”They’re all frightfully keen, those magnificent men in their flying machines.”—Goodwin
It used to be nice and quiet here in lovely Fairfield, Florida, so quiet you could hear the wild azaleas grow. Horses quietly munched the ample Bahia grass in their lush fields, an occasional early-morn runner penetrated the mists, the rare bicyclist rose up in the distance, communing with nature. The big event of the day was the Posmistress running up Old Glory on the Post Office flagpole. Then, Richard Helms showed up.
Richard is the founder and CEO of an outfit called Abraxas Corp., which is located in Virginia, near Washington, D.C. Established in 2001, Abraxas is a security company of sorts which helps manage overseas risk for private companies and also works under contract with the U.S. government. Abraxas must pay pretty good because when Richard and his wife Teresa decided to move to Ocala in 2010, they bought Carl Bowling’s 100+ acre Straightaway Farm in Fairfield for a cool 2.9 mil, renaming the place Backstraight Farm. A friend from D.C., Greg Poe came along a couple years later and picked up 90 acres nearby, christening the place Raven’s Landing. Oh, and since there was a giant hangar and a paved runway on his place, Richard Helms decided it might be fun to bring in some aircraft. He already had a jet parked at the local airport for quick trips back and forth to D.C., but what fun is that? You’re up, you’re down, trip over. Think of all the fun you could have with, say, a nice little helicopter.
Well, wouldn’t you know it, one thing led to another and before you could say Salagadoola Mechickaboola, both Greg and Richard were zipping around the Fairfield skies, laughing it up, buzzing the neighbors and driving the goat herds to distraction. Greg decided he needed a helicopter of his very own, Richard figured it was time for a new one, and the two of them embarked for California, looking for a two-for-one sale. They decided on a pair of Robinson R66 birds, one in slimming black, the other a fetching grey. Apparently, purple and scarlet were unavailable. The two-for-one deal was currently on hiatus but the salesman did throw in a modest dacha on the Kamchatka Peninsula, reachable from Richard’s house in oh, say, about five thousand helicopter hours.
While all this foofaraw was taking place, Siobhan’s brother, Stuart, stale from inactivity, decided to intercept the two of them mid-trip and fly back with the marauding band. Stuart caught them in El Paso and the merry crew flew back to Fairfield in tandem. When Stuart and his wife Mary returned to Florida for a visit last week, Richard and Greg decided to celebrate their reunion with a helicopter trip to the home of friends on Lake Kerr. Bill and Siobhan were also invited for some arcane reason.
Left to right: Bill, Richard Helms, Teresa Helms, Siobhan, ready for takeoff.
Greg Poe, ready for action.
Landing at Lake Kerr
The Sanowskis Residence.
We’re Off To The Coxville Zoo
January 2, the day of this epic journey, dawned grey and drizzly, not very helicopterlike weather, if you ask me. Nonetheless, we were cleared to fly about 10:30 a.m., an hour before takeoff. We proceeded to the flying grounds, wills written, cameras at the ready. I sat in the front seat on the trip out, the better to observe the terrain and take an occasional photograph. We flew with Richard, Stuart and Mary went with Greg.
There’s no fooling around with helicopters. No stewardess walking down the aisle, no interminable crawl to the runway, no waiting for everybody to stow their gear in the compartments above. You just hop in, lock the door, snap on your seatbelt and lift off, first with a little hesitation, then up, up and away. Unlike many, these helicopters had heat and AC, also autopilot capabilities. Moreover, Richard had music. The soaring Moody Bues tunes seemed a propos.
While flying has it’s downside (you can’t just zip into McDonald’s drive-thru for some fries), there are obvious advantages, like traveling in a straight line to your destination, sans red lights, obnoxious drivers and overeager highway patrolmen. You just have to watch out for errant geese, which can appear quickly when you’re flying 120 mph. We noticed a few which seemed highly irritated to be inconvenienced. We also experienced the obligatory flyover of John Travolta’s house in Jumbolair, then inspected a vast bombing range in the Ocala National Forest and, on the way home, viewed Bill’s old farm in Orange Lake, now relegated to the sad status of nine-hole golf course for geezer fishermen.
Our destination for the day was the Lake Kerr beach house of Al Sanowskis and Linda Harlow, Ocala artists (Linda is the owner-operator of the Artist Alley gallery downtown) who built the place over time as a hobby/project/investment. The structure has a ship motif, the bedrooms/”staterooms” furnished with the memorabilia of different decades—the 50’s. 60s, 70s, etc. Linda, like Bill, is a fan of art deco work and has interesting pieces spread throughout the house. The hosts put out a generous spread and the aviators and their guests were grateful, spending several hours at the lakeside retreat before the return trip.
Back at the landing field, Stuart and Mary were offered another brief flight, this one in Richard Helms’ new acquisition, a sparkling yellow Waco biplane. Mary pointed out that the manufacturers had neglected to place any sort of ceiling on the passenger cabin, an inexcusable mistake, but decided to risk it anyway. They circled the area, dipped into the Williston airport and danced right back, a whirlwind tour with a minimum of personal injury, although Mary’s hairdo required considerable reconstruction. Bottom line—no lives were lost and a good time was had by all. Stuart has been seduced by this madness and has offered his company on all flights outgoing to interesting destinations. He will even consider boring destinations. Siobhan has not yet fallen under the spell of renewed aviation but anything is possible. And Bill—well, Bill has notified the pilots that he will be ready in plenty of time for their next trip to Cuba. Andale!
Stuart & Mary Ellison in flight. Photo by the pilot, Richard Helms.
One Last Look
Before we let 2015 die a quiet death, we’d like to remember a few high points untended to last week. Among other things, 2015 was The Year Of The Rare East Coast Vacation. Seems we have a bent for heading West each Summer, but is it our fault that’s where they put all the National Parks? In less than two weeks, we visited bustling Manhattan, zipped up to Beantown for a Red Sox game, hopped over to the old neighborhood in Lawrence, Mass. to join our childhood pal Jack Gordon for a nostalgic tour, then motored on up to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park for a few days of mountainclimbing and social activities with my two sisters, Kathy and Alice, the famous Republican.
In New York, we discovered the world’s smallest hotel rooms in a Times Square hostelry called The Sanctuary. This could be of benefit in the future. If we are ever in a position where we’re forced to consider the government’s Witness Protection program, we’ll have an alternative. In the unlikely case our enemies might track us to The Sanctuary, the rooms are so small they could never actually find them. You need special glasses, available only at a tiny shop in Tibet.
While in NYC, we trekked on down to the brand-spankin’-new Freedom Tower, an amazing edifice built near the site of the old Twin Towers. Siobhan tried on a $14,000 wedding dress at Sak’s but decided against it, preferring a $100 pair of shoes in Soho. We traveled over to Broadway to see The Book of Mormon, which had lots of nice singing and dancing but also featured a troubling man who kept complaining of maggots in his scrotum. Talk about putting a damper on your evening. Finally, as in days of yore, we took a carriage ride through Central Park. BULLETIN!: The prices from ten years ago have gone up. A lot. Our driver, a Turkish kid named Ahmet, was seeking the American Dream, chasing an acting career in the daytime while steering horses at night. We didn’t want to discourage him but I think all the good Turkish parts have been taken. We gave him a twenty and wished him well. Hey, it could be worse. He could be chasing the Turkish dream in Istanbul, nee Constantinople. Why did Constantinople get the works? That’s nobody’s business but the Turks.
In you’ve never been to Maine, you need to go there. Go in the Summer. The rest of the year, you have to scrape the ice off your windshield. Maine is pretty, and full of lobsters. You can’t turn a corner without getting hit with a lobster. In Maine, people like to eat “lobster rolls” for lunch. “Lobster rolls” consist of a mess of lobster squeezed into a hot-dog bun. I know, not very glamorous. But wait’ll you hear this! Lobster rolls cost a THOUSAND dollars. Well, it seems like it. I guess what I resent is paying a lot of money for anything involving a hot-dog bun. It doesn’t seem right. In New England, though, nobody cares. They wait in long lines for the things. It must be the salt sea air.
When we told other New Englanders we went to Lawrence, they gasped in shock. “What?! You walked around? In the streets? You could have been KILLED!” Okay, it’s a rough town, but gee. We didn’t see many killers. Maybe they don’t get up before noon. Lawrence is noted for its drug trade—mostly marijuana and cocaine—and nobody needs any of that stuff in the morning. Besides, drug dealers need their zzzzs like everybody else. We thought about going back at night to check it out, just for comparison’s sake, but there was a good movie on the hotel’s TV. Maybe next time.
The worst thing that happened in 2015 was the start of another presidential campaign. The Republicans, of course, were out in full force, seeking to regain the nation’s highest office. They get testy when time passes and the U.S. hasn’t invaded Bolivia, or at least some tiny backwater in need of a tail-whippin’. The current leader in the Republican preference polls is Donald Trump. No, really. He got a firm footing among the GOP masses by threatening to expel all immigrants from the country, even if it means no more broccoli. Donald Trump is the only conceivable candidate who could make the polls’ runnerup, Ted Cruz, look good. Okay, maybe not good, but a lesser barbarian. When Ted Cruz is the choice of the moderate wing of your party, you’re in a heap of landfill. Ted Cruz makes Mitt Romney look like Leonardo Da Vinci. I keep asking my Republican friends who they’re voting for but they can’t think of anybody. They keep inquiring if Harold Stassen is still available. One of them asked me if they could have Ross Perot back. Some of them were hoping to appear sophisticated by electing Ben Carson, a black man, to the job. Then one day, Ben slipped up. “WHAT?!? There are other COUNTRIES in the world?” he exclaimed, thunderstruck. You can imagine how this went over abroad. The Queen of England was outraged, not to mention the Marquis of Queensberry. Carson has since bought himself one of those revolving globes and he promises to be back in four years. We’re not holding our breath.
Communication With Our Western Subsidiary
Dear Ms. Peterson:
It has come to our attention that your state has been invaded by a people who shall, for the sake of this letter, be referred to as “crazy bastards.” What’s going on out there? All of us Floridians have been thinking that Oregon was a liberal enclave unwilling to tolerate this sort of foolishness. What are we to think? Is Portland merely Birmingham in drag? Please advise at the earliest opportunity as many of us were considering a holiday on the lovely Oregon coast, supposedly a region void of aforesaid “crazy bastards.” We need to know the truth. And soon.
Yours, in Commerce,
Floridians For The Elimination Of Crazy Bastards
The return letter:
Dear Floridians For The Elimination Of Crazy Bastards:
We hate to admit it but our state—not unlike Colorado, Montana, Wyoming, etc.—has two distinct sides to it. The Eastern Regions are dry, dusty, cold and full of crazy bastards. You may recall some problems several years ago when Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh and his saffron-robed followers tried to establish a New Paradise in the Antelope area.
To most of us, our true border stops just past the Cascade Range (Bend, etc.) and we don’t lay claim to those rifle-toting ranchers and their ilk. I know it makes the sane part of the state look bad, but we gave all of those crazy bastards the worthless dry land to call their own. They like to fight over every inch of it, setting fires and the like. We have been hoping Donald Trump would come in and build a wall to keep these people on the eastern side of our beautiful state. We truly welcome Floridians to come and enjoy the weirdness of Portland and Eugene and the beauty of our coastline and mountains. You must forgive us our crazy bastards as we forgive you yours. We gave them the part of the state that looks like the Middle East, the better to practice their war games unobstructed. Maybe they’ll leave the rest of us the hell alone.
Sincerely,
The Western Contingency Of Oregon
That’s all, folks….
