow was another day.