Flying often put us in unusual circumstances and gave us the chance to do some remarkable things.

One day we were activated to the Bay Bridge, which links San Francisco to Oakland. A CHP officer, having just returned from maternity leave, stopped to help the driver of a stalled vehicle on the bridge. While she was standing between the stalled car and her cruiser, the latter was rear-ended by another motorist, pinning her between the cars and fracturing both femurs and her pelvis. An off-duty paramedic supervisor happened on scene and CALSTAR was summoned to transport her to John Muir. The CHP had to close down traffic to allow us to land, and as we were circling, we had the rare opportunity to see the Bay Bridge—usually packed with cars twenty-four hours a day—completely empty. The only other time I saw the bridge devoid of traffic was after the Loma Prieta earthquake of 1989. It’s a very strange sight.

It’s just as odd to land on an eight-lane freeway to pick up an MVA, and to walk around on a stretch of road that is usually filled with cars whizzing past at seventy miles per hour. That happened fairly frequently when there was a freeway accident and no safe landing zone nearby. The CHP would stop the traffic several hundred feet away from the landing zone, leaving a long line of annoyed motorists. Although we always tried to keep our scene times less than five minutes from skids down to skids up, we hustled a little extra on those calls to help get the traffic moving again.

Another particularly unusual call came on a hot summer day on Mount Diablo, where a man was climbing a formation known as Castle Rock. Our patient had apparently been climbing freehand, with no safety ropes. About halfway up the rock, he lost his grip and tumbled a hundred feet down the face, fracturing his back and both ankles. Because of the remote and inaccessible location, we were first on scene, landing at the top of the rock. We could see him sprawled on the rocks below, surrounded by his climbing companions. Hoisting the trauma bag and packaging gear, we gingerly climbed and slid down to his location. Actually, I bounced down the final ten feet, still clutching the bag and ripping out the seat of my flight suit.

Our patient was awake and writhing in pain. We knew there was no way to haul him back up the way we came without rappelling gear. So we began to cast about for other ways of getting this man off the cliff face as we stabilized and packaged him. The hot sun was radiating off the rocks, and I began to worry about heat stroke—both in the patient and ourselves.

At that point, a winded and red-faced ranger appeared from below as we were placing our patient on the backboard and strapping him in. “You guys aren’t going to get him down the way I came,” he panted as he reached us. “It’s a sheer drop down. We considered our predicament for a few minutes, and then the ranger came up with a plan. “I guess we need to call the Coast Guard helicopter. They have hoisting capabilities.”

As it turned out, the Coast Guard was nearby conducting training exercises, and they arrived overhead within ten minutes. It was their massive Sikorsky, and we could hear it approaching from miles away. As this enormous beast hovered overhead, the downwash from its five huge rotor blades was staggering, pushing us to our knees as we covered the patient’s face as best we could. The hoist swung out, and the rescue medic was lowered down with a wire Stokes basket, his Neoprene wet suit looking a bit out of place in the hundred-degree heat. As he came down, we helped him unstrap the Stokes, which would be used to transport the patient.

“Unhook that line!” he bellowed, pointing to the extra safety line attached to the hoist. I scrambled over, buffeted by the rotor wash, and unhooked the line. “What happened?” he yelled in my ear.

“He fell about a hundred feet off the rock face, landing on his feet, then his back,” I screamed back. His blood pressure is OK, but he’s got bad skin signs and he’s in a lot of pain.”

“OK, let’s get him into the Stokes and secured.” Together we lifted the backboard and strapped him into the basket. Securing the hoist line and double-checking it, the medic gave an OK sign to the man peering out of the helicopter above us. Slowly our patient began his ascent, sometimes swinging around in a circle. I could only imagine what he must have been thinking.

The medic turned to my partner and me. “Which one of you is the primary nurse?”

“I am,” I said. “Why?”

The medic looked up and made another motion to the man in the helicopter. A device that looked like a horse collar appeared at the door and was lowered down to us. “OK,” he yelled. “Just put your arms through here and cross them. Remember to keep your arms crossed on the way up, or you’ll fall out.”

I was stunned. Did this guy think I was actually going to allow myself to get hoisted a hundred feet into thin air, hanging onto that flimsy contraption? Was he nuts? But it was too late. He was already pulling the collar over my head, and the next thing I knew my feet were dangling off the ground. I was pulled up at what seemed like a very rapid rate, leaving me dangling over the sharp rocks below. “Don’t look down, don’t look down,” I whispered to myself, shutting my eyes tightly and gripping the collar for dear life.

The hoist stopped abruptly, and as I opened my eyes, I was just below the hovering helicopter. The winds were whipping me from side to side. “Oh my God, the hoist is stuck,” I thought. “And if my arms come uncrossed I will die.” A moment of panic ensued, and I took several deep breaths to pull myself together. Then the hoist started moving again slowly, and soon my head was level with the open helicopter door. Two men grabbed my shoulders and hauled me in, explaining that the short stop was to change gears to slow the hoisting mechanism. I felt like a fish being hauled onto a pier, but was deeply grateful to be on a firm surface. They placed a headset on me, and the pilot asked me where we were going.

I was still pretty rattled, but managed to key up the mike. “Uh, to John Muir. It’s that hospital over to your right about ten miles.” I was secured in my seat next to the patient as the helicopter veered away from the mountain and headed off. Because of the speed of the Coast Guard aircraft, our flight time was only about three minutes, which gave me only enough time to start an IV and grab a blood pressure, no easy feat because my hands were still shaking badly. Our dispatch had called ahead to let John Muir know we were coming, and they knew that we were bringing a rock climber who had fallen. As we brought him into the trauma room and I gave report, I sank down in a chair and muttered to myself, “Never, never again.”

Just when you thought you had it all figured out, this job found new and creative ways to embarrass you.

We had been asked to land at the scene of a shooting in Richmond and were given the cross streets of a park in the midst of a residential neighborhood. As we approached the area, the fire department called us on the radio.

“CALSTAR, you are directly overhead. We are in a park with no obstructions except some power lines to the north. The wind is negligible. The scene is secure.” We looked down. Sure enough, there was a park, with two fire trucks nearby. This must be the place, I thought, though I was a bit puzzled by the structure across the street that was smoking; we had been called for a gunshot wound. Well, maybe he was a burn that got shot or something. The initial information we received was often wildly inaccurate, so this was nothing new.

There were bystanders milling about below, but the green expanse of lawn was clear. Well, OK. We were going to make a lot of wind, but these guys had worked with us a million times before, so they knew that. I was just hoping our downwash wouldn’t stir up what appeared to be a still-smoldering fire below.

Carl, our pilot, spoke as we were circling the scene. His thoughts seemed to mirror mine. “I thought this was a gunshot wound. Oh well, nobody ever tells us anything. OK, I see the grassy area, and the wires on the north side. I don’t see any other obstructions. Sure seems like an awful lot of people down there, though. After we land, get a few more firefighters or cops over here for aircraft security. Anybody see anything else?” We both murmured no, and Carl radioed to the ground. “Engine 52, this is CALSTAR. We have no obstructions. There seems to be a lot of people down there, so we’ll need increased security. We’re turning final.”

“Copy that. We’re ready for you,” was the response. As we turned final, things started feeling very strange. The firefighters below were just standing there, staring at us, rather than hustling the crowd back. I looked for an ambulance, but saw none. Instead, there was a Red Cross disaster vehicle, the kind that hands out cookies and punch during a disaster. “That’s funny,” I thought. “I didn’t know the Red Cross could do medical care unless there was a major disaster.” My train of thought continued. “If the Red Cross is doing medical care, the medics must be really busy. But busy doing what?” The next thought came flooding in. “Oh, no. This must mean they’re only doing first aid, with no advance life support. The patient probably isn’t even packaged.”

I was watching out the left window of the helicopter and saw a policeman trying to push a man in a wheelchair out of what was to be our LZ. We noticed bright yellow police tape everywhere. The fire department knew better than that—they knew we would blow that stuff away, and it could even get stuck in our rotor blades. It wouldn’t hurt anything, but it would make a hell of a racket. We were just ten feet above the ground when Carl announced over the intercom, “You know, this just doesn’t feel right. I’m aborting the landing. Too many people, and the LZ isn’t secure.” With that, he pulled up the collective and we veered off, back into the sky.

Just then, Engine 52 came back up on the radio. “Uh, CALSTAR, this is engine 52. We think you’re at the wrong scene. We’re a block north.” Do you think you could have told us that before we nearly landed on some poor man in a wheelchair?

We scooted up one block, and sure enough, there they were. After I got out of the helicopter, all the firefighters looked pretty sheepish. “Sorry about that,” one of them said. “We thought you guys could read the street signs and knew this was where we wanted you.”

Yeah. And we have X-ray vision, too.

Whether it’s landing on the Bay Bridge or dangling precariously from a Coast Guard behemoth, flight nursing can certainly be dramatic and impressive to witness. That’s why the CALSTAR helicopter was always a big attraction when we did demonstrations at community events. However, there were a few occasions when our attempts at high drama ended up closer to slapstick.

One was a fire awareness day in Contra Costa County. The residents of Orinda had gathered to see a display of the finest fire and EMS equipment their tax money could buy. The local fire department had brought out all its impressive apparatus: huge trucks, bright red and glistening in the sun. The entire battalion appeared in their uniforms, turnouts and helmets. The California Highway Patrol had brought its newest and shiniest vehicles, complete with all the latest gadgets. An ambulance crew was in attendance showing off their medical stuff, too. Clowns roamed the grounds, handing out balloons urging kids to just say no to drugs and gangs. A huge barbecue pit cranked out hot dogs and hamburgers. And at 1:30, CALSTAR was flying in to show off the state-of-the-art medical care available to the people in their time of need. They would all sleep soundly that night.

It was a sweltering day, and we were careful to keep hydrated. That day we had grabbed three Cokes as we ran out of quarters en route to the fair.

The crowd was standing anxiously, staring at the sky, as we popped over the ridge. The fire department had rigged an air-to-ground radio to the public address system, so everyone could hear our radio traffic. Firemen roamed the grounds checking their portable radios frequently as we approached. The landing zone had been carefully prepped ensuring no debris would be flung skyward with the winds generated as we landed. When we buzzed the LZ, reconning to ensure safety, mothers with small children headed into the building for safety. On short final, the noise and wind made created a dramatic backdrop heralding our arrival. Gently we settled onto the ground, all eyes on our grand spectacle.

After we shut down, the quiet was deafening. The doors on the helicopter opened simultaneously with a flourish. At that moment, three Coke cans rolled out and hit the ground with a decidedly undramatic tink, tink, tink. So much for instilling a sense of awe.

One of the more frightening community events for CALSTAR was the Boy Scout Jamboree. Every year the dreaded memo arrived, followed by frantic phone calls by the scheduled flight crew, who begged for somebody, anybody, to take the loathsome shift. Sometimes we could scam it off on the newbies, but they learned fast. Nobody volunteered two years in a row.

Why did everyone dread this particular event? Imagine, if you will, five hundred prepubescent boys, wired on Twinkies, rushing the helicopter. Their first target, invariably, was the antennas. We had a total of five external antennas mounted on the underside of the tailboom and belly, all of which were unbelievably expensive, fragile, and absolutely indispensable to the safe operation of the helicopter. One good grab and the antenna would snap off, leaving us out of service until it could be repaired. After they finished with the antennas, the Boy Scouts wanted in—in the helicopter, that is. They have some sort of internal radar that allows them to home in on, and then break, the most important and expensive equipment first.

On my last trip to the Boy Scout Jamboree, Carrie and I thought we had our bases covered. We had spoken with the troop leaders and laid down the rules: No running around the helicopter. No one inside the helicopter. We would post someone on either side of the tail rotor and one guard at each door to prevent small units from sneaking into the aircraft and causing havoc. Satisfied, we lifted off toward the fairground.

As we circled overhead, we were filled with a sense of foreboding. The ground below was teeming with kids, who looked like small ants swarming over the large field. They were everywhere. Tim regarded the landing zone with a sober eye. “Looks like a couple hundred of ’em. Soon as we get down, I want you to clear out. Take up your stations; I’ll shut down as soon as possible. If they rush the helicopter, we’ll have to clear out of there fast. Any questions?” We shook our heads, feeling as if we were landing in Vietnam.

When we began the landing, there was a brief bulge in the lines as the kids tried to surge forward. The Scout leaders, battling bravely, held them back. As soon as the skids hit the ground, Tim gave us a curt nod. “You’re cleared out,” he said grimly. We popped out, ready for combat, with our headsets still plugged in to the mothership.

The lines held, right up to the moment the rotors stopped turning. Despite the troop leaders’ gallant efforts, the kids broke free. For a brief, horrible moment, I was frozen to the spot. Carrie, however, rose to the occasion. “Stop now!” she yelled. “I mean it! Nobody is coming any closer until everybody slows down.” The kids slowed momentarily to a fast walk.

Two hours later, we realized we had lost. Kids continued to swarm over the helicopter like a plague of locusts. I had to do something. Anything. I tiptoed over to the telephone, dialed our group pager number and entered a nonsensical code. I then quickly ran back to the helicopter. “We’ve got a call!” I yelled. “Everybody back! Everybody back to the bleachers! Now! This may be a life or death situation!” Carrie and Tim looked at me as if I had finally gone over the edge. Then they looked at their pagers. “Why didn’t they just call us on the portables?” Tim started to say, then finally caught on. “That’s right! We must take off immediately! This is an actual real-life emergency call!” Sullenly, the Boy Scouts backed away. We lifted off in a cloud of dust, leaving our tormentors behind.

I’m told that CALSTAR still makes an annual appearance at the Boy Scout Jamboree. That’s one part of the job I surely will never miss.