UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO | 1995
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. In addition to fuel, which was no small worry, it had the added benefit of giving me an excuse to be be flying back and forth over the back forty so I could help some of my friends move some foliage when it was harvest time. 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 twitchy.
Another benefit of being able to get above the trees was that I could really check 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—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 that goes against the grain. 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 wanting 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 Mother Earth.
Luckily, I had happened to notice 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 had learned the hard way to pay attention to it. Ever since that first time, as soon I dropped onto the property, I had the uncanny feeling of being watched.
Of course, in time, there would be plenty of troublemakers out there, but even when it was just me—and sometimes, Chae—I would always make sure and 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 damn feeling.
All of the outbuildings that probably once housed the ranch hands 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.
Román Leão 