HELI Helicopter Training and Charters

A friend and colleague of mine, John, called to ask if I would mind flying with him in a Bell 212 on a short offshore flight. Would I mind? Is Malema a Baffoon? Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity. The flight was scheduled for around 10:00 on what should have been a nice summer's morning in Cape Town. The weather did not play along and a very un-seasonal cold front hit the Western Cape the day before our flight. I resigned myself to the fact that I was about to miss yet another offshore opportunity. The extreme weather caused havoc as it once again flooded the Cape Flats, uprooted trees, tore down bus shelters, and grounded aircraft in its wake. I was shocked and confused when John called to confirm our flight for the next day. I did not sleep well that night. Was John not checking the weather forecast? Is he on medication? Am I getting too old for this?

It took me a long time to reach Cape Town harbour where the 212 was based. The severe weather caused the usual chaos on already congested roads. I called the weather office again while stuck in yet another traffic jam. The report only confirmed what I already knew: low cloud base with rain and winds of up to 30 knots. Certainly not flying weather! I pushed on knowing that I'll at least have a cup of coffee with John and chat for a while before rescheduling for another day.

John greeted me and offered the coffee that I had been looking forward to. He said that the aircraft was ready and we would be taking off in the next thirty minutes. I did not see any sign of medication: no slurring, stumbling, or bloodshot eyes. The hangar was a hive of activity and everyone else seemed to be in on this cruel joke that John was playing on me. Surely we cannot fly in this weather? It was then that John called me over and said that we should have a "quick chat" before the flight. A "quick chat" is really just a euphemism for a detailed "crew briefing". Things now started falling into place. I began to learn a few facts about the offshore ship servicing industry. The first shock is that the helicopters are mostly only called in when there are no alternatives. Usually ships either anchor in the bay or continue full-steam along their journey. These ships require fresh food supplies or spare parts to be taken on board. Often one or more crewmembers need to be lifted off the ship. Vessels that are scheduled to enter the harbour can only do so with someone with local knowledge and experience at the helm. The Port Pilot is our man for the job. These gentlemen obviously need to get onto the ship anchored and waiting in the bay for its turn to be maneuvered into the harbour for docking. Similarly, Port Pilots who steered departing ships out of the harbour need to be returned to land before the ship continues on its journey.

Now that I made some sense of what is required, I further learnt that many of these crew transfers or supply deliveries are normally accomplished by using smaller boats. This can only be done in relatively calm seas. This is where the helicopters come in. I then understood for the first time why we were getting ready to fly when other helicopter pilots were already planning an early pub-lunch.

The Bell 212 is a beast of a machine. It is based on the famous Bell UH-1 (Huey), but has evolved into a twin engine IFR-capable helicopter. It has been acknowledged as the grandfather of the offshore helicopter industry. John mentioned that he did his first offshore sortie in a Bell 212 in the early 70's. This knowledge brought a great sense of comfort to me. The 212 that I was strapping myself into was equipped with a cargo hook, hoist equipment, and emergency floatation gear. It would be a fair description to say that it looked like a well-used tool. No glitz or glamour to be seen. The doors close with a metal "clang", much like a Series I Land Rover. I took a minute to look around the cockpit: not a glimpse of colour, LED, or synthetic display. It was all very "Old School" 70's. John went through the checks and completed the start-up sequence with the grace and fluidity only evident in someone with vast experience and a very deep familiarity with a specific type of helicopter. The two Pratt & Whitneys whined in tandem as both throttles were opened to the flight setting. An almost violent but somehow familiar vibration shook the whole aircraft as the two rotor blades, both the size of a large barn door, reached their 100% operating parameter for take-off.

"OK, you do the take-off." John announced. "Don't worry, it's just like a big Jetranger." I had to breathe deep to avoid any panic. Nothing felt right. I was lost staring around the cockpit looking for any familiar gauge, light or dial. Nothing. The wind was now gusting up to 35 knots, and sea spray occasionally washed over the 212 as I started raising the collective. I noticed for the first time how far apart the pedals were. I have never seen anything like it. I remember thinking that they were specifically designed that way to make space for the large cahunas required for this job. I somehow felt inadequate...

I surprised myself, and anyone else looking on, with an almost respectable takeoff. It did indeed seem very much like a Bell 206. Getting airborne with the added assistance of a 35-knot breeze did not require much additional motivation. As we reached 500 feet and a cruising speed of around 100 knots, I realized that the vibration was getting much worse. "It feels a bit like a motorcycle on a railway track." John quipped. His tone indicated that a Bell 212 should feel like this. I must admit that I have never actually been on a railway track with a bike, but this Bell would certainly spill the boss's whisky as a corporate helicopter.

We were just settling into the cruise when John pointed: "There she is." The focus of our attention was a tanker of sorts lining up for the port exit. Two tugboats were in close attendance. The ship was still in the smooth, sheltered water of the harbour, but rapidly moving towards the open swell of Table Bay. Our mission was to lift the Port Pilot off the ship once it had vacated the harbour area. We made radio contact with the Captain who gave us permission to land on the ship's helipad. To my amazement, the pad was clearly marked on the port side of the vessel, about halfway down its 150 meter + length. It seemed clear, apart from a few air vents of about 1 meter in height, exactly where the tailrotor should be. I set up final approach with a slight crosswind along the side of the ship. The plan was to position in the hover, just short, above, and to the left of the helipad. This did not present too much of a problem as there was virtually no turbulence over the water. "OK, looking good. Clear to the right and clear below. You're over the pad. Hold position. Straight down!" It was Shaun, the flight engineer making himself heard for the first time since takeoff. I was reminded again how vital his role was in this operation. From the cockpit we had no idea where the aft extremities of the 212 were. We basically choose a reference point to focus on during the hover and subsequent landing. This point should be carefully selected as we maneuver for the landing as to ensure that we don't fly into any obstacles. The final word, however, comes form the engineer, hanging out from the aft sliding door to get a better visual perspective. Mutual trust is obviously of critical importance amongst the crew in this kind of operation.

"Good, we're down!" I continued lowering the collective and relaxed my sweaty palms for a second. My heart was racing. I had just landed a Bell 212 on a moving ship! I started breathing again and took a few seconds to look around. The GPS was indicating our groundspeed (or waterspeed) as accelerating through 6 knots. Woohoo! This ship is really letting it all hang out. I panicked as I saw the Artificial Horizon indicating a lateral slope of 4 degrees. Were we rocking or sliding off deck? I carefully looked out my side window and realized that the entire deck slopes to either side away from the centerline of the ship. This must be to enable water to run off the deck... "What the hell is that?" I heard myself ask in a rather thin voice. Before anyone answered, I realized that we had rounded the breakwater and we were now being exposed to the full, unobstructed force of the strong northwesterly wind and the massive swells that it generated. The ship was now bucking fore and aft (the pros call it "heaving") and the waves were being blown onto the deck and over the 212 as we sat at full RPM, ready for takeoff. We had been on deck for a good four minutes, and still no sign of the Port Pilot. He must have his hands full maneuvering this hulk into the open bay.

I tried to relax while keeping my hands on the controls - ready for a hasty departure if things went wrong... then it happened. The horizon disappeared while I was looking at it! Hang on... it's back! There it goes again... The swells now had their way with the carrier. It was bucking wildly and we were along for the ride. I could feel my stomach turn. What are we supposed to do at sea again? Stare at the horizon... stare at the deck... or just say silent prayers? Thankfully Shaun reported that our passenger was on his way. "OK, he's in. Clear all around." I slowly started raising the collective. I noticed that we have to get the timing for takeoff just right in order to avoid an excessive slope as the ship pitches and rolls. Our helipad is moving along at a very unstable 7 knots while the wind is howling over us at 35. What does that do to our relative airflow, and how should I compensate for it? I decided very quickly not to analyze what we're doing. Just lift into the hover relative to the pad, and everything else will fall into place. "Right, all clear. Up and away." John announced. The 212 climbed while accelerating to 60 knots. As we passed 400 feet I started breathing again. I also could not stop grinning. This was terrifying fun. I have not been challenged to this level of excitement in a helicopter for many years. I have become numb to the daily adrenalin rush of my ordinary flying. This is a new drug, and I need more!

My personal sense of achievement was rather short-lived when I learnt that offshore helicopter pilots do this all day, every day when the weather turns nasty. They don't blink an eye when they need to hoist a Port Pilot from 100 feet above the deck between tall masts and cranes in stormy seas. They hardly break a sweat when all this happens in the pitch black of night. Hats off to you, gentlemen!