Brown/Whiteout

[Francis Meyrick]

And I did refer above to that weird 'thin cake top layer' effect, early in the morning, when the fine sand seems to contentedly lie there, not bothering to fly up into your disc, and then SUDDENLY does the rolling brown-out thing, low along the ground. Maybe something to do with the early morning dew kind of forming a thin top layer, which holds it all together, until... it doesn't anymore.

 

Here's a preview of scribble I'm still working on that incorporates a (100% true) description of that low rolling brown-out effect in rather (um) trying and embarrassing circumstances. Not our finest hour...

 

"Thus we were flying along quite happily, on a beautiful –windless- Arizona early morning, me and two Patrol Sergeants. In an OH58 helicopter. We had successfully completed a Mission, and we were on our way home. One of the Sergeants, well respected, big tough cop, remarked that we were not far from his parents’ house, and could we take a detour? Sure… no problem. A few minutes later, as we banked overhead the remote homestead, he was busy extolling Mama’s Apple Pies. Apparently there was nothing in the world that compared to Mama’s home baked Apple Pies with whipped cream. We all started licking our lips, and feeling this terrible hankering for Apple Pie. From that state of digestive juices flowing, it was a small step to the suggestion that we should go land, and say “Hi!” to Mama, and maybe, just maybe, coincidentally, a minor issue, not the motivating factor at all, we MIGHT just… get some Apple Pie.

Soon we were on final approach. I noticed Mama had her washing out on the line. “Look!”, I said, wisely, “we’d better land away a bit so we don’t blow dust over her washing!” Everybody agreed that this was a very fine observation, denoted great Moggy Airmanship and skill, and was most definitely the right and proper thing to do. So… I landed quite a bit away. Really, quite a bit.

Unfortunately…

The sand there was really, really fine. And really, really dry. Underneath. And I have this theory that the overnight moisture kind of forms a very thin cake layer on top. Kind of holds it together. You won’t believe me, I swear, until you go through this experience yourself one day. But then you’ll think back to this story, and you’ll say: “Damn! That old bugger was right…!” What happens is that all is fine and dandy, never a worry, Murray, as you descend down through four feet or so. Barely a dust particle bothers to meet you. Then, all of a sudden… I think your downwash finally busts through that thin cake topping, and suddenly these rolling waves of brown dust spread out in low, concentric circles, faster and faster. With no wind at all, it was truly awesome to see the waves stay LOW, and just race… straight for Mama’s clean washing, hanging out to dry.

I wish I’d had a tape recorder. The Intercom was… well, total terror would be a fair description.

“No!”

“Oh! NO-NO-NO…!”

“Oh, sh*t! Oh. FUKKKKK….!”

We were that low it seemed better just to set her down, flat pitch, roll throttle off, and just hope…

Nope…

Mama’s gonna have to re-do her washing. Kind of a nice, soft brown color though? Maybe she might like it? Nope. Guess what, who is that, striding out the door, fit to be tied, BROOM in hand? Marching straight for the helicopter, mad as hell, waving the broom ominously!!??

What, you’re gonna beat us with that thing…!?

No, we didn’t get any apple pie. WE DID NOT GET ANY APPLE PIE. Zip. Nada. I got a coffee I think. And one hell of a longggg lecture from Mama. Three grown men, all sitting sheepish as hell, naughty schoolboy style, staring awkwardly at the floor, whilst Mama… expressed her feelings. I’d never quite seen that expression on the tough old Sergeant’s face. Kind of… juvenile guilt. Caught peeing on the rose bush. Wishing SO MUCH it was over. Sorry. Very, very, very sorry. We’ll NEVER, ever do it again. HONEST.

 

Not quite… the triumphant arrival at Mama’s house we had planned on…"