The local news this week contained the item that the U.S. Coast Guard would conduct training exercises at its Tillson Avenue Rockland base. Just that simple notice made my hands sweat.
I toiled in the Rockland Bangor Daily News office for 30 years or more and went on some bizarre assignments. The phone rang one day and Ted Sylvester, the boss, answered. It was the Coast Guard and they wanted to know if a reporter wanted to fly in a giant turbine helicopter for some “training exercises” at the base.
Sylvester loved it. He knew I was a white-knuckle flier of the first order. Reluctantly, I had flown in some of the amazing machines at the Owls Head Transportation Museum. But I never liked it. I did the Ford tri-motor that was in the last scene of “Casablanca.” I did a biplane that forced you to unbuckle the seat belt in order to take decent pictures. I even hired a plane to take pictures of the Downeast Airlines crash near the Owls Head Airport.
But I hated it all.
“Emmet, I have an assignment for you,” Sylvester said with that note of humor in his voice. He loved it.
I drove to the airport to meet the Coast Guard crew, sweating from head to toe. I thought briefly about quitting the damned job and going back to fish packing, my first job in Maine.
It was too late. The crew helped me in, buckled me into the seat right behind the pilot and gave me a 30-pound helmet, complete with radio connection. While I tried to remember the words to Hail Mary, we lifted off for the short jump to the base.
It actually wasn’t bad. There was very little noise thanks to the helmet and it was like floating rather than flying. I could see the pilot running the beast and that made it all better.
We hovered over the base. The base boat crews jumped into the water, one after the other and the helicopter crew winched them aboard. Both crews familiarized themselves with proper rescue procedure.
It was fascinating and I took a few rolls of pictures. The exercise ended and we prepared to leave. When I looked at the base dock, I noticed several television crews capturing the event.
I have always had a big mouth. It is a Twomey family trait. On the radio, I told the crew to look sharp because they were on television.
The captain whirled around. “Television?”
I just knew that I had done something wrong. The captain told us “It’s time for the Big Goodbye.” I didn’t know what that was, but I knew I wasn’t going to like it.
“No Big Goodbye!” I shouted into the radio.
Our captain banked left and flew out to the breakwater, hovering. Then he proceeded at wave-top level just as fast as that turbine helicopter would go. I assumed we would crash into the base and the fireball would be on national television that night.
At the last possible millisecond, the captain flew the chopper straight up, forcing the helmet into my neck while I held on for dear life. I assumed that helmet would be jammed on my shoulders for the rest of my life. They couldn’t hear me screaming.
They all laughed, of course.
We floated back to the airport and the crew dropped me off, still laughing. I got back into my car, still shaking, and considered a return to my unsuccessful insurance career.
Sylvester was laughing when I returned to the newspaper office.
“How was it? He asked.
“Don’t ask.”
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the Bangor Daily News in Rockland for 30 years.