![]() |
| Make a Smilebox slideshow |
The Grotte di Toirano chamber wall
Blame Mr. Leonard my fifth grade teacher for introducing me to Pierre Berton’s book, “The Secret World of OG “. I have been interested in the underworld ever since. The underworld of caves and caverns was a fantastic concept. A world under the earth that creatures inhabited and people visited on rare magical occasions. It was fiction of course and at the age of eleven I may not have been worldly, but I certainly possessed enough street smarts not to ask my teacher if such places really existed. I would have been laughed at and ridiculed by my classmates.
I should have asked.
Two years later my Father took me and my younger brother and sisters in our first cavern. I had found a new world.
We could ask questions of our guide on our underworld tour. I had a question burning a hole in my brain if I could summon the courage to ask it. I remember raising my hand, which I quickly pulled down too late. The guide, smiling, said “yes”? ” Will we see the end of the cavern” ?, I managed.
The Luray Cavern
The guide answered with the statement “that the end of the cavern and its many passages has never been found.” It was the answer I had hoped for ! Trolls ,could be here ! All these years later, I laugh thinking about my naive fantasy but my interest in caves and caverns hasn’t dimmed.
When Paula and I research upcoming travel these days, caverns are “Googled” along with RV parks, Hotels and cheap diesel, ( now there’s a fantasy for you).
A few days ago we visited the Grotte di Toirano. Our tour of this cavern conducted in Italian was interesting but the likelihood of me summoning the courage to ask a question in Italian was more unlikely than ever. Paula lacks the social fears that keep me as silent and rigid as the stalagmite I stand near.
Our guide politely answers a couple of questions in English which allows us to see the stone embedded Cro-Magnon hand and footprints we may have missed otherwise. We decide to become tail-end-charlies in the group. Paula is hoping to get some video which we have alternately translated as not allowed or not allowed with the use of a flash.The official looking man bringing up the rear of the tour notes our delay tactics and so Paula engages him in English conversation. He is happy to talk and points out unusually formed stalactites that are rounded like melting ,dripping, Mozzarella cheese. A fitting Italian analogy but despite his twenty years as a guide in this Grotte he is still very animated when he points out the next find. Below us in a partially excavated pit lay the fossilized bones of more than a hundred giant prehistoric bears.
Legs ,ribs and even a skull with teeth that would have bit through a Cro- Magnon arm like a chiken bone. On the walls were the sooted hand prints from the cave mans torches. Had they ventured into the cave during hibernation season to hunt bear ? It would have been a very desperate and starving man that tried. The bears were three times the size of todays Grizzlies.
Our tail end guide decided to let us shoot some photos and I used a low light setting on the camera and disabled the flash. We had no sooner started filming when the back of the line Italians spotting our picture taking pulled out cameras quicker than a stiletto in the wrong neighborhood. Our guide was not impressed with his countrymen and their flashing cameras but he reconciled the situation with the standard Italian shrug.
It had been another fantastic cavern tour and the hour and a half seemed too short. We thanked our guide for his English tour.
Earlier this year we had toured a cavern in Belize that required swimming, wading and climbing upstream with miners helmets and flashlights for more than a mile. Sock footed we trekked amongst Mayan pottery and long since sacrificed Mayans,their skeletons embedded in the calcified cavern floor. A Mayan temple in a cavern!
As a youth of thirteen I had imagined all sorts of fantastic sights to behold in the underworld. What I have seen after all these years of visiting caves and caverns has surpassed my youthful fantasies and the trolls are all above ground.
At work one of my coworkers commented on my shabby laptop. It has a lot of miles on it and it works, I said. Besides, I am fortunate to have a computer.
Most people in the world don’t have a computer at all. In my travels I notice that in many countries most people who are even fortunate enough to use a computer use a public or rented computer.
My coworker told me that he didn’t know anyone who didn’t own at least one computer. That may be I said ,but your little corner of the world is very wealthy and most of the world is not.
So what percentage of people in the world own a computer? Most people guess a very high number. One person I asked, guessed 30 % ! I told him that only 30% of the world population is literate so he may want to revise his guess much lower.
As near as I can determine, way less than 1 % of the world population owns a computer. So if you have a computer at all you are definitely in the “lucky” ? , minority.
Here are the numbers: The world’s population = 6,602,224,175
# of people with computer = 365,000,000
Divide # of people with computers by the population to get 0.0552843996697522%
Thirty percent ? Nice insulated life he leads.
I struggled to follow the childrens conversation. Excited and animated the two eight year old boys were firing questions at our Italian copilot as they ran around our Erickson Air-Crane. It was one of several tours we had given this summer of our “Gigante” firefighting helicopter based here in Albenga, Italy.
I asked the Father about his son’s interest in aircraft as we stood chatting in the shade of the helicopter. “My son will not be a helicopter pilot” he said. “His older sister is the brave one, she will be a pilot”, he added. I laughed and told him that none of my four children had wanted to be a helicopter pilot and for that I was happy.
“My son will be a dentist or dottore of some kind, same as me and my father and his father before.” A fifth generation dottore and resident of the lovely beach side town of Alassio. It was his sons future.
Our conversation turned to the cultural differences between North Americans and Italians. My children have lives connected to, but separate from the rest of the family. They live and work all over the world and have lives of their choosing for the most part.
“It does not happen this way here” he said. “In Italy, familia is everything. It may be all we have”
“It is a very good thing for a country to be known for,” I said and it is pleasant to observe as I walk around town. One morning I pointed out a foursome at a table to my Italian copilot. A boy of six or so sat eating his pastry as the Grandmomma, Aunt and Mother all stared lovingly at the little guy.
The copilot chuckled and said,”Its a wonder we ever grow to men”. The Doctor laughed at my story. “Yes, it is why we stay at home until we marry.”
This morning it was business as usual as our crew prepared the Sky Crane for another day of firefighting.
“The Hell with this country. I have had it with Italy!”
It was the start of a two minute rant from one of our junior mechanics. I have heard similar from dozens of pilots and mechanics based in every State, Province and Country that I have ever worked. The location may change but the source of the frustration is the same. What I have never heard and I expect I never will, is that this mechanic whose tour was two thirds done was lonely and missing his family.
It would be easy to take a simplistic and unsympathetic glance at this young mans life and tell him to harden the hell up or say “quit whining. You are working for three weeks on the Italian Riviera for Gods sake!”
This mechanic works a split shift, which is to say that he often has to work only 6 or 7 hours of the twelve or fourteen hour duty day or more that mechanics put in on a three week tour.
Plenty of time to walk the fifty steps from our Resort Hotel and swim in the warm Mediterranean, take a Hotel bicycle along the promenade, hike one of the trails in the hills above the sea, sit and sip cafe at a seaside Bistro, rent a kayak or read a book in a park while covertly checking the female passersby.
He will do none of these things and I understand why.
If he works three weeks in Italy, how long does he get to spend at home, you may wonder?
Well, three weeks. But not really. He travels on three of those 21 days at least so actually he gets about 17 or 18 days off. Not so bad? Well, remember his young family has a working Mom. She gets the weekends off. He will only be there for half of those weekends, maybe 52 days. Add 14 days of vacation that they hope they can schedule together and you get a total of 64 to 66 days depending on his travel days and that is it for the whole year. So, 170 nights that they sleep apart. 170 evenings he will not see his kids and talk with them at dinner.
Our now prevalent North American two-parent working family spends 114 full days together and probably 360 plus days and nights under the same roof. It is good to have Dad around for 17 days at a stretch but Moms at work for most of them and the chores build up when Dad’s away and then the last couple of days prior to Dad’s leaving again can be a strain that is mostly silent but sometimes not.
So, the mechanic won’t go to the beach for a swim. Families playing in the water, lovers wading in each others arms and couples laughing in beach side Bistro’s make him feel worse about his life.
Last night his wife called with some problems that he sure as hell can’t solve from Italy.
So we all listen to his rant this morning, not saying much of anything, just listening. We all know that Italy is a beautiful country. Italy does not deserve his abuse but we also know that in a country where the family is so precious, may make Italy ,the toughest place for him to work.
My father had told me,” An expert makes the job look easier than it is”. I watched him bend the tubing into the right radius and offset. It fit perfectly. My previous attempt lay on the floor of the machine room, mocking me. Forty seven cents of scrap copper pipe and a humiliating feeling that I would have paid anything to remove.
He was reinforcing something I had learned at an early age when I first stepped onto the ice in my new, used ice skates.My friends were skating by me effortlessly as I picked myself up again off my bruised ass. Ice skating was a lot harder than it looked.
Flash ahead some 30 years to another learning opportunity.At this point in my helicopter career, I was ,in my opinion an accomplished pilot . Or, so I thought.
A month earlier I had been flying an MD 500D slinging damaged power lines off a burnt hillside that was being helicopter logged. I had a 150′ line with remote hook and the power line I was picking up had been cut into 200′ lengths.For some reason we were picking up the lines at one end rather than the middle or coiled up ?
When the end of the power line finally came off the ground I had about 350′ of slithering line to fly down to a trailer parked near my helispot.The job took a couple of days and when I was not flying I sat under a tree and watched Columbia Helicopters big black Chinook logging the burnt trees off the hillside above my helispot.The pilots flying the Chinook with the “politically incorrect ” name of Oprah were obviously very good at their job. At that point in my career I had several thousand hours of long line flying and I started thinking that I might like to helicopter log as well. How hard could it be?
Revelstoke, British Columbia and the gray,rainy, March weather was an unpleasant contrast from the California weather I had left a month earlier. So here I was landing the S-58T on the service landing on my very first try at helicopter logging. My new employer had given me a check ride in an MD 500 flying a long line and I had been pronounced..O.K. ! With the maintenance complete on the Sikorsky 58T we were off to go make some money and learn how to log.
It would be the usual OJT in the 58T. I suspected that the company wanted to gauge my performance before they spent any non revenue flight time. Besides the command pilot in the other seat there was another pilot trainee sitting downstairs with the mechanic .I couldn’t help feeling a bit like a kid at hockey tryouts. Two trainee pilots and one slot available as a logging pilot. The other pilot had previous time logging in this helicopter and that made me feel a little disadvantaged.
Oh well, fly smooth,hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
….more to come