Flying, Storms, And Fear
It’s strange how life sometimes leads us to the very things that scatter our neurons and make our heart race. And then, we get used to the threat.
I can’t decide which scared me the most- being caught in thunderstorms on the ground, or in the air. I can recall a couple of times when I got drenched with pouring rain that came in sideways because of the wind. When I was caught on foot in a powerful storm, I understood just how weak and helpless a person can be against the force of nature.
Once, I was the last reporter, and I think the last civillian moving around on Tybee Island before a hurricane blew ashore. I had never been in a hurricane before. It was amazing how the wind blew and blew, and never stopped. The relentless wind of the hurricane was so much different than the bluster, then calm of a Tennessee thundertsorm. After I finished my report I headed to a shelter. After I got inside and situated to continue my work interviewing people, I decided that I needed something from my car. I looked outside to see halves of pine trees toppling end-over-end throughthe air. Whatever was in the car could wait.
The times I was in the air over Atlanta, and in or near a thunderstorm, I knew what it was like to be a pinball smacking around the inside of the machine from bumpers to flppers and up and down the table, over-and-over again.
What I wanted in either case was to get away from the wind and the lightning.
There is a satisfaction in having to face something that scares the peewaddy (whatever that is) out of you, and come out of it okay. It’s like riding a frightening amusement ride only tens of times more intense. Twice, I was pretty sure I was going to die in a storm. Both times, it was when I was flying in a small Hughes 300 helicopter as a traffic reporter for WSB Radio in Atlanta.
Publicity pose with a much nicer helicopter than the actual machine
Thank God for the skill of pilot Mike Ward during one experience. One summer afternoon those powerful Georgia storms popped up, and we were caught in a sandwich of heavy rain and wind. Any direction we took seemed to be into bad weather, so we continued to fly north along Interstate-75 in northwest Atlanta. We were approaching Howell Mill road when a powerful downdraft hit us. It seemed like a big hand was shoving the helicopter toward the ground. Mike skillfully kept the helicopter under control and managed to fly us out of the powerful wind. We ended up nearly skimming the tops of the trees in a driving rainstorm. We gained some altitude, then beat it back to the airport.
The other time, we flew into rain that just got heavier and heavier. Flying in rain was no problem for the little Hughes helicopter. It is actually a fairly powerful and very sturdy machine. But this stuff was like the sky opened up. The rain drove us lower and lower, and slower and slower. The visibility dropped to near nothing. Mike talked about setting the helicopter down somewhere to sit out the storm, but it was hard to see much beyond the interstate. We kept going, and eventually flew into safer skies.
There was one early morning when pilot Carlos Layon and I took off at 6:00 AM for the morning tour. Storms had mounted west of Atlanta and were headed to the city. By the time we reached Buckhead, lightning strokes were blasting the ground. Just ahead of us one bolt hit a power substation or a big transformer and the sky lit up with a green fireball unlike anything I have seen before or since.
I have been flying near storms and watched as bolts of lightning hit buildings, broadcast towers and sometimes just streaked across the sky. It’s fascinating to see a storm from the nearby sky. But all the time I was watching it, my sphincter was a bit tight as I waited for lightning to hit the aircraft. It never did. I am thankful for that.
Were we foolish to fly in those conditions? Probably. But being in the air certainly gave the listeners a good first hand account of what was happening. I think there are some folks still flying who would do the same thing. The first to come to mind are the helicopter reporters in the mid-west who do such a great job tracking tornadoes.
Now that those days are over for me, I carry a certain familiarity with big storms. And I have a healthy respect for their lethal power. But the roar of thunder can now be a lullaby and the flash of lighting a punctuation mark, rather than a potential period, end of sentence to my life.
Some flights, I would be drenched with nervous sweat when I got got of the helicopter. Often, the storms would still be grumbling. Since then, covering them from the ground doesn’t seem so bad. And the blinking night-light of lightning on a summer evening can even be a comfort.
Because I can look, and know that I don’t have to be up there.
