I found this on Rotorheads. Its a spoof of a Military Pilots "arrival into Baghdad story", read the original to see the difference. Well done this man! 
There I was at twenty feet over northern BC, 100kts TAS and we're dropping faster than an R22 at full collective and 60% RRPM. It's a typical July evening in the Oil Patch -- hotter than a FHM centerfold in a sauna and I'm sweating like a man who just realized the engine quit.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is short thanks to the endless sun over the Canadian hinterland and brighter than my stomach after 6 months of winter. But its 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-enhancement technology. Namely my Ray bans.
Additionally, my R22 is equipped with air conditioning. Both doors are removed and the sideslip just blew my map out the hole. Fortunately, the map has never been needed thanks to the smart bro's who invented the GPS.
At any rate, the midnight sum is illuminating the muskeg like it will tomorrow and these windows are covered in the carcasses of all manner of insect…..But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the 'Aim At The Ground' arrival. Basically you just close your eyes and see what happens. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an uncontrolled manner, thus exploiting the surprise factor in an attempt to impress the hell out of the ground crew.
Or, in Canadian; landing without bending anything.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my licence on that theory but the approach is unpredictable and wild as hell and that's the only way I can fly. That and the fact that the young pilots dig it and I think it makes me look red hot.
I get a visual on the confined area at about a quarter mile, 15ft AGL still descending and maintaining a healthy 80kt. Now the fun starts. Lying to ATC, I turn the radio off and switch to the FM and the wannabe pilot ground crew in the truck.
Its air to truck comms now: all calls in a Newfie accent – word of the day is "eh!"
“G-FARK, inbound for landing, info forgottenâ€
“that’s not an arrival – you kiwi wanker. And it’s info French cappuccino..â€
“Alright then, how about the Hortens double double, via the beaver 4U transition to the "what the hell is a 'hoose', arrival then?†I enquire.
“Just land you farken' immigrantâ€.
Checking my frequency selector was in the area VHF position, I confirm that I just inadvertently broadcast this to the entire province…..
It's self appreciation time as I descend the mighty R22 to six feet, open my mouth to belch, spit out the bugs I didn’t swallow and look down at my rugged handsome reflection in the passing muskeg puddles. I always love this. Turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from the easy way into the area, the ground crew finally wakes from his slumber.
As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to try and find the missing landing area. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver “a non-standard confined area circut" IE: I goofed up….
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the cyclic to avoid the refueling truck, bleeding off energy in order to avoid impacting the trees.
"What a pilot†says the ground crew, considering the speed... “Okay you can land now….ehâ€
BLARRRRRRRR – screams the Low RRPM horn.
“Whoops!†thinks my brain, swiftly followed by “Holy smoke….the planet!â€
Managing to get a thought in edgeways, I remember the carb heat. Dammit, so Frank was right….long live the Raven II.
Can’t find checklist but the gear is welded. I look over at the skidbiter and he's shaking like an English winger staring down Jonah at full throttle. He was smoking pot last night and still hasn’t recovered.
Looking further back, I can see the rest of the ground crew grinning at the impending doom spreading across my mug. They bloody love antipodean pilots these Canuks.
Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed loader. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am.
"Fark I'm GOOD"
"Where do I find some RRPM?......Roll on some throttle" I bark at nobody in particular. Ground crew double-takes as the Robbie gyrates like a Hughes 300 in full ground resonance. "How the f**k did he pull that off!" they exclaim.
Now it's all about aimpoint and lack of airspeed. Or 'HOVERING' as we like to call it. With the exception that there is loads of space, it's Canada, black flies are circling and I am wondering whether I will ever see a Tim Hortons again….
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I slam the skids halfway up to the belly in the muskeg, spilling coffee everywhere and deeply unimpressing my pilot ground crew.
That’s my ego out the window then. Bloody R22….. I bring the throttle to ground idle and slap off the clutch. Sweeeeeeeet! Tonight, the sound of squealing belts signals the end of another 16hrs of duty day. The comparatively small, featherweight blades come to a lurching stop in less than two seconds. Let's see a huey do that!
I exit the semi submerged helo, ducking to avoid the blades into a rousing welcome from a horde of hungry mossies.
It's time to unload the bladder, find the doors and head to the nearest pub to regale the local ladies of my exploits today.
Walking to the truck with my bear spray safetied and secured in my rear pocket. I look around and thank God, not Buddha, that I'm not Australian.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-incompetence, I ask myself, "When the fark am I going to get a turbine job? This is too easy for me……"
Is it diligence, hardwork and clever decisions? No, I’m a pilot…..
Is because I you have no choice? You bet your sweet ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag and doona, and not to mention; chicks dig the thought? (sorry KaPau, you may have done 50 landings in a B206 but you know chicks want the S76 captain…).
I think you know the answer to that one too....
There's probably some truth out there. But now is not the time to deprive the local Inuit ladies of a foreign accent attached to a human loving machine. It's time to get out of this ####-hole.
"Hey skidbiter, where's the cold beer? And when you finish refueling, clean off the bubble…..I'll be in the bar."
“Piss off! You farking job stealing immigrant.
God, I love this job!
There I was at twenty feet over northern BC, 100kts TAS and we're dropping faster than an R22 at full collective and 60% RRPM. It's a typical July evening in the Oil Patch -- hotter than a FHM centerfold in a sauna and I'm sweating like a man who just realized the engine quit.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is short thanks to the endless sun over the Canadian hinterland and brighter than my stomach after 6 months of winter. But its 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-enhancement technology. Namely my Ray bans.
Additionally, my R22 is equipped with air conditioning. Both doors are removed and the sideslip just blew my map out the hole. Fortunately, the map has never been needed thanks to the smart bro's who invented the GPS.
At any rate, the midnight sum is illuminating the muskeg like it will tomorrow and these windows are covered in the carcasses of all manner of insect…..But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the 'Aim At The Ground' arrival. Basically you just close your eyes and see what happens. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an uncontrolled manner, thus exploiting the surprise factor in an attempt to impress the hell out of the ground crew.
Or, in Canadian; landing without bending anything.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my licence on that theory but the approach is unpredictable and wild as hell and that's the only way I can fly. That and the fact that the young pilots dig it and I think it makes me look red hot.
I get a visual on the confined area at about a quarter mile, 15ft AGL still descending and maintaining a healthy 80kt. Now the fun starts. Lying to ATC, I turn the radio off and switch to the FM and the wannabe pilot ground crew in the truck.
Its air to truck comms now: all calls in a Newfie accent – word of the day is "eh!"
“G-FARK, inbound for landing, info forgottenâ€
“that’s not an arrival – you kiwi wanker. And it’s info French cappuccino..â€
“Alright then, how about the Hortens double double, via the beaver 4U transition to the "what the hell is a 'hoose', arrival then?†I enquire.
“Just land you farken' immigrantâ€.
Checking my frequency selector was in the area VHF position, I confirm that I just inadvertently broadcast this to the entire province…..
It's self appreciation time as I descend the mighty R22 to six feet, open my mouth to belch, spit out the bugs I didn’t swallow and look down at my rugged handsome reflection in the passing muskeg puddles. I always love this. Turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from the easy way into the area, the ground crew finally wakes from his slumber.
As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to try and find the missing landing area. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver “a non-standard confined area circut" IE: I goofed up….
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the cyclic to avoid the refueling truck, bleeding off energy in order to avoid impacting the trees.
"What a pilot†says the ground crew, considering the speed... “Okay you can land now….ehâ€
BLARRRRRRRR – screams the Low RRPM horn.
“Whoops!†thinks my brain, swiftly followed by “Holy smoke….the planet!â€
Managing to get a thought in edgeways, I remember the carb heat. Dammit, so Frank was right….long live the Raven II.
Can’t find checklist but the gear is welded. I look over at the skidbiter and he's shaking like an English winger staring down Jonah at full throttle. He was smoking pot last night and still hasn’t recovered.
Looking further back, I can see the rest of the ground crew grinning at the impending doom spreading across my mug. They bloody love antipodean pilots these Canuks.
Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed loader. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am.
"Fark I'm GOOD"
"Where do I find some RRPM?......Roll on some throttle" I bark at nobody in particular. Ground crew double-takes as the Robbie gyrates like a Hughes 300 in full ground resonance. "How the f**k did he pull that off!" they exclaim.
Now it's all about aimpoint and lack of airspeed. Or 'HOVERING' as we like to call it. With the exception that there is loads of space, it's Canada, black flies are circling and I am wondering whether I will ever see a Tim Hortons again….
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I slam the skids halfway up to the belly in the muskeg, spilling coffee everywhere and deeply unimpressing my pilot ground crew.
That’s my ego out the window then. Bloody R22….. I bring the throttle to ground idle and slap off the clutch. Sweeeeeeeet! Tonight, the sound of squealing belts signals the end of another 16hrs of duty day. The comparatively small, featherweight blades come to a lurching stop in less than two seconds. Let's see a huey do that!
I exit the semi submerged helo, ducking to avoid the blades into a rousing welcome from a horde of hungry mossies.
It's time to unload the bladder, find the doors and head to the nearest pub to regale the local ladies of my exploits today.
Walking to the truck with my bear spray safetied and secured in my rear pocket. I look around and thank God, not Buddha, that I'm not Australian.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-incompetence, I ask myself, "When the fark am I going to get a turbine job? This is too easy for me……"
Is it diligence, hardwork and clever decisions? No, I’m a pilot…..
Is because I you have no choice? You bet your sweet ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag and doona, and not to mention; chicks dig the thought? (sorry KaPau, you may have done 50 landings in a B206 but you know chicks want the S76 captain…).
I think you know the answer to that one too....
There's probably some truth out there. But now is not the time to deprive the local Inuit ladies of a foreign accent attached to a human loving machine. It's time to get out of this ####-hole.
"Hey skidbiter, where's the cold beer? And when you finish refueling, clean off the bubble…..I'll be in the bar."
“Piss off! You farking job stealing immigrant.
God, I love this job!
