Private Pilot Disasters - 2

This is a Beechcraft B36 high performance single engine aircraft. Since Disaster story # 1, seven years have transpired. I'd spent that time staying legal, usually flying every month. I had one uneventful trip to Frazer Island and one to Noosa, both from Sydney. Uneventful if you discard whinging UK relatives, or poor Jess puking on me from the backseat while we bumped and thumped at 500' up the beach north of Newcastle to avoid military airspace at Williamstown.

This chapter is about the first REALLY big trip, planned by my daughter Jess and myself. She was by now 11, and super keen to be my co-pilot. We did everything together back then, she was like a friendly puppy dog, always at my side, metaphorical tail wagging.

We hired the B36 because it was a kick-arse aircraft. You could plan at 160 knots per hour, which means you'd travel almost 300km in a straight line each hour 'on the clock'. It had retractable gear and a constant speed propeller, which required adjustment for best angle of attack whenever the phase of flight changed.

I'd achieved a night rating which meant I could fly visually at night, and the rating came with ten or so hours of instrument flying practice, which gave me even more confidence than I needed.


MISTAKE 1

June 26 1998 we packed and loaded at Bankstown, Australia's busiest airport with three runways in simultaneous use. With just two of us, the six seat aircraft could be fueled to the max and fly a lot longer and further than our endurance.

We had plenty of stuff - tools, spare booze and two portable EPIRBS (Emergency position indicating radiobeacons). One was attached to my daughter whevever we flew. I had the second in my kit bag. The aircraft had an installed version. If we crash landed, the distress beacon(s) would sound on 121.5mHz. All aircraft, especially commercial airliners, monitor that frequency, all the time. Many aviators have been rescued following a report from an airliner.

VH-XFS was hired from Navair, one of the struggling general aviation outfits at Bankstown. They did flight training, charters, and in this case brokered the rental of the Bonanza which was owned by someone we did not know.

Really busy cockpit, with one entry door on right. Pilot always sits in the left seat, but in a helicopter the right seat. Go figure (Aircraft pilots are often disdainful of helicopters, example: 'several thousand nuts and bolts flying in close formation!')

With pre-flight checks done, load secured, and after engine start checks (control surfaces, instruments, fuel tanks, propeller pitch and radios) all completed, we got clearance and lined up on runway 11L (left). Powering up, the three blade prop and big six engine threw us down the runway. Pulling the nose up and rotating, the cockpit door suddenly burst open with a rush of noise and all the charts flew everywhere. It was deafening chaos.

I did what the training says, and flew the mission. Aviate, navigate, communicate is the mantra and I remained calm. As did Jess, amazingly since the cockpit door was on her side, and she was looking through the gap at Milperra Road, 1,000 feet below.

Light aircraft are not pressurized, meaning we fly in regular air and not over 10,000 feet high. The airflow was disrupted by the door being open. Climbing at 85 knots, we were doing almost 160kph and the door was luffing about 90mm open.

If you're frustrated at the mix of imperial and metric, that's aviation for you!

I called the tower with a Pan message (Pan means a semi important situation, 'Possible Assistance Needed' which is different to a MAYDAY) and flew a circuit to land on the same runway. Pulling off to a taxi bay, we tried to shut the door. It resisted many efforts, and then latched.

We took off again. The door would pop open later, we should have had a delay while it was properly fixed.


MISTAKE 2

Stopping at Roma for fuel, we had another door opening disaster and once fixed we then hopped over to Carnarvon National Park for a couple of nights. The Gorge was worth seeing. The park guide had suggested landing at Ingelara strip, which is a grass runway within a cattle property. There was a second alternative at Rewan. It's about 3.5nm's to the north east of Ingelara, but we chose Ingelara.

After two days of trekking and having fun in the Gorge, we returned to find the Bonanza surrounded by fucking huge cattle. It took Jess and I twenty crazy minutes to chase them far enough away.

They had smeared the sides of the aircraft with dung, but worse had bent the pitot tube (essential for airspeed instruments) and one aileron - the hinged wing surface that allows the aircraft to turn. The leading edge was bent upwards, from a steer or ten rubbing their itches - or their arses - on the thing.

I bent everything approximately correctly, and we took off down the bumpy grass strip, eyes wide for wandering beef. On rotation, the aircraft pulled to the left, so clearly I hadn't done a good enough job. Plus I had low airspeed indication.

Landing again, dodging one errant cow, I finessed the bending of the aileron, and dug crap out of the pitot tube. Mumbling and muttering the whole time.

We took off again and headed for Mount Isa, via Long Reach. It was almost enough to turn me vegetarian.

We should have taken a portable electric fence.


MISTAKE 3

Spending the night in Mount Isa was fairly ordinary - it was very bland. The next morning I was appalled to see low cloud, in fact it was hanging over the top of the mine smoke stack. The refueller said he had never seen it that low! The stack is 150 metres tall, which is less than 500 feet - the final approach height in the circuit.

The 'circuit' is the name of the flying pattern over an airport.

About the circuit: the three legs of the circuit start with a fly-over at 1,500 feet on the 'dead side', or the side not used. Most circuits are 'left handed', some are 'right'. Then you join the circuit at 1,000 feet downwind, fly up the 'active' side of the circuit, parallel to the runway which is about 45 degrees down to your left, turn 'base' when you are well past the end of the approach runway, so you then are at 90 degrees to the runway for the 'base' leg, and descend to 500' to join 'final', where you are lined up to land.

Cloud at 500' is impossible, as a visual flight rules (VFR) flight one must be at least 1,000 feet UNDER cloud.

This was a major bother, as we had a lot of flying to do that day. Pacing around didn't make the cloud lift. I called the refueller in Borroloola up at the Gulf. His wife answered.

'How is the weather there?' I asked.

'Glorious', she said. That's what I wanted to hear!

I figured we could fly low out of Isa, as there are no obstructions and I had a new GPS that had earned my respect the previous few flights. I was still flying with charts and computations, and using the GPS to validate ground speed and drift from crosswinds. I never stopped flying this way - relying on one device is dangerous.

There was no control tower to dob us in, so off we went, following the road out of Isa to the north-west. It was low, gloomy, and bumpy.

Eventually the cloud stabised at about 2,000 feet but we wanted clear air for cruise, so we punched through the layer and headed up to 8,000 and sat up there until top of descent, almost 5 hours out of Isa. But all I could see was a carpet of cloud under us! We'd had the cloud since Isa.


Not a lot to see at Borroloola

I descended to 2,000 feet above ground (AGL), and approached what I figured was the location of the airstrip, but the town was cloaked in cloud, so we could not proceed. I needed to enter the 'circuit' or the approach pattern for the airstrip at 1,500', and without visual anything, could not descend into the clouds. When the clouds are close to the ground - and these were at circuit height - it is insane to descend into them.

I pulled the chart to plot the distance and heading to our only alternate, which was an Aboriginal mission about 70 miles away that did not have fuel. We would be stuck there until we could pay someone to haul a 200 litre drum and a hand pump from Borroloola, which could take days. The idea made me shudder.

I had a satellite phone for that contingency.

Suddenly the clouds parted, and there was the runway!

The refueller wandered over from his house nearby when he heard us land.

'So your wife told me the weather was glorious', I said with a hint of frustration.

'Yer mite, it's the fuckin' dry season so any rain is fuckin' glorious don't yer reckon?'

We should have stayed in Mount Isa an extra night.


MISTAKE 4

By now we'd jammed the cockpit door shut forever, and were climbing over the seats to enter and deplane via the coach doors.

The B36 has two doors, as the picture shows, on the starboard (right) side. The pilot position is port (left) side, all planes are left-hand drive.

From Borroloola we flew to Jabiru, the town on the border of Arnhem Land which is a vast Aboriginal Reserve about 500km east of Darwin. We fuelled up again, and took off for Davidson's Arnhemland Safari Lodge at Mount Borradaile. Located within Arnhem Land, Max Davidson obtained a lease from the traditional owners.

He or more likely his family now, as he is quite old, clearly have a special affinity with the place. It is a 700 square kilometre reserve centered on the mystical Mount Borradaile and the massive lagoon that sits under it. When we went, Max had a lucrative sideline in hunting trips, with mostly European tourists paying him a motza to shoot pigs or whatever. That part of the business appears to have closed these days.

Words can't describe the landscape and the wildlife - it seems to be the most densely populated part of the world, with every kind of water bird, crocodile and creature possible. At sunset a million magpie geese take off, a classic icon for the Northern Territory. It is really, really good there in the dry season, we visited in early July. Don't leave it too late in the season, as the water holes dry up.

The hidden rock art and relics from the traditional people tells a vivid and sad story. This is the best rock art in Australia, some of it tells of European explorers well before Cook. The tribe there had contact with Makassan trepangers (traders) from the southwest corner of Sulawesi (Indonesia). Remnants and pictures in the caves prove it.

It is eerie in the caves. The tribe put their dead up a tree for the birds to feed from, then took the skeletal remains and wrapped them in paper bark. Some of them still rest in rock crevices in the caves. You can hear their ghostly voices distant in the depths, if you stand still long enough.

The tribe eventually succumbed to the lure of the missionaries at Gunbalanya - Oenpelli as then known. They walked off the land for a soft life, and soon many died as they couldn't cope with white man food and diseases.

Goodle Davidson's Arnhemland Safari Lodge at Mount Borradaile to find some amazing stories about the place.

The tracks through paper bark forests and hidden billabongs are blissful.

At night, in our (supplied) tent/cabin, we heard the howling of dingos on the full moon. I highly recommend this place, as it connects you with the ancient land like nowhere else.

After a few nights here, we headed to the airstrip to depart. A charter pilot came in, and we had a chat about landing on roads ahead of storm fronts, and ways to start the cantankerous Continental engine in the Bonanza. 'Just crank her fully lean, and pulse the fuel pump continually to squirt juice in there, then go rich', he suggested. It worked.

A one hour flight north took us out of Arnhem land, and into Midjari, on Vashion Head. We stayed at Seven Spirits Bay for a couple of nights, then headed to Darwin via Jabiru for fuel.

Darwin air traffic control is run by the military, as the airport is a shared facility. Inbound at Lake Finniss, you get clearance. This is where my troubles began.

The controller at Darwin was short tempered, and short on directions. I knew I was to track to Adelaide River, then Hope Inlet. He read my clearance at machine gun speed, then left me to figure what he said. The guy was refusing to read back, or acknowledge my calls to confirm my clearance.

I should have 'required' him to do so, and reported him. His conduct made me less confident, and thus less safe. In crowded airspace, there can't be uncertainty. You have to 'fly the mission'. Australian Military controllers are notorious for poor conduct towards recreational pilots.


MISTAKE 5

We had a night in Darwin in the best hotel we could find. Room service and a regular bathtub cannot be beaten. Then it was off to Ayers Rock, with an early departure from the confusing taxiway system at Darwin, allied with another gruff and unhelpful clearance from the tower.

Tennant Creek was our fuel stop, on what was a very long flying day.

West of Alice Springs, near West MacDonnell National Park I spotted a crashed aircraft. We were at 6,000 feet, so I circled down for a better look. It was on obvious smashed single engine aircraft, painted white. I got onto Air Services in Adelaide on the high frequency radio, and they took the co-ordinates and asked me to orbit.

Which I did.

Ten minutes later I was onto them again, they still had no info and asked me to continue orbiting. I declared a fuel contingency and told them I was resuming my flight, we climbed out and continued on to Ularu (Ayers Rock).

Eventually in the late afternoon we arrived, landed, and on opening the door were greeted by the largest and most annoying flock of flies I've ever met. We got a shuttle bus over to the overpriced resort, climbed the rock the next day (before the ridiculous politically correct 'ban' on climbing Ayers Rock come to be) and vowed never to return.

My mistake? I forgot to cancel SARTIME. When you submit a flight plan (which is not mandatory but a VERY GOOD IDEA, you nominate a time that is at least an hour after your latest possible arrival time. If you don't call in, they activate a period of uncertainty, and eventually start looking for you. Aviation time is always GMT, which is the current time in ENGLAND. My SARTIME was 5pm local, which was 7.30am GMT, on the same day. We had left at 8am (Darwin) which was 10.30pm the previous day (GMT).

Anyway, a terse call to the resort from Adelaide flight services put me on notice. When I asked about the crashed aircraft, the guy said 'yes of course, EVERYONE knows there is a Piper in those hills, that's why we had it painted WHITE'. Like, I am an idiot?

WRAP

Hometime and we punched through scattered cloud and set the auto pilot for Birdsville. Much desert passed under the nose, and I took a couple of power naps while Jess monitored the flight. We refueled, had lunch, and plugged the heading for Bourke into the autopilot.

Out of Bourke the clouds built up, and we got underneath, only to run into a wall of clag near Warren. We landed, got a taxi to a Motel, and the next day flew in the clear to Banksown, via Dubbo.

Hiring a plane you pay only for hours flown, 'on the clock'. You pay around $425 an hour 'wet' (including fuel) in 2014 dollars, and they subtract the hourly fuel at the Sydney cost of fuel. For example, current cost is about $1.80 per litre for fuel within the hourly rate. It gets confusing. This trip was to burn about 2,000 litres and take 29 flying hours. In todays cost that would be $12,325 for the hire, and another $3,000 for fuel excess, or the difference between the 'Sydney' price of fuel, and whatever you pay en-route.

Some of the refuellers had a handy rort going, they would only sell you a 200 litre drum. If you needed 100 litres, you paid for 200 - at the remote rate, which could be double Sydney - and left the rest there.

We were so happy with our trip, we talked my wife into coming on our next one.

Private Pilot Disasters - 1

A License to Learn

This is VH-CIY, a Cessna 172 four seat light aircraft, and in 1989 it was the pride of the fleet at Bathurst Aero Club. This is where I learned to fly, over 81.3 hours across 19 months. I was freshly minted as an unrestricted private pilot in April 1991.

As Chief Instructor Jerry Trevor-Jones shook my hand, he said the immortal words that haunt me today.

'This isn't a license to fly. It's a license to keep on learning'.

The decade that followed shaped my strategic thinking.

June 30 1991 dawned cold and cloudy. I'd risen earlier, and received a weather fax from the call back service. I was flying my family to Queensland to escape the mountain winter, we were packed and excited. Weather would be the only thing stopping me.

Since being licensed I'd done some local flights, and taken the wife and kids to Dubbo zoo for a day, round trip 2.1 hours. To drive would have taken around 6 hours.

I was 44, my wife Caroline was with me, along with Sarah (13) and Jess (4).


MISTAKE ONE

Brimming with confidence I loaded us into the Cessna, having weighed everything and planned where to stash what. I had full fuel, the tanks held 150 litres which clearly took take our weight over limits. That gave me a little over 5 hours safe flying time.

I guess my reasoning was that I had a long runway, cold air which makes for a shorter take off, and safe weather to the west as the cloud cover was reported as thinning out in that direction.

The clouds at Bathurst were 6 octa's, which means 6/8ths overcast. Not a good start, but they were 1,500 feet over the airport, itself at 2,400' elevation. Bathurst is fairly high for an Australian airport.

Planning to fly to Lismore for fuel, the track took me slightly east of Mudgee and the clouds thickened. I was licenced for Visual Flight Rules, which meant I had to be at least 1,000' BELOW cloud, or 2km AWAY from clouds at my level. I could not fly over the top of cloud, unless I could see the ground through the gaps.

I took off over overweight.


MISTAKE TWO

Sure enough, the clouds came down over Coolah. I was compressed between cloud and terrain, and could only turn back. So I punched up through the clouds, as I could see the layer was thin. Once through, I adjusted track north-east, to take us away from the clouds.

Once in stable cruise at about 8,000 feet, I re-planned the route on my charts. This was before the age of GPS. All navigation was visual, with the track drawn in pencil on a chart, and progress measured using time intervals. Landmarks should come under the nose of the plane on time, and if delayed that means a head wind. If we are off track and the landmark is left, then we have a crosswind.

Calculations were done using a 'computer' like this:

Being freshly trained, I was proficient and the flight track and planning was all happening perfectly well. Eventually we arrived at Lismore, having tracked via Gunnedah, Armidale, and Grafton. The cloud was behind us.

We landed after 4.2 hours, one of my longest flight legs. I taxied direct to the toilet block.

According to training, and following flight rules. I should have turned back at Coolah.


MISTAKE THREE

Next leg, after sandwiches and thermos tea, was to Coolangatta, which is in controlled air space. I got clearances and managed to land and vacate the runway in between Qantas and Ansett 737's. My training had taken me through Canberra airport a few times, so this wasn't an issue.

After fuel, we flew a long leg which included Moreton Bay. We were in the light aircraft lane, but near Peel Island a huge black mess of rain sat in our way. I put the nose of the aircraft inside, to 'have a look', and didn't like what I could not see. We looped back and I got clearance from Brisbane Centre to track in towards Wynnum. They vectored me low over the bay, under the Brisbane Airport traffic and away from the weather.

We flew over Bundaberg, and landed at Gladstone for fuel.

At this stage, I planned to stay on Great Keppel Island a few days. Just 80km from Gladstone, I was fueling up for the next leg, either north or west, depending on what we decided after we had had some quality time in the winter sun.

I had the airstrip data for Great Keppel. It was 700m long, which wasn't super great but I could get airborne from that with my load. So I filled the fuel to the lower marker, to give me about 3.5 hours flying time.

Here's the runway, looking from the beach. Note it has quite a slope. On departure several days later, I pondered this. I'd watched the windsocks, showing a reasonable wind from the south whipping down the runway.

I did the calculations based on the forecast wind - 15 knots - and added a fudge factor. I put the published slope data into the calculation too. I should be fine!

I was taking off to the South, into the wind, which is what I was trained to do. But the takeoff roll, up that slope, with a legal full load, was slower than I liked. I had an abort point picked out about 2/3rds up the runway, and hit that point at about 45 knots - well short of the 63 knots I needed. I pressed on, and at the end of the runway pulled up with an immediate stall horn.

I hadn't had that before, I was at a shade under 60 knots but the wind at the crest of the hill was playing tricks. Instinctively I pushed the nose down, and we flew over the top of the hill at about 10' off the deck. Luckily there were no obstacles, and I could disappear off the end of the island and fly level over the rocks and ocean until I had enough speed to climb. Slowly.

I should have taken off with a tail wind, down that hill, at enormous speed.


MISTAKE FOUR

I was freaked out by the first three. We refueled at Emerald, stopped at Long Reach, navigated across the wastelands to Charleville, and refueled there.




The two runways gave me a choice, I took the longer one but again didn't factor the lethargic performance of the Cessna 180 hp engine. We passed over the trees at the end of the runway far too low for comfort.



The weather again closed in as I headed towards the mountain ranges, forcing me to stop for the night at Narrabri, where we took a taxi to a motel for the night. Next day was slightly better, but again clouds hung low over the Warrumbungle Ranges, so I had to go low and track west over the Pilliga forest until I crossed the Coonamble road. Then I followed that to Dubbo.

Clouds sat east, and we had to go east to get home. So I took off and had a look. Over Wellington it was nasty, so I flew back to Dubbo for another night in a motel. The next day was clear enough, and we returned home on July 14th.

I'm not sure how many mistakes were made here, but the choice of runway at Chareville, with the obstruction factor at the end, was the most glaring.


CONCLUSIONS

We made it back, safe and happy. I broke various flight rules, and made various poor airmanship decisions. There was still 14 years of flying ahead of me, and I plainly survived to write this, in 2014.

Thanks for reading!

Suicide hurts the living

Lighting Suicides Continue

Why do good people do the worst thing?

By Julius Grafton

(I published this in 2013, and it resonated with a lot of readers).

Veteran Australian lighting guy Scotty Duhig, otherwise known as Scotty Dot from when he toured with Paul Kelly and the Dots, took his life late in 2013.

The statistical suicide rate for men aged between 55 and 64 in Australia is 19 deaths per 100,000 men. As a percentage this is a number almost too low to measure.

But the suicide rate for men who have worked as professional road crew in the golden era of Australian rock (mid 70’s to end of the 1980’s) is a staggering 5%, according to Ian ‘piggy’ Peel from the Australian Road Crew Association.

Of the 22 known deaths by suicide, out of 80 deaths across 420 crew, most were lighting guys. So why are they predisposed to suicide?

When news of Scotty’s untimely death broke, an outpouring on the Australian Road Crew Association Facebook led to dozens of former crew posting their private mobile numbers online. ‘Call any hour’, was a common message to anyone feeling what some describe as ‘the darkness’.

The question of why this is happening is possibly as simple as what Ian ‘piggy’ Peel from the Australian Road Crew Association describes as adjustment disorder. “He lived the dream, struggled through and he got back and nothing much happened”.

Piggy has spoken up on the issue many times, and characterizes the career of a roadie from the 1970’s or 1980’s as a circus that ends suddenly by the roadside. “The crew sit on the curb, looking for a ride home, while the band move on”.

With Scotty Dot there were stories of depression, working in the mines, a girl in West Australia and then Scotty ‘went to the shed’, and came out in a body bag.

SUICIDE

A counsellor close to this topic told CX that most people telegraph their intentions in some way in the earlier stages.

But most people don’t know how to interpret the signals, which can include depression, negativity and more ominously people start to give their things away.

A sudden sense of calm and happiness after being extremely depressed can mean that the person has made a decision to commit suicide.

“People also don’t know how to react if they suspect someone is suicidal”, the counsellor (who prefers not to be identified) said.

“If someone is overt about the idea of suicide, it should be talked through at the time. Most people who commit suicide don't want to die - they just want to stop hurting.”

Yet not every suicide comes with warning signs, although most do.

LIVES WRECKED

Thirty years ago promising young lighting guy Jeffrey Merryweather was working with Misex. He killed himself in a fit of drug induced despair over a girlfriend who had just appeared with a staple through her stomach as a naked Penthouse Pet.

Jeffrey’s little sister Lisa was 14 years old when he hung himself. Today she is divorced with three sons and works as an office manager. She lives in Tewantin in Queensland.

They were obviously close. “He did the lights for my 10th birthday party, with a smoke machine too. I felt very special. He doted on me, he used to call me Periwinkle. Then he left home at 16 to work with Phil Cullen.”

“Not a day goes by where I do not think of Jeff – ever. I’m f**ked”, she told CX. “Every man I have known has betrayed me in some way and it started with Jeffrey”.

“It’s so bad. It’s such a waste. It destroys everybody that's left behind. I’m destroyed from it. My parents never talk about it.  It broke my family apart, my mum and dad split a few months after. They lied to me about how Jeffrey died. They said he had a heart attack. But found the death certificate.”

“Mum and dad were trying to get him away from (the girl). They pleaded with him to come overseas with us. He refused. Then we tried to get him to come to Fingal Bay for a while but he refused that too.”

“I’ve never had counselling. I’m too scared”.

PUTRID HOLE

Dolly was a singer who worked the rock biz and knows its dark corners. These days she works for the Government in Sydney. Four years ago she moved in with Derek, knowing he suffered Bipolar disorder and thinking her positive influence in his life would make things work.

“I cannot imagine living the two hemispheres of Bi polar disorder from periods of manic to the darkness of depression”, Dolly told CX. “In manic I saw the untouchable confidence, the fantastic highs, irrational behavior, anger, violence, hyperactivity and in Derek’s case it was all rolled up with alcohol abuse. Then came the depression - the crash was like hitting concrete. A spiral down to a dark hole and into a pit of putrid darkness that I could not even imagine.”

Over the period of a year, the alcohol took a greater hold and the medications prescribed to Derek were cut in half, taken every other day or not at all.

“The person you adore changes in front of your eyes”, says Dolly. “He was drinking at least a six pack of beer, bottle of red wine and straight scotch whiskey to complete the self medication. Every night. With this came a fear in the pit of my stomach that I could not articulate. I think you have to live it to understand.”

“There were nights where I would say something completely innocent in the middle of a conversation and he was gone. Literally. Something I did or did not say triggered the response that would take him back down that hole. His eyes would glaze over, he would physically push me away, sometimes shove me to the ground and become completely unreachable. He would then put the ear pieces of his ipod in, pour another scotch and shut me out completely.”

“It was on one of these nights that I left him downstairs and went to bed. Hoping as I did every night that he would drink one last scotch and pass out. I didn’t sleep much these days.”

“I got up the next morning and looked at him sleeping on the couch in the living room and found to my relief that he had indeed passed out. Upon nearing the couch my relief turned to disbelief and horror. Sitting on the coffee table was a thick piece of rope about 10ft long and a plastic bag. I could only draw one conclusion and it was unimaginable.”

“I shook him awake in tears, my anger starting to overtake the fear. “What is this”? I asked fumbling through my tears. The answer was cutting. “I felt like I had no other option last night”.

Dolly did not call the police, the doctor or a psychiatrist.

“I did not know that I could. Over the next few days I tried to get him to go back to the doctor. I suggested a mental health plan where we would surround him with the right people, like psychologist, psychiatrist, try yoga, Pilates, meditation, get him back on medication. But nothing changed.”

“I became hyper vigilant. I slept with one eye open for two years. I was exhausted. Helplessness is watching someone you love suffer right in front of you and there is f**k all you can do about it. All the love in the world will only go so far. Watching them disintegrate into a monster takes its toll on you too. You live your life in unpredictability and fear. This does not happen overnight. You wake up one morning and discover that the person you were is now a pathetic excuse for the strong, happy, resilient and balanced person you used to be. It eats at you slowly, insidiously, and the pain and heartbreak become normal.”

“Eventually I found the strength to run. It was in the middle of the night and it took every ounce of courage I had to go. The guilt was immeasurable but the instinct to survive was stronger. I was leaving behind a potential suicide but I could do no more. I made the decision that I will go no further into that putrid dark hole.”

Several years on, Dolly feels she has confronted and dealt with her disaster.

AT THE STREET

George* is close to CX and toured with some of the guys who’s suicides inspired this story. His ex wife Amanda had all the signs, and despite people around knowing the problem, the attempt on her life was made.

This is his story, freshly told since it happened in 2013.

“I was at my new home a year after splitting with her. We had sorted everything except our co-owned house, where she stayed on. Amanda had a failed relationship after me; and he dicked her around financially and emotionally. It was in the end of winter and it was cold in that house.”

“She was in an impossible place – financially rorted by him; and then strung out by his exit and his protracted lazy departure where we would come and take a few things, and leave open the next appointment. So his stuff was lingering while she was hitting the bottle and crying all night.”

Work became hard, she wasn’t eating and lost weight. The kids (aged 12 and 16) were worried. George got a text message at 2am one weekday saying she needed him to drive across town and take the kids to school that morning. He dashed over and roused her, she’d taken six Valium and a raft of pain killers on top of a lot of booze.

“I spoke to a counsellor who had experience with suicide”, he told CX. “I followed his advice – I confronted her and asked whether she intended to take her life. She said no. I asked her to promise me she would not do it again. She promised.”

Three nights later she texted and seemed irrational. It was school holidays and she was home alone with the kids. George suggested they all go boating in a few days and un-usually she agreed. He was delighted he’d found some hope for her and that she had something to look forward to.

But several hours later she sent the goodbye text to George and her ex husband John who had the kids with him. It was clearly a suicide note. They all raced to the house after calling emergency services, to find six coppers and an ambulance in attendance with gawping neighbours. The Police had kicked in the door, the dogs were going off, but they held the family at the street for an agonising twenty minutes before wheeling a semi conscious Amanda out to the ambulance.

Her frantic parents followed the ambulance to the hospital leaving George, her other ex husband John and his kids – George’s step kids – to collect their sanity while inspecting the house for clues about what she had done. “I fell to the kitchen floor in tears”, George said. “I’d been the strong guy right through everything with her, and the kids had never seen me cry, let alone wailing on the floor.”

At the hospital they admitted her, and next day she was ringing George and John, demanding someone come and check her out. She hadn’t yet been assessed by a psychiatrist and when he did the rounds, he scheduled her. Later they let her call George and it was a very unhappy sedated Amanda on the line.

“You’ve caused me to be locked up. This is like a jail”, she said of the mental unit at the public hospital. “They won’t talk to me. The bed is hard. No one will tell me anything. You have to get me out. If you don’t I’ll never talk to you again.”

Two days later she was released into the care of her parents and promptly moved back home alone, against all advice. The kids spent two weeks away with their Nanna and cousins, but were not referred to a child psychologist. The damage to them is unknown. George had to withdraw totally from the situation, and John bore the weight of her calls and despair.

Amanda sailed close to the edge for weeks, drinking and sending hundreds of text messages through the night.

It took many worrying weeks until the darkness had passed, yet those close will now always worry. Suicide and its attempts gravely hurts the living.

“It is the ultimate selfish act”, says George. “Everyone around the person has their lives affected.”

*Names changed to protect Amanda’s privacy as she rebuilds her life. Derek’s name changed, no one knows what happened to him.

RESOURCES:

Lifeline 13 11 14

http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_prevention.htm

https://www.facebook.com/groups/EoAROADCREW/

http://www.australianroadcrew.com/

Man diagnosed with prostate cancer. What then?

I'm 56 and I wrote in January 2014 of my amazing recovery after having my prostate removed on January 12th. But a dear friend just asked me, 'what did you think when you were diagnosed?'

This is what Zoe wrote:

"When you were first diagnosed I came across a few blogs for men post prostate surgery – they were really heart rending in some cases. Men feeling like there was no point to their existence, even committing suicide. I feel (without much proof,possibly) that instead of being incredibly empathetic and understanding and doing everything they can for the psychological and physical well being of their patients the predominantly male doctors just focus on removing the cancer and wander off thinking the patient should be grateful for being given back his life without cancer".

(I'm on the right, obviously, with one of my 'brains trust', youngish Jason Allen. Pic on Feb 18 on our CX Roadshow tour)

So here's what happened.

First there was the rush to diagnosis. My lovely GP is Pam Goodwin, a den-mother kind of doc who doesn't muck about. She strongly recommended Manish Patel, he got down to business by establishing I understand the mechanics of the condition. We scheduled a biopsy, to be done under a general anesthetic. It came and went, I went back for the results a few days later.

'Sorry, you have cancer', he said. We discussed the options - there was only one in my case, removal and as soon as possible. He referred me to Sean Mungovan, a physiotherapist who was to manage my post operative incontinence. There was a blizzard of things to do, and as I left his room I found myself in a very strange state. I was confused, overwhelmed. His secretary looked up, and asked me what I needed to do. I actually couldn't talk properly.

She understood, and helped me with the bone scan appointment, the hospital appointment, the physio appointment, and a mountain of forms and reading material, including a DVD on robotic surgery.

When I walked out, I slumped onto a bench seat and looked at the western afternoon sky.

I texted the girl I was going out with, and she called straight back. God bless her. She encouraged me, asking what I knew, and hearing my fears.

They were that I would die, that I would be incontinent, and that I would no longer either get a boner (erection) or ejaculate. Unspoken was that she would pack up and bail out.

Talking to her helped. I withheld everything from my adult daughter, as I needed to get the bone scan out of the way. I emailed my closest colleagues and friends, and got love in reply. My girl friend came over and helped me get drunk.

My visit to  Sean Mungovan, the physiotherapis, was fairly brutal as his method is to freak you out with a big bag of sanitary pads and a stern warning to do everything he says. If I didn't do all the pelvic floor exercises and walk 10,000 paces a day, the inference is my post operative world would be awash with urine. He did an ultrasound and showed me how my pelvic floor contraction was not yet sufficient.

I believed him, and I did everything he said. Don't get me wrong, he was nice about it, and had his methods.

Several days later I had my bone scan, and decided that if the cancer had escaped from my prostate then I would just die in style. I didn't want to go like my friends Ian and Ross who had radiation and chemo and died horribly anyway. I would die in a manner that ensured my life insurance would pay out, so my daughter and her family would live in comfort on my legacy.

Once the bone scan came back negative, I knew removal would or should end the nightmare.

I went into Christmas almost OK, but when my daughter and her husband and my grand kids left later on Christmas day after I cooked lunch, I felt terribly alone. That was a slump.

I'm tremendously emotionally resilient, according to Mel my psychologist.

So to answer Zoe, no I wasn't emotionally supported or counseled by the prostate removal gang. Yes I was very carefully looked after, but no one asked how I was feeling.

How do I feel since? First of all, yoyfully once the operation was done, a few days later the catheter was removed. Dr. Patel's nurse Marnie said the immortal words: 'everyone is incontinent from this moment on'. But she was wrong. (See my story) I'm the odd one out, without a shred of incontience.

I've had moments. I can get half a boner, which is encouraging. I have had an amazing 'dry orgasm' just the other day which was both intense and a big happy surprise.

I do miss ejaculation. It was to me an intensely primitive male moment, putting my 'seed' or mark into a woman. It elevated me, made me feel like a real man.

I worried about my girl and whether she'd persist with me in my less enabled state. I paid a lot of attention to her needs and her satisfaction, but it wasn't the same without the breathless excitement and the full function of a glorious erection.

She - adorable supportive girl - did indeed depart a few weeks after the op, and I completely understood. My thinking is that we had a variety of things going on BUT the sexual issue was just that - prior to my operation, I was at a certain level of performance, and post I was different. I wouldn't for a minute think she seized on that at all - she is far too nice a soul. Hence I feel that when (and I will) I enter a new relationship, it is on the basis that everything forward from now is an evolution and an improvement on what is. So good vibes all around, OK?

Likely the boner will return, although the word is that it can take a year or more.

Now it is six weeks post-op, I do not have cancer nor will I get this form of cancer ever. So I am relieved. My general state of joy and happiness is as good as usual. Next week I resume Pilates, and will step up towards my pre-op level of fitness. Plus I'll do some extra swimming and fix my pushbike.

My only fear is that I'll remain alone, in which case I need to get a dog.

FOOTNOTE: I recovered. See my BLOG here.

Not safe in Balmain. Exchange Hotel bouncer bashes mature patron

Keith Stallard is a friendly, sociable and generally sober guy who likes to organise social groups in Balmain (inner city Sydney, Australia). Keith works on improving third world water sanitation, and is the last guy you'd expect to end up in a pub assault. Yet that is what happened, around 8pm on Friday 24th January 2014 at the trendy Exchange Hotel in Beattie street Balmain.

Keith alleges he was assaulted by a bouncer, after being told to move out of a 'closed area' as he talked on his mobile phone.

"I was taking a telephone call from my boss in France and discussing how to improve water supplies and sanitation in Liberia and Indonesia when the hotel manager asked me to leave the part of the pub I was in because it was closed. I was there because it was the only part of the building where I could hear my caller. I said I would leave within 5 minutes when I had finished the call. A few minutes later, I had a similar discussion with the bouncer whilst still on the call. I promised to stand within 1m of the open door to the ‘closed’ section where they could see me."

But it all went horrifyingly bad.

"Suddenly, I was thrust against a wall or a door - I cannot remember - smashing the wine glass in my right hand, cutting my hand, pouring wine all over myself, hand and injuring my knee."

Keith called the Police, but as there were no witnesses and the CCTV didn't cover the incident, charges were not laid.

The attitude of the manager rankled with Keith. "Rather than apologize, the hotel manager defended this inappropriate use of violence by saying that he had known the bouncer for several years and he had never done anything like that before."

There are 21 hotels within 3km. Clearly the Exchange Hotel is not a safe destination while managers and bouncers such as these remain unchecked.

Last Friday I faced death

FRIDAY 17 JANUARY 2014

I’m going to share an absolute screaming miracle here. Last Friday I went into surgery to remove my Prostate gland. I had an aggressive cancer that was intent on killing me. I didn't want anyone other than direct supporters to know yet, in case it all went bad.

One week later I've just got home from lunch with my step sons and their dad. Today I've worked, done domestic duties, driven the car, and had all the usual body functions except one that is best described as the Male Fun Function (MFF). Shortly I'm headed for happy hour at the local. 

My surgeon just called to say the pathology shows ALL the cancer was inside what he took - nothing has escaped. It's over.

I'm CURED. I'm FREE!

My turbo charged recovery is one thing. The whole back story is another.

In October I met the girl of my dreams after a rugged and horrible year of divorce and mayhem. She has been, and is pivotal to my recovery. 

A few close to me know how extreme things in my life were in 2013, often out of my hands, and enough to make a man drink even more. If you pretty well imagine it, I've probably had it happen. I bumbled my way through.

In December (a month before I write this) I was diagnosed with aggressive Prostate cancer. We only just caught it. Then on January 10, 2014 I had the offensive organ removed using Da Vinci robotic surgery. They make six keyhole incisions. I will never need that thing again.

That same operation day I walked up-stairs in hospital. One week ago. The physio put a giant TICK on my chart and I didn’t see her again.

I was released within 48 hours. The pain was only Panadol threshold! Just six days after the operation I was unwired from the post-op hardware and I am NOT incontinent. Far from it - all the mental prep work the physios have done is wasted, as I am operating entirely normally!

I hope and expect to regain great erectile function fairly quickly too given my profile. Not boasting, just sayin..... these two are the sleeping bogies of Prostate Cancer, but they don’t NEED to be!

A year of Pilates really helped. Please do consider this form of exercise; with its focus on core and pelvic contraction. Most men thing it is girly, but once I started, I fast got back to how I felt as a young man! Many guys tell me it cures aches, pains and sore backs too.

I went to work on day 5 (after the op) for a few hours. On day 6, I did my usual journalistic work from my kitchen table as usual. And I’ve been down to the pub every day for a beer or three as well. No more daytime sleeps. 

I feel ready to rumble.

So this blog is to rejoice, to help you to thank whatever faith you worship (or not), and to salute the beautiful people in your life who stand beside you. Oh, and make sure if you are aged 40 or over that you talk to your doctor every year about proactive health measures. And younger? Talk to your doc about other things, boys ‘cos we are all here for a fun time not a long time!

Please share this with other men, of all ages. It isn’t all-bad. Is it?

(Gory Details. Footnote)

This is ALL because the Cancer was detected and did not traverse outside the Prostate gland. And because I elected to treat it FAST. 

I get checked every year in November. I go to my GP and request a long consultation, and a full medical. She weighs me, checks reflexes, height, spatial reaction, and orders a blood sample. She does a DRE. Look it up, I quite enjoy it! She and I laugh a lot.

I take home a bowel scan kit and send off the two easy swabs with a small payment. I fast one morning, give blood, piss in a jar. I do this every year since I turned 40. (I am now 56).

The November blood results came in with a PSA of 4.2 so we repeated it after 6 weeks and it measured 4.4 (normal is less than 1).

THEN I went STRAIGHT to a Urology specialist – Manish Patel in Sydney, highly recommended – and he suggested I pay for an MRI scan. Then a Biopsy (under a general, do not attempt this while awake) and a Bone Scan to make sure nothing had escaped into my system. Don't mess around. If you don't have the cash, pay for it and then apply to your super fund for a medical release of your money.

I had a bunch of physio sessions before the operation to prepare the pelvic floor – listen to EVERY word they say.

Because the cancer was inside the gland, Professor Patel could filet around, and 'preserve' the layer of erectile nerves. He told me they were 'invigorated' and 'active'.

I had the robotic removal in a private hospital. Don't wait for the public system to schedule you with a specialist down the track that does the old fashioned full operation - you'll be munted.

I got this monster (Gleeson 7, Stage 2) just BEFORE it went berserk. It came on FAST, within 12 months of my previous clear PSA and DRE.

Be careful men!

Julius at Falls Festival

Marion Bay is a quiet section of coast just north of the Hobart waters in Tasmania. Less than an hour from the capital, it has a secondary road leading in, and a well planned annual music festival, The Falls Festival.

The dirt road leads down a hill with the bay view spreading ahead. Mid afternoon on day one I’ve beaten most of the traffic, and drive right up to the welcome gate. Volunteers brace against a whipping gale and hand me two plastic bags – black for rubbish, clear for recycling.

I’m here following a directive from the editorial committee who thought it would be funny (for them) and enlightening (for our readers) to have a punter’s perspective from a punter who would not normally attend a gig like this. Looking at the short traffic jam of backpacker campers and cheap cars crammed with what look like children with beards, I feel the committee choose well.

Cars are searched. They are looking for booze and gas bottles, possession of either will result in you losing your ticket, the numerous signs warn. I possess neither so I am free to enter.

Now I am at the Gimmee Shelter chalet, a plywood erection with a cool dude inside. Literally chilled, the gale has peaked at about 400 on the Beufort scale by now. He profers the contract, which requires my name, address and phone number presumably so I can be hunted down if I steal the tent.

Tent # 104 is mine, thankfully free of a shared guest since these are twin share and had there been a lucky solo punter in the queue with me, we would have been consigned together. To share, and discover each over, yelling over the blustering of tent flaps and twanging of guy wires.

Duly established I tour my new world. Attempts at counter cultural vibe are everywhere, little woollen spider webs and painted logs poked in the ground. I do an outer lap, keen to inspect the facilities that will matter to me the most – the bar arrangements, and the other end of that process, the toilets. Both are in abundance.

Drinking is a serious business at Falls. First you need tokens – these come in $5 and $2 denominations (not refundable) and are, we are warned, water soluble. At least they warned us.

At a bar you dish up the tokens. This is presumably a clever form of tax on the drink concession, who can’t take actual money and who presumably redeem mountains of tokens for actual money, minus the Falls commission, later on.

Food concessions take money – lots of money. As I walk amongst the youth, marvelling at the lack of anyone remotely as old as I, the thinking turns to just how much money these kids have. At $7 for a beer, and $12 for a burger or $4 for chips, it’s going to be a long three days.

There are some terrific hippy vibed shops, and a too cool chilled beats coffee and pizza place with a DJ and decor that resonates with 18 year olds. I glance at the DJ, feeling empathy for his empty existence, standing there grooving away at his chill beats, chill wind whipping up his chilled shorts, blowing his neat festy dreads around like little whips. Ignored, as I am.

Absolutely no one says hello to a 56 year old, and I am starting to feel like a grizzled Toolie at Schoolies. It’s an all age gig, so the arm band tells who can and can’t buy booze. Unlike the walled confines of a club, it is hard to imagine how or if underage drinking is policed.

I see a sum total of two police, and the security is present but respectfully restrained. I like that. There are a couple of gruff encounters, but I’m used to that since my demeanour hovers between homeless grifter and absent minded pensioner. At least it does in this crowd.

There are three venue areas. The Main Arena contains the Valley Stage, which is a permanent construction sitting down the slope towards the Bay itself, framed behind. There would not be a prettier stage outside of Sydney Harbour.

You need to show your wrist band to enter this precinct, which has bars and concessions and toilets and probably would easily contain eight thousand people at once.

Leaving the secure area, you are in open country with concessions, camping areas, toilets and the disappointingly closed on day one Village. This appears interesting, yet remains unexplored.

The Field Arena is working on day one, with a low key and surprisingly quietly mixed slab of acts I’ve never heard of, like The Correspondents and Mountain Mocha. But the kids are happy. A surprising number of them are wearing onesies. I regret leaving mine in Sydney. It is flipping cold, but the wind abates at sunset.

I walked to the beach – easily a one hour return hike across the tundra, vegetation grimly clinging to the earth as I walk doubled against the arctic gale. A bridge over a creek has a sad lonely lifeguard in attendance, to deter anyone from drowning there. The beach has a troop of lifeguards, huddled in a sand whipped cluster. A dozen hipsters and one child wander the sand like extras from The Walking Dead.

Sleeping in a two man tent erected on a knobbly grassy slope is very hard work, even for an easy sleeper fuelled by Tasmanian beer and many little plastic goblets of excellent Pinot Gris ($9).

I stagger out at first light and hit one of just six hot showers ($2 for 2 minutes). It is gratifyingly gratifying. Just prior I closely inspected the toilet – a long drop arrangement that is infinitely more appealing than those porta loo things. A men’s urinal alongside is a tin walled area with guttering into which you urinate. I marvel at the considerable genetic advantage one has being male.

With no early opener in sight, I decide to pull up stumps and head for Mona in Hobart instead. I’ve experienced the life, heard the beats, endured the cold (it is 8 degrees this morning) and fulfilled my brief.

Next time, I’m going to force some of those glib young editorial types into something more Julius, like a Boz Scaggs concert. That’ll teach them.....