Are we gods?

I’ve been reading a bestselling book called Homo Deus. The premise, as far as I can tell, is the author tries to evaluate the next stages in human evolution and an agenda for humanity as we slowly put to death wars, plagues and famine. It is a well-informed book with lots of research and citations.

The author accurately points out that since the end of the twentieth century, suicide, over eating, diabetes and death by natural causes, far exceed death by war, plague and famine. He makes several other reasonable assertions on what likely goals humanity will pursue, as these age old struggles are conquered. Several huge Silicon Valley corporations are spending billions on research to extend human lifespan with the ultimate goal being near immortality, outside of accidents. He points out three paths; genetic engineering, cybernetic enhancements, and artificial intelligent beings, made of inorganic material.

His theories thus far have been very interesting and not entirely surprising. What I did find surprising was his treatment of gods, deities and philosophies in the evolution of human beings. Most fascinating was his comparison of the Greek gods of mythology and the current state of human technology. Humans in that era, say 500 BC, gave their gods lots of superhuman traits and abilities. He compared some of their traits with our abilities now and I came to the realization that things we now have at our disposal, and that we even take for granted, are attributes far exceeding the Greek gods.

We have made cyberspace an everyday reality, putting nearly all human knowledge at the disposal of anyone with a smartphone and fast internet connection. We can now communicate across the planet instantaneously with nothing more expensive than a $25 Track phone. Israel built a huge desalination plant on the Mediterranean bringing water to the desert. For a couple hundred dollars you can sit in a chair and fly across the planet faster than the ancients could ever imagine. We’ve discovered thousands of planets orbiting nearby stars. In ancient Greek times people rarely survived until age 40. It wasn’t that people didn’t make it into their seventies and eighties because some people did, but they were felled by things they couldn’t see. And now, not because we have extended life, but because we have identified germs, pathogens, virus’s and other maladies they couldn’t imagine. Medical care is learning and growing and research is continuing nonstop on curing all diseases. Food production vastly exceeds anything they could have imagined in their time. Neighboring countries rarely now invade and plunder each other. In 1913 Europe, France and Germany were normally planning war with each other with peace just being a fragile interlude between wars. Now war between them is unthinkable. The list goes on and on.

We have achieved a demi-god like life for ourselves which is affordable and convenient and wholly taken for granted. Wow, what more could we possibly want? Everything, is what we want. We are not satisfied with any achievement once the newness wears off. We want a faster phone, a faster airplane ride, a higher resolution TV, a better body, better medicine, the list goes on. We are never satisfied. Are we truly happy? What is happiness? More stuff, more pleasure, better stuff?

You could probably say happiness is pleasure, or at least the lack of pain. Scientifically it’s simply biological sensations that feel good. Epicurus said over-pursuit of physical pleasures brought not happiness, but more pain. Buddha said something similar. I for one, am going to look at ways to moderate these pursuits and maybe spend more time being happy in the moment, and appreciating what glorious times we truly live in.

Proof of Heaven?

Our Lady of Loretto Medal (AquinasandMore.com)

Faith

It would be hard to share all these aviation related experiences without sharing some of the foundational aspects of my spiritual life. So I thought I might share a few formative experiences from my life and maybe loosely tie them to my aviation career. Disclaimer: This is my blog and get to write what I want so if it's not your bag, that's fine.

Sacred Heart Church, Ft. Dodge, Ia (CatholicGlobe.org image)

I have always considered myself a person of the Christian faith. I was baptized a Catholic in December, 1965 and with the exception of kindergarten and first grade, spend my entire school life in a catholic school. I participated in the sacraments and was an altar boy all the way through high school. In 4th grade, at Corpus Christi school, I checked out all the Lives of the Saints books and read them, cover to cover. Our family went on pilgrimages and even went to see the pope when he visited Iowa in 1978, at Living History Farms in Des Moines. I was a strong believer in the power of prayer and I had a special affinity for the holy rosary. I enjoyed the meditative quality of the rosary and several members of our family had the chains in their rosary turn to actual gold, according to a local Fort Dodge jeweler.

Black Magic Voodoo Doll (Ancientpoint.com)

Like Watching the Exorcist

When I was in middle school at Sacred Heart, a local priest, Father Murray, had recently returned from missionary work in deepest Africa. I will never forget the incredible stories he told us about lengths he had to go to circumvent the black magic and curses placed upon the Christians and other people he ministered to there. After hearing his testimony, the spiritual realm moved from something you see in a movie to reality for me.

Medugorje Today (http://pda.medjugorje.ws)

In the mid  '80's my father had made two pilgrimages to Međugorje, in the country which was then communist-controlled Yugoslavia. He had witnessed miracles there as well as apparitions. My father brought back rosaries blessed by the priests. Just a few days before I wrote this (April 2013) I gave my Međugorje rosary to my youngest son. My father recounted one case in particular that I remember. A man was possessed so people prayed over him causing him to vomit what looked like gallons of blood on the church steps, returning him back to complete normalcy.

A Voice

 In June 1989, right after I had finished army helicopter flight school, and before I had to report to my first duty assignment with the 101st Airborne Division at Fort Campbell, I took some leave and visited my family in Iowa. My dad took us to a Royals baseball game in Kansas City and planned a fishing trip to Lake Michigan, off the Wisconsin coast. Initially, we stayed in Manitowoc, Wisconsin and I caught a 29lb lake trout which we had mounted. But my dad, never a patient person when it came to unsuccessfully guided sportsman trips, decided to hire a 40' Boston whaler out of Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. To this day, never have I caught so much salmon. We had 45lbs of it smoked and enjoyed it every Sunday of football season until it was gone. The other 200lbs we had flash frozen and brought it back in a huge cooler full of dry ice.

While on that trip, our boat captain had a set of cabins on his property and we stayed in one for a nominal fee. I am not exactly sure on which night this occurred but it was probably near the final night in Sturgeon Bay. One evening, while my dad snored soundly and little Stephen, only 10 years old, slept peacefully, a voice like none I had ever heard in my life woke me up. In the Bible you will see quotes about angels and such where they say, "...and with a voice like a trumpet...," In this case the voice was loud, and real and sounded hauntingly melodious in fact, there is no way to describe the sound. It was like nothing I had ever heard. It woke me up and I sat bolt upright. "Prepare yourself for the coming of the mother of God!" What?? Dad, did you hear that? Wake up!!! Stevie? Did you hear that? Nobody had heard it but me, but it was as loud as a stereo system.When I asked my dad what he thought it meant all he could say, beyond the obvious message, was a quote from the bible that I will paraphrase, "...young men will dream dreams and old men will see visions."

Two Saints Suffering

Ok, so I got the "young men" part and apparently the "old men" part was about to happen next. In 1990, while deployed in support of operation Desert Shield, my dads mother, my grandma Vera, passed away. My brother and I, both stationed in Saudi Arabia for the prelude to Desert Storm, were not allowed emergency leave for the funeral and so our parents and my grandfather buried my grandmother. After I returned from combat in April 1991, maybe within 2 weeks, I came down with an undiagnosable intestinal disease. I lost about 20 lbs, had uncontrollable diarrhea and vomiting. Nothing could relieve my misery. Eventually my body got the upper hand and my symptoms subsided.

Just days after my illness subsided, we took a trip from Ft Campbell Kentucky back to Fort Dodge Iowa, my hometown. Along for the ride on this trip was my oldest son, Michael, who was only a couple months old. We sat outside on the deck of our family home and decided to pose for a 4 generation photo with myself, my son, my father and grandfather. I still looked sick and thin, and my grandfather was only a year away from his passing of a heart attack.

(David Tappe photo)

Over the previous 6 years my grandfather had been caring for my grandmother, who had been severely crippled by a stroke. She went to Des Moines for a heart bypass operation and due to an internal failure of the heart-lung machine, a massive amount of oxygen was introduced into her brain, killing a large amount of tissue. After the operation doctors advised my grandfather to pull the plug on her respirator, telling him she will be forever crippled and uncommunicative after the stroke. I don't know whether it was his faith or his anger at the their unforgivable mistake, but my grandfather said hell no, and get out of her room.

Vera had lost the use of all of her limbs, could not communicate, nor could she control her bodily functions. He brought her home, and with the help of various home health aides, he cared for the only love of his life for the next 6 years. During that time she began to speak. Her dentures were out, and it was hard for me to understand her at times, but it was my grandmother alright. As more time went by her communication got better and better. She never recovered the ability to use her limbs but she could converse, and her mind was all there until her passing in 1990.

A Vision

My father spent a lot of time checking up on my widowed grandfather, now home alone with his faithful dog, Zachariah. During these many visits Grandpa Albert told my dad he had seen visions, while sitting at the side of his bed, the same bed where he had cared for Vera. He told my dad that a spiritual window opened up in his bedroom wall, ringed by a mist, and there was a young and beautiful Vera, sitting on a chair with a couple babies in her lap, radiant light shining in. Grandpa never told my dad the first part of his conversation with Vera, saying that it was private. Knowing my grandpa, an incredible jokster, I totally get the jist. But as he conversed with her further, he asked who were the two babies. She told him they were miscarriages she had suffered and that they had no names. Vera and Albert decided to name them Joseph and Mary. Two other, older children accompanied her; babies lost after they were born, Roger and Patricia. Behind them he was shown a veritable sea of babies. An astonished Albert asked her what are all those babies doing here. She said they had died due to abortions. (This makes sense to me. My grandmother was a staunch pro life supporter and activist. As soon as Roe v. Wade was initiated by the supreme court, she helped form a local right to life organization. I remember helping her with parade floats and handing out flyers).

For my grandfather, already a person of faith, seeing these visions only solidified his view that his time was coming to an end and a wonderful place awaited him on the other side. Slowly over the next 18 months he declined in health, though still able to take care of himself and maintain his household. He passed away in his home in 1992, at the age of 72. My broken-hearted father gave the eulogy at Sacred Heart church in Fort Dodge.

For Me and My House...

Where is all this going? I don't know. But for me, these anecdotes, and many more personal experiences of my family and loved ones, tell me beyond doubt that there is a God and he is good. I am willing to stand up and say what I believe because I believe it to be true. Based both on my own personal experiences and the years I've spent educating myself on truth, religions and the very hard-knock school of life. It's taken me my whole life to get to this point. Somewhere along the way a very good priest told me to question everything about my faith and then go find the truth. I am still on that journey. Hand in hand with this journey are my efforts to form a better prayer life.

Proof of Heaven (Eben Alexander)

My goal is a closer personal relationship with God. Recently, I read the book, Proof of Heaven, by Dr. Eben Alexander. I found this book incredibly helpful and I must say, believable. Dr. Alexander paints a picture of a vast and infinite God, who is also incredibly personal and available to us all. The major premise? Pure simplicity. God is love. Sounds simple and a little cliche, right? But the more you think on the truth of it, the more sense it makes. We are so used to being spoon fed ideas and soundbites, we forget you are actually supposed the THINK. Think, meditate, pray. Close out the noise of the world, and put your gray matter to work. I find that hard to do. My brain moves at a lightning pace as I try to solve every problem presented to me, through the course of the day....until, that is, I realized it's a cruel joke of the devil. There is no end to the problems of the day! You can bury yourself in minutiae every single day, throwing yourself into bed exhausted, and never utter one prayer under your breath! Add sleep and repeat, ad infinitum.

As the old saying goes, there are no atheists in a fox hole. Despite flying helicopters for years, in various combat zones and other high risk arenas, I carried a pretty weak spirituality with me. Even still, faced with uncertain outcomes, or in the middle of an emergency like in my last post, I always found time for a prayer. Thus far, my prayers have always been answered. My plan is to keep growing my relationship with God and bring him along on my flights and just maybe, I will allow him to show me the fight plan he has in store for me.

No Time for a Mayday Call

(Flickr.com)

Awakenings

In September of 2012 I experienced one of those events which keep pilots up at night. The memory of such an event, we replay in our minds over and over. As a fairly professional helicopter pilot, I war-game many scenarios in my mind, both before and during various flights. One of the most common war games I play out is the one in which the engine quits, and I am forced to enter an autorotation with a termination to the ground.

(American Photo Mag)

 In many of these war games I imagine being over the mountains, at night, in a hopeless scenario with bad weather and have to eat what I call, a "shit sandwich,"  in a scenario where the successful outcome is highly in doubt. I once had a dream where I was flying an A-Star, in the mountains with a weather ceiling which obscured the mountain tops where I could only see out the right door but ironically, I could only make left turns. Talk about weird.

On that beautiful September Sunday one of my worst case war game scenarios occurred. My engine quit over the amazing rolling terrain of the far corner of northeastern Iowa. Ironically, this area is the ancestral home of the oldest known relative which bears my last name. Before the caution lights came on, the engine noise stopped and simultaneously the aircraft violently yawed. My left hand instinctively dumped the collective to full down and my awareness focused inside for a quick check of the caution lights and engine instruments. In about 1/4 of a second I knew without a doubt, I had lost my engine.

(lulu.com)

A new movie now plays out in my minds eye. The movie which starts from the time my engine quit to the time I found myself looking at Iowa dirt at the end of the sequence. A pilot, prior to experiencing such an event, may ask himself over and over, how will I respond to such a scenario? The answer is, you don't know until it happens. In my case, the war-gaming and self talk, in addition to a great deal of practice autorotations, paid off in spades.

After my initial look inside at my instruments, I moved my awareness outside the aircraft. How long did I move it outside? Just long enough to make a decision on where I was going to terminate my autorotation. The amount of time was probably between 1/2 to 1 full second. Unlike an airplane pilot, who may have a 10:1 glide ratio, a helicopter is coming down at a rate of around 1700-3500 feet per minute. An immediate decision is required and I had no lack of training in this realm. Because I was, generously, estimated to be at about 500' above the surface of the earth, I needed an immediate and really, really good landing decision.

(Canadian Govt Pub)

I  am sitting in the left seat flying over the top of a hill which had a farm positioned on the top. To my right, numerous outbuildings and cows. To my front, a heavily treed river embankment and small power lines. To my left, a cornfield, maybe 80 acres. (I also noted but ruled out, a gravel road which would have required a 270 degree left turn which I somehow intuitively knew I couldn't make) So in this case I will be required to make a 180 degree left turn from 500' with a planned termination point in the center of the unpicked cornfield. In perfect concert with my decision to land in that field, my right hand is rapidly rolling the aircraft to the left. Now, in hindsight, it gets really interesting.

(Democraticunderground.com)

 Have you ever experienced a moment where time slows down? Where even the smallest detail now becomes acutely apparent? At the point in which my engine quits, time now has changed for me. It is no longer loping along at it's usual pace but has slowed until it is like watching slow motion replays of an NFL game. My awareness, in my opinion, is now moving at 10 times its normal speed. Because of the lack of time, there was no panic, no "Oh Shit!" exclamation, just a series of inquiries and decision gates. What is my rotor rpm? Unacceptable, make an adjustment. Outcome? Acceptable. What is my airspeed? Slowing, make an adjustment. Outcome? Acceptable. And for what seemed like minutes I played out, over and over, these decision gates and made rapid adjustments to arrive over my intended landing area at exactly 10' with 0 forward airspeed. In reality, the entire autorotation event probably took less then 10 seconds.

(netstate.com)

Now, I had never trained nor had I ever planned to autorotate into an unpicked cornfield in Iowa. The corn was about 8' high. My seat position, as I rolled the aircraft level and began to settle into the corn, was probably about 13'. I detected the rapid vertical sink rate and began applying rapid collective to arrest this rate as I sank into the corn, with no sight of the actual ground. Probably about 5-7' above the ground I was low on RPM and out of ideas. The aircraft landed vertically, at about 2-3 gravities, enough to activate the emergency locator beacon, which I now heard in my helmet. Surprisingly, the initial contact was nicely cushioned by that beautiful black Iowa loam. At this point, the main rotor blades violently flexed down and chopped off the tail causing the entire tail assembly to fly through the air and land about 20' in front of the aircraft. The aircraft rebounded into the air and rotated about 45 degrees to the left and landed again, rolling onto its right side.

(David Tappe Photo)

(David Tappe Photo)

Experiences

Neither myself, nor my passenger experienced any injuries. I would like to tell myself that it was because of my sharp acumen and skill as pilot, but is that really true? Obviously I was VERY happy to be alive, having survived one of my worst case scenarios, without a scratch. But I would not have been in this position were it not for a long trail of decisions I made in this chain of events leading up to this accident. So, despite my best efforts, I found myself sideways in my shoulder harness and seatbelt in a cornfield with nary an injury. I have friends who have died in this career under much less difficult circumstances. Why? Why did they die while myself and my passenger lived?

This blog is replete with stories of my own near-misses. But there are more near-misses, both in and out of aviation, which I have not written about. Time and time again, I have survived very close calls, without a scratch and found myself back in the saddle. In 1982, despite literally hearing a voice tell me to put on my seat belt, I survived a vehicle roll-over at highway speed, with my belt off. During operation Desert Storm, in what I can only describe as the intervention of the Hand of God, my helicopter was lifted out of a fatal situation, allowing us to us clear a sand dune as we suffered a long and drawn out compressor stall. My conclusion? God put me here for a reason.

(David Tappe Photo)

 And that's how I got this scratch on my new helmet.

The Bee Flight

Location: The Clearwater River drainage, Idaho
Date: 2002 or 2003

Let me once again, take you back to my days with Lifeflight, based at St. Patrick's Hospital, in Missoula Montana. On this sunny spring day we were paged out to a vehicle rollover a few miles past the Idaho-Montana border. Crossing Lolo Pass we descended along US hwy 12 and the Clearwater River searching for our scene. The water was high and the trout were rising on the deeper, still pools of water along the banks.

Law enforcement reported they were on scene and we caught our first site of the incident about a mile out. A semi hauling a flatbed trailer was laying on its side, against the uphill side of the road. Had it rolled downhill, it would have plunged into the frigid river below. Looking back on it, that may have been a better outcome, had the driver not been trapped under the steering wheel. About 1/2 mile out from the scene I am alternating my attention from the scene to looking for a suitable landing zone. I see hundreds of boxy-looking containers spilled off the semi trailer. Something is wrong with this picture. It looks like there is some kind of shimmering cloud above the semi. In the few seconds it took to cover the remaining distance to the accident, my shimmering cloud resolved itself into a massive tornado of angry honey bees. I then realize those hundreds of containers are beehives. Oh shit.

spilled hives on a Canadian hwy (onlinetrucker.org)

I am not interested in hundreds of bee stings while trying to fly a helicopter. I watched, in super slo-mo, as the cops ran full speed for their cars, swatting at bees on their neck and faces. At this point there is no way I am landing anywhere near that truck. I have a quick consultation with my flight nurse and paramedic. We tossed around a couple ideas like using the helicopter to blow away the bees...dumb idea. We agreed making the bees angrier would only harm our trapped patient. We decided we'd land a safe distance away (not safe enough in hindsight) and the nurse would suit up in our survival rain gear, and approach the scene on foot.

I landed about 1/4 mile away. I no sooner than shut down the aircraft and the first bee landed on my windscreen. Oh hell no. Within minutes hundreds of bees were trying get inside the aircraft. "We're outta here," I tell the crew. I cranked and relocated the bird about a mile away, just off the road next to the river. We shutdown and pull out the gear. We were able to tape the hood of the gortex jacket to his flight helmet, creating a decent seal for his face. We taped his flight gloves to the jacket and sealed the rest of the seams with the duct tape. The cops arrived, all stung up, loaded Phil in the cruiser and briefed him on the patient.

According to the cops, the man was mostly ok, but with a broken arm, possibly ribs, and the steering wheel had pinned him to the vehicle. They decided to give Phil a bottle jack to lift the steering wheel off the man and some garbage bags, sheets and blankets to protect the patient from the bees. Phil brought a trauma bag and expected to treat the man for excessive bee stings. The cops let Phil out a safe distance away; not safe enough, they got stung again, and he proceeded to the vehicle. Phil walked through the cloud of bees and entered the truck through a door. The man inside had covered himself in his laundry and plugged a hole in his window with garbage. Phil extricated the man from the steering wheel and wrapped him up in the sheets and blankets. He was able to walk and the two of them made their way back to the police car.

Incredibly, both men only received a few bee stings.

SERE School Rub Out (Not for the weak of heart, or PETA crowd)

1995, Ft. Bragg, North Carolina
John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School

SERE School POW Camp (sfahq.com image)

I was required to attend and successfully complete SERE School (Level C) as part of my special operations aviation position, flying the MH-6 Little Bird. SERE is an acronym for Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape. The purpose of this 3 week course is to teach personnel, in positions with a high risk of capture, or a high likelihood of operating behind hostile borders, a set of skills allowing them to survive with a minimum of survival gear, in a hostile environment. If captured, the course gives you training in resistance to multiple types of interrogation techniques as well as give the student a very basic exposure to some of the hardships a captor will impose on them to achieve their goals. The course also covers escape techniques and helps the student envision a way to return home with honor. Much effort is made into making this course as realistic as possible, within the bounds of humanity, and the uniform code of military justice. The techniques and procedures utilized to build these skill sets are, of course, classified. (I will say, some of the things we endured there were more harsh that the treatment the terrorist prisoners at Guantanamo Bay received)

Located in a secluded area of the Ft. Bragg military reservation, the school is set far away from curious and prying eyes. SERE school is broken into several segments. There are classroom exercises to educate the student on survival, plant recognition, food and shelter, and close quarters hand to hand combat techniques. There is a phase involving survival and evasion skills. An evading soldier can hide in any place you can imagine. Opportunities were given in which we did have to hide in the worst conditions allowed.

Defeating attack and trailing dogs (sfahq.com image)

Food and water procurement is a high priority for the evading soldier. A person dies in 3 days without water. It is possible to survive 3 weeks without food, but it would greatly depend on body fat composition and calorie expenditures. To ensure we were able to capture and eat food, everyone was required to kill a live animal with their bare hands. Having already made sure we were quite hungry for the exercise, and while not pleasant or fun, nearly everyone accomplished their goal of killing and preparing their rabbit for a meal. I dispatched my rabbit with no undue torment to the creature. Most people seemed to have done the same. However, one guy, a member of my evasion team, a guy that was going to eventually quit under stress in the POW phase, had trouble securing his rabbits life. After failing in the coup-de-gras, a karate-style chop to the neck, the rabbit starts bleating like a cat and with my team member now in a panic, he starts to bash it against a tree. This only increased its bleating. Now everyone, including our Special Forces (Green Beret's) instructors, are looking at this guy. 3 instructors now descend on him. "Kill it," they intone. "You're doing it wrong!" Finally, unable to watch this rabbit abuse any long, an instructor delivers the blow. The student is a fail at this station. He gets another chance at it later, and apparently succeeds.

These are some rabbits that some trainees turned into a meal. But a running joke is that "food is a crutch" because survival school teaches soldiers how to overcome physical stress like hunger by using mental strength. (sfahq.com image)

 Later in the course, during the evasion phase, after nearly 5 days on the run, my team and I had managed to procure a Halloween pumpkin and some deer corn with wild onions thrown in. After trying to eat this shit, I was fine with starving; although the pumpkin wasn't bad roasted over a fire. Tensions were high on my 5 man evasion cell. On my team was another pilot, two army Rangers, and the guy who couldn't kill the rabbit. We were tense because we knew, after so many days on the run, that we would soon be captured and moved into the final and hardest part of the course, the POW phase. As we were stumbling through a swampy area, cold and wet, miserable and pissed off, we found a turtle. No one had the energy to kill it and dig it out of its shell so we decided the rabbit fucker should perform the task. Again, fail. He tried smashing it open w a little rock. Then cutting on it with a knife, and finally gave up.

(sfahq.com image)

 No one liked him, not just because of the rabbit, but because he was slowing us down so much during our night moves to our rally point, and because he had a total claustrophobia event during an earlier phase, while we were crawling head to toe through a tiny sewer pipe. Of course, he was in the middle of the group and came to a dead stop when we couldn't see light at either end of the sewer. He began to freak out. After he was done freaking out I yelled at him, "What are you gonna do? There's no where to go but forward, so let's go! Put your head down and follow the man in front of you."

Our handlers advised us, during a routine radio check-in, that we were to meet some "partisans" and they would convey us to safety after evading. Shit. We all knew what that meant. Everybody knows that in SERE school you eventually get captured and so begins your final and most difficult phase. Sure enough, during our extraction with the "partisans" we were sold out and ambushed. I never saw the attackers because we were hiding under tarps in the back of a van. Machine gun fire pierced the morning air intermixed with shouting in a foreign language. The tarp was pulled off us and we were gruffly yanked to our feet. A heavy black hood was thrust over my head and would remain there for most of the day, tied off around my neck.

Captured SERE students are hooded, searched and stripped then marched to the POW camp (sfahq.com image)

After much physical torment, mental anguish and humiliation, our hoods were removed and I was assigned my number. Criminal 36. I will never forget that. A lot happened during this part of the training. I will not go in the brutal details and techniques, but suffice it to say I learned more about myself in that period, than in any time in my life. I had already learned I didn't need food or sleep to survive....I learned that to survive sometimes all you have to do is just simply survive. Yes, I knew I was in a school environment....my biggest fear was to lose it, or get hurt and have to repeat the course. At least at some high level I understood that. But now, after days with no food or sleep, I was hallucinating. Seeing things where there was nothing.....reaching out to touch thin air. There is a great deal of stress in not knowing when your next beating is coming, or what interrogation technique they will use on you next time. I distinctly remember multiple sessions with the interrogators. I won't say how many, but one stands out because I was only asked one question. "What are you smirking about Criminal 36!!!" I got my ass whipped by one big guard because he thought I was smirking. Apparently I do this all the time. I know that now. And yep, they thought I was smirking and took me down to China Town!! That took the smirk off my face.

I have no sense of time during this phase. I remember the days being light and dark, warm and cold, during that October in North Carolina. One day, while we were locked in our individual 3'x3' concrete cells, I hear the rabbit fucker say he can't take it anymore. He quits right then and there due to claustrophobia. He is removed from the cell, taken out the gates and whisked away. No harm will come to him, many people quit and there is no shame, except the shame you put on yourself. We tried hollering at him to not do it....don't quit...but his mind was already out the gates. There were about 40 of us in the concrete cell row house and we were feeling kinda bad that another guy just quit. It was at that point, a good friend of mine, we shall call him John, shouts out, "First man to rub one out wins!" W T F? I'm screaming in my mind, "Good God!" As expected, he drew swift and immediate attention from the guard staff...was taken outside for some rough criminal punishment, and finally returned to his cell.

Once back in his cell, a few minutes later, he shouts, "I guess I win!" Slowly at first, you hear snickering, and finally half the cell block is laughing out loud hysterically. In a humorous fashion typical of special forces personnel, that sick puppy came up with just the right kind of morale booster we all needed when things were getting pretty hard. Survival is more than food and shelter.

The final moments of SERE school (sfahq.com image)

See the following link for more info: http://www.training.sfahq.com/survival_training.htm

Hail No!

My Helicopter, sitting near Boulder, CO as a large T-storm passes to the south

The junction formed by the borders of Wyoming, Nebraska, and Colorado is the home of the most frequent and largest hail in the country.

The hailstones, after they've been melting for 30 minutes

 I didn't know that. What an interesting fact that would have been useful a day earlier.

My helicopter, later that day

(On July 12, 2011 this helicopter was sitting on the ramp in Wyoming. The mechanic was working on it as it was parked in front a hangar. Lightning struck the hangar, and in fear for his life, the mechanic took shelter in a vehicle. The hail began minutes later resulting in major damage to the aircraft. The airport was unable to hangar a single aircraft due to the sudden expansion and violence of the storm)

With Friends Like That..........

 The exact location and date of this scene flight is a little hazy to me. I am pretty sure the location was about 5 miles west of Missoula, Montana and bracketed between O'Brien and Deep Creek roads, on the west side of the Clark Fork River. I was working for St. Patricks Lifeflight and flying a B3 Astar. The date was sometime between 2003 and 2007.

St Patricks rooftop helipad (St Patricks Hospital)

Working for St Pat's was one of the best jobs I ever had. Great people being number one. The crews were some of the most outstanding medical professionals I have ever worked with. On top of that, they are just good people. Number two was the helicopter; a very new, powerful and fast B3 model AS-350 Astar.

Larry Peterman in 911MT (St Pats Image)

On this late afternoon flight we were paged out to a scene involving a single car rollover. We were given a latitude and longitude coordinate. After a quick look at the weather computer, I walk out the door of our rooftop offices, do my walk-around, and strap myself into the machine. As I am going through the quick start procedures, the rest of the crew boards the aircraft, and quickly give me the "All Secure." I entered the coordinates and select the frequency for the first responders enroute to the scene. With a final check of the instruments, and a look at all our doors, I ask for a "Clear Right," and we lift, flying a direct route to the scene. The coordinate is less than 8 miles away and will take me right through most of the Class D surface area for MSO airport. The tower there is well versed in Lifeflight operations, and clears us direct to the scene.

We are the first on the scene, due to it being a few miles up a dirt road, paralleling a creek. From what I can see from my high recon, we will be descending into a bit of a hole, facing up the drainage. 70-100' trees ring the landing zone, which will be the front yard of a fairly nice, log cabin residence. I don't like facing up- mountain when making a final approach to a landing zone, but in this case the elevation is less than 5000' above mean sea level, with cool temps and winds negligible. On short final, I catch a glimpse of a tan Jeep 4x4 laying on it's top, near the edge of our landing zone. Very near the Jeep is a man laying on his back, spread eagle fashion. A young, 20 something woman, is kneeling next to him and seems to be in  hysterics, or going into shock.

I land a safe distance away and the crew immediately exits with the gear they anticipate needing for this type of call. In any moving vehicle accident, they will bring a rigid backboard, spider straps to secure the patient, a heart monitor / defibrillator, drugs, oxygen, airway intubation and ventilation gear, and lots of medical tape. I usually spend the 30 seconds needed to cool down the engine, by (admiringly) watching these professionals go to work. Calm, cool and collected, they immediately get a report from whoever is nearby, and begin to rapidly triage the patient. By now the engine is cool and I shut it down by moving the engine control switch from "idle" to "off." I flip a couple more switches, apply the rotor brake, and then do a quick walk around of the aircraft.

I had a reputation for helping them as much as possible, and today was no exception. (Yes, there is always a little morbid curiosity, everyone has it, whether they admit it or not. For myself, I had already learned not to go look at something, just out of curiosity, unless you were prepared to have that image permanently seared into your memory). After my walk around, I don my gloves and kneel down by the paramedic. Well. I had never seen this before.

The 20 something year old patient is still flat on his back. (Oh good, he's small so I will have no problem lifting him in the helicopter out of this LZ). The girl is an emotional wreck, but very mobile, which is good sign she's mostly uninjured.  I start my own patient assessment. I first look for blood and see some around his ears. I also see few lacerations on his face. His head looks misshapen somehow. I notice he has a serious set of dreadlocks in his hair, possibly the nastiest I have ever seen. Not surprising for Missoula though. The medics are very concerned about his chest. I hear them say he has a flailed chest and agonal (see 2 below) breathing. I notice his entire body is shuddering and making a horrible sound with every quick breath.

Airway control is probably the single most important item in triage; if the patient isn't breathing, he's dying. Secondary to airway, is bleeding, of which there seems to be very little externally. Internally, who knows what's lacerated so they usually feel around their belly, and start a saline IV.

Several of his limbs clearly have broken bones, due to bends in places they don't belong. What's this? He has an erection. What the hell? I've never seen that before in a patient. I make a mental note to ask the paramedic about this later, in a way that doesn't make me seem either gay, or stupid.

Due to his agonal breathing and mechanism of injury, they insert a breathing tube into his airway and start the portable ventilator. Tubing someone is a really big deal. Using powerful drugs, they paralyze you, stopping your breathing, and hopefully, give you a tranquilizer. He's also got the heart monitor, BP cuff and a large bore IV going. After carefully transferring him to the backboard and gurney, and with the help of a local ambulance crew we load this man into the helicopter.

There's this thing in EMS called the Golden Hour. It states that, generally, if you can get hospital level treatment to the patient on scene, and get him to a trauma center in 60 minutes or less, he will most likely survive. (I'm paraphrasing, but you get the point) We are way inside the Golden Hour on this guy. He's very lucky we were only 4 minutes away.

After a normal take off and short flight back to St Pat's, I land on the rooftop helipad. The medics barely had time to call in the report before we were on final approach. Met on the roof by emergency room personnel, he is whisked to the ER in minutes.

The medics usually stay in the ER with the patient, assisting the staff there until they have transferred all responsibility and given a full report. Returning to the roof top pad with their gear, they begin the clean up process and start on their charting, which can take hours to complete.

Later on that evening I pulled aside the paramedic and asked him, obliquely, why did that dude have an erection. He told me it's called priapism (see 1 below) and happens in some cases with a very traumatic head injury. Ah! I see. He says they see that all the time and I asked him if he liked that sort of thing. haha. (Gallows humor is important coping mechanism for all of us). I also asked about the agonal breathing and he told me he was on the verge of death when in that state.

Later that night, the crew clued me on a few more details about that scene flight. Apparently the patient and the girl were racing down the mountain in their Jeep. Hauling ass and with a couple friends following behind them in a pickup truck. The jeep failed to negotiate a curve in the dirt road and plunged off the side, rolling down the mountain to the log cabin's front yard. Neither of the occupants were wearing seat belts and both were ejected.

The truck following them proceeded down the road, turned into the cabin's driveway, and knocked on the door; presumably to ask for help for their injured friend. There was no answer so they broke into the house. Did they immediately call 911? No. They robbed the house!! Then they called 911 and drove off, leaving their friend to die in the front yard of the cabin.


One day, a couple weeks later, I saw this patient riding in the elevator on a gurney . He was conscious and alert, but with all his dreads shaved off, (good!) and with an obvious hole in his skull (bummer!), where they operated. Later I found out the kid went through multiple operations and will survive. Unfortunately, his head trauma was so severe he would probably spend years relearning to tie his shoes. No joke.

1. Priapism: a potentially painful medical condition, in which the erect penis or clitoris does not return to its flaccid state, despite the absence of both physical and psychological stimulation, within four hours.
(The name comes from the Greek god Priapus (Ancient Greek: Πρίαπος), a fertility god often represented with a disproportionately large and permanent erection). {HAHA! {added by author}}

2. Agonal respiration: an abnormal pattern of breathing characterized by gasping, labored breathing, accompanied by strange vocalizations and myoclonus. Agonal breathing is an extremely serious medical sign requiring immediate medical attention, as the condition generally progresses to complete apnea and heralds death.

 (definitions from Wikipedia)