I first discovered the old Girassol Ranch by accident. When I finally bought my chopper, I talked my way into doing some fire spotting for the Department of Forestry. It had the added benefit of giving me an excuse to be be flying back and forth over the back forty when it was harvest time, and I could help some of my friends move some plants. No one was going to question the flights if I was supposed to by looking for flareups. Keep in mind, this was before CAMP and the sight of a helicopter made everyone itchy.
Another benefit of being able to get above the trees was that I could see the surf break before I paddled out to it. If the wind was makai, or toward the ocean, it would help smooth out the faces of the waves offshore and keep their lips up. There were plenty of crunchers out there—I think the bottom drops away pretty quickly at Manchester Beach—but when the wind was just right and I had the break line to myself, it was paradise, man.
The first thing you learn as a stick is to constantly be looking for a place to land. Choppers are like bumblebees, built totally wrong for extended flight. I mean, just look at the damn things; it’s only through sheer tenacity that either of us gets off the ground and I think that kind of pisses it off. The ground is always looking for a chance to take us back.
I was coming back from where Bravo was working out toward Spy Rock when my engine took a shit. I lost all hydraulic pressure and had to fall back on auto-rotation, where I have to use the potential energy of my big chunk of glass and metal that really wants to fall out of the sky. I quickly reduced my pitch which took advantage of the wind flowing upward through the rotors and was able to keep them spinning, slowing my tearful reunion with the dirt.
Luckily, I had noticed the courtyard of an abandoned farm on the way out and was able to aim my dead bumblebee toward it. The most butt-clenching part of what my old flight instructors unironically called a “controlled decent” is the flare. At the last minute, the stick has to yank the pitch back up to get the bird moving parallel to the ground before the big kiss-and-make-up with that dusty bitch.
After I pried my chonies out of my clenched ass cheeks, I hopped out and took a look around. Out of necessity, I had developed a bit of a sixth sense back in ’Nam, and I had learned the hard way to pay attention to it. Ever since that first time, as soon I dropped onto the property, I would have the weird feeling of being watched.
Of course, in time, there would be plenty of troublemakers there, but even when it was just me—and sometimes, Chae—I would always do a quick recon just to make sure that no one was going to mess with the chopper. I never saw anybody, or anything, for that matter; but I never could shake that feeling.
All of the outbuildings that probably once housed the ranch workers were completely falling apart but the big house always looked to be in pretty good shape, almost like it was protected from the elements somehow. I don’t know when it was last lived in, but when Zongo made his way up there he said it was almost like the house had been waiting for him.
Keep in mind that Zongo smokes a lot of weed.
Follow the story:
Kingdoms of the Radio: Serafina’s Gift
Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 1
Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Kumalo 1
Kingdoms of the Radio: Karoline Rosenda 1
Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Meets The Stick
Kingdoms of the Radio: Ride a Painted Pony
Kingdoms of the Radio: Fadeout (Rock Hound Magazine, 1970)
Kingdoms of the Radio: Tibetan Bells & a Bird from Hell
Kingdoms of the Radio: Enrique Bravocado 1
Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Khumalo 2
Kingdoms of the Radio: Karoline Rosenda 2
Kingdoms of the Radio: Enrique Bravocado 2
Kingdoms of the Radio: Don’t Poke the Bear (Pt. 1)
Kingdoms of the Radio: Don’t Poke the Bear (Pt. 2)
Román Leão 