I Never Liked Those C-130's Anyway...

Media

Publisher: Trafford Publishing Author Rep: Sydney Richardson
Suite #6 email – sydney@trafford.com
2333 Government St. sales – email – sales@trafford.com
Victoria, BC
V8T4P4, Canada
Toll free 866 638 6884
250 383 6884 – Office
250 383 6814 – Fax

Genre: Autobiography / Memoir

Title: “ I Never Liked Those C-130’s Anyway…”

Author(‘s): Malcolm Smith & J. Wilfred Cahill

Description: Humorous view of one Coast Guard aviators rise from ordinary swabby to legendary search and rescue helicopter pilot. Humor abounds through twenty years of escapades.

ISBN#: 1-4120-0407-1

Price: $21.95 -retail
$24.95 autographed copy from author(‘s)

Distributors/Wholesalers: Baker & Taylor

J. Wilfred Cahill
Born Winooski, VT. 1949 and raised in Hicksville NY., Buffalo, NY., Salt Lake City, St. Paul, and graduated high school in Bel Air, MD and attended the College of St. Scholastica.
Since 1985 he and his bride of 27 years, Bonita, have owned and operated a successful real estate and property management firm in Aspen. He is the proud father of an only daughter, Ashe. And since meeting Malcolm Smith in 1992 has become the de facto Colorado Fly Fishing Guide for the Coast Guard retiree’s. He splits his time between Carbondale, where he operates his business and Olathe, Colorado, where he writes, woodworks and fishes..

Malcolm R. Smith

Born San Diego, CA. 1940. He joined the Coast Guard in 1957 on a dare under the “ Buddy system” with his lifelong friend Larry Williams. “It was the best mistake I ever made”, he said. During his career he was awarded; Air Medal, (2), Coast Guard Commendation Medal, (2 w/”O”), Coast Guard Unit Commendation (2), Coast Guard Meritorious Unit Commendation Ribbon, (2), Coast Guard Good Conduct Medal (2), and the National Defense Service Medal.
After retirement in October 1977 he has owned an art gallery and commercial real estate firm. He currently lives outside of Aspen, CO. with his wife Diane and enjoys all outdoor activities. He is the proud father of three daughters: Kelly, Holly and Wendy and two grandchildren.

Blurbs

Rotary Cowboy
     During my second summer in Kodiak, as an AT2, I was assigned a rather unique job – rounding up elk for the Alaska Division of Fish and Wildlife. Sure, I could do that. I was young and dumb and full of “Semper Par”
     Some years earlier a small herd of Roosevelt Elk had been transplanted on Afognak Island just north of Kodiak. The herd had prospered and done so well that the Division of Wildlife wanted to cull some yearling calves out for transplant to another location in the state. Roosevelt Elk were all but decimated during the early 1900’s and this seemed like a good opportunity to re-establish them to their former numbers.
     Because the elk to be culled and transplanted were yearlings, the DOW was reluctant to dart them with tranquilizer; for fear of damaging or even killing the animals. So rather than risk the animals health and life with drugs, we did it the old fashioned way. We ran them down with a helicopter, a small Bell H-13 with plexi glass bubble and skids.

Indignitaries
     By this time I was a competent experienced pilot and trusted enough by the brass to accomplish a task without giving cause for worry. Ha! Due to my tenure I became the special pilot for visiting dignitaries and VIP’s, whether military or civilian. With that assignment usually went the double duty of fishing guide.
One such time, I was assigned as pilot to the Secretary of the Interior…...
    The Secretary was enjoying himself immensely. I had him in the co-pilot’s seat, so that he could have the best view. Around his neck hung a huge Nikon camera in a flashy leather case with a couple of extra lenses hanging on the strap. He appeared to be a serious photographer and I thought he might like to take some pictures.
    I flew up the length of Larson Bay on a vector for the Karluk. As I approached the western coast of the bay a scene unfolded before us that I had never witnessed in all my time flying, hunting and fishing in the Alaskan wilderness.
On the steep grass covered and treeless slope straight out the H-52 Sykorski’s windshield, a mother Kodiak bear ran with two cubs close behind. On their tails was the most enormous boar brown bear I have, to this day, ever seen. It had paws the size of serving platters. Normally a mother bear would stand and fight to the death in protection of her cubs. But this boar was so big, I am sure the female saw running as her only option. Perhaps her instincts told her that running might save at least one of her cubs. The boar closed on the rear cub and with one sweep of it’s massive paw sent it careening through the air up the steep hillside. Stunned at least and more likely dead the cub could not recover from the horrific blow. The boar pounced, tearing the cub open with it’s scimitar like claws. It devoured the viscera with both massive paws firmly on the carcass. This was a National Geographic moment. You could wait forever in the woods and never see this.

Wreck of the 1423

……“Never exit a downed helicopter while the rotor is still turning”, I mumbled to myself. I looked up through the windshield for the rotor. It wasn’t turning - hell, it wasn’t even there.
I pushed myself up and out of the seat, which was no mean feat without any thumbs, turned to exit the aircraft between the seats and out the side cabin door. The radio rack had been ripped completely off its’ mounts. It lay in a twisted jumble right behind the pilots seats. I had to jump over it. I caught my boot lace or flight suit on something sharp and landed on my knees next to the cabin door. Thank God it was open because I never would have managed with my thumbs dislocated.
Outside the cabin door on the tarmac lay the H-52’s main rotor and transmission. I had to jump over the whole mess and landed on the tarmac, knees down again. I was covered in hydraulic fluid and God knows what other flammable liquids. I was a human wick just waiting for a match.
I got to my feet and ran for the nearest snow bank, like a dog with a Korean chef after him.