To be a Border Patrol pilot it is required that you have a commercial pilots license, instrument rating, fifteen hundred hours experience (a large portion must have been as commander of the aircraft, not as a co-pilot), and you had to be "current" in these skills. If you had these qualifications, as a "fixed wing" pilot then the Service would cross train you as a "rotary wing" or helicopter pilot. If you were a "rotary wing" pilot then you would be cross-trained as a "fixed wing pilot". Since there was only an occasional opening for a pilot "trainee", you might have to wait for several years for your chance. Under these requirements nearly all of our helicopter pilots were members of the military reserve. They had learned their skills in the military and upon discharge had enlisted in the ready reserve to maintain the currency of their licenses. In 1975 it cost $300.00 an hour to rent a Hughes 500C helicopter, so maintaining currency without the military picking up the tab would have been formidable.
Consequently, after a number of years, we had three high-ranking U.S. Navy officers flying our helicopters. Two were Captains, one promotion away from being an Admiral, and the other was a "full" Commander, two steps below an Admiral. This can be pretty frightening when you know some of the fellows, kind of like "Dr. Strangelove". The two Captains were commanders of antisubmarine helicopter squadrons and the Commander was a squadron Executive Officer. All of them were Viet Nam combat veterans and thought that their Border Patrol work was "great"; no one was shooting at them. Well, they didn't get shot at too often!
The Commander, the hero of this episode, had been in a psychological warfare squadron in Viet Nam. Their helicopters had powerful outside speakers on them and they would precede or accompany units that were attacking Viet Cong positions, very loudly playing martial music and propaganda messages. After the enemy got used to this, they could disrupt the enemy's rest by simply flying around in the area and making noise, as they were perceived as a precursor of an attack. Anyway, the boys were diabolical when it came to playing mind games with the aliens.
During the winter there was extremely heavy rainfall, causing extensive flooding. Just to the west of the San Ysidro Port of Entry, the Tijuana River flood control channel enters the United States and goes west to the ocean at distances up to a mile north of the border. The flood was one of those hundred year floods that come along every five or six years. It totally overwhelmed the flood control channel. When the channel turned, the floodwaters didn't and they cut a new river channel to the ocean. This took out all of the roads and bridges to the south side of the channel.
The people that lived on the south side of the flood control channel became defacto Mexicans. There was no way to get into the United States without going into Mexico and entering through the port of entry. Consequently, the chain link fence that was the United States / Mexico border was almost destroyed. It became a series of holes tenuously wired together in spots. There were numerous dirt roads cut to ease traffic between the two sides by the United States residents trapped on the south side of the channel. The whole thing assumed a surreal quality as if "KINGS' X" had been declared.
There was a Border Patrol Agent that lived on a ranch on the south side, so he was more or less assigned to help the S.D.P.D. maintain order. He patrolled the area on one of his horses, to help prevent looting and burglaries and to generally show the flag. This went on for several weeks. The S.D.P.D. had a couple of four-wheel drive vehicles that the Navy carried over the river on an amphibious vehicle and patrol units were changed by helicopter. There was no attempt to control illegal entries south of the Tijuana River, as the river was almost forty feet deep in the concrete flood channel. While driving his Dodge "Ram Charger" on top the north wall of the levee, an Agent could pace debris floating at twenty-eight miles an hour. There wasn't anyone going to be swimming across there!
The Mexicans knew that they weren't going anywhere, so they turned the area into a giant arena to loiter and yell remarks at the "Migra" (Immigration Officials) on the other side. We had always maintained a presence on the south levee to prevent them from staging there and running "Banzai" charges to the north levee. From the north levee there was only a few hundred yards of open ground until the group would be in a densely populated residential area, MOSTLY filled with immigrated Mexicans who sympathized with them. If a group of fifty or one hundred made it into the houses, we'd be lucky to dig out five or ten.
This was their chance to "rub our noses in it" by flaunting their presence and calling us names. As was mentioned earlier, there isn't a hell of a lot of difference between the Border Patrol and the Mexicans, and two street gangs having a turf war. The feelings can run high.
The stage is now set. The Mexicans had escalated the challenge to the point of setting up tent restaurants and bars, and having street vendors selling tacos and tamales from pushcarts. Lovers were strolling arm in arm while jeering at the "Migra". The B.P.A.s on the north levee were not "happy campers"!
Late one Sunday afternoon there was a "whomp-whomp-whomp" in the distance. Then it got louder. Up the flood control channel from the ocean came a Navy "Sea King" antisubmarine helicopter. Now, we are talking about a BIG helicopter. Each blade of the main rotor on the Sea King is about forty feet long and when the pilot is "pulling pitch" (has the blades angled to provide lift) the propeller wash is terrific. If you are not alert it will knock you off your feet.
The Sea King came to a hover over the water, facing the south levee, and then it began to move over the levee. The first things to go were the tent restaurants and bars, the tents went flying and all of the food and merchandise were scattered. Then it chased down the pushcart vendors. The prop wash blew the pushcarts into the water and they were last seen floating "out to sea". Then it came back and went to work on the campfires, and scattered them and anything else that could be found. Then the Sea King circled over the B.P.A.s on the north levee, gave them the helicopter equivalent of the wing wagging salute and went "whomp-whomp-whomp" back out to sea. The B.P.A.s all said to each other, "Who was that masked man?"
This pilot ended up leaving the Patrol and working for another agency in another state. We heard that he was involved in several drug apprehensions in which there were shootouts between his aircraft and the boats running drugs, but the only incident that we had confirmation of is more of a domestic one. He was patrolling one of his areas beaches when he caught a glimpse of something behind a small building on the beach. Swinging around he lit up the area and there was a citizen happily "buggering" his dog. It being a slow night, he called the police and the bad guy was apprehended. It wasn't real slow around Southern California, but everyone managed to find time to give him a call and congratulate him on his "big bust".
One of pilots was what you would call an aggressive pilot. The normal way to land a helicopter is to make an airplane type approach on the runway and then "air taxi" to the tie down area. This would stay out until the last minute, swing around over the tie down area at one hundred mph or so, do a beautiful side slip at sixty mph that would put him directly over where he wanted to land, and drop it like a feather exactly where he wanted to be. All the BP pilots who watched him do this were totally awe struck. The man is a fantastic pilot.
Nearly all of our pilots are what could be called free spirits. Any attempt to force them into conformity is sure to be met with resistance of the most insidious sort. Rick had a "full dress flight helmet" that he wore for special occasions, like when he wanted to drive someone at "Sector Headquarters" right up the wall.
He had taken a regular white military type helicopter helmet and tricked it out like a "pickelhaube", the classic Prussian spiked helmet. The left side sported a "Maltese Cross" about four inches across, and the right side had a "Blue Max" of about the same size. The "Blue Max" (known in France as the "Pour Le Merite") was a World War I medal named for Max Immeling. To earn it you had to shoot down twenty allied warplanes. It was the highest award for German flyers in World War I. Centered on the top, of course, was the traditional Prussian spike. The helmet had a very dark sun visor, like military fighter pilots wear, that covered the entire upper portion of your face.
This was worn with a military flight suit and he flew the helicopter with the doors removed so he was more visible and could be more expressive.
He would come swooping over a hill top, and pounce upon some poor group, scaring the crap out of everyone by buzzing them a few feet above their heads. He would do a tight circle or two around them while shaking his fist at them from out of the open door and shrieking maniacally over the outside loud speaker. Usually the group didn't move until the Border Patrol Agent on the ground arrived to rescue them.
All of the pilots were masters at using prop wash to stop a running group by blowing all kinds of debris at them as they are trying to run, but Rick far exceeded the criteria to be called master. Often in the Tijuana River bottom there would be huge piles of tumbleweeds that had been blown hither and yon by the wind. This game could be played in two ways. If the alien or aliens were attempting to hide in a large pile of tumbleweeds then Rick would peel the weeds away with the prop wash as cleanly as if he were cutting them out with a scalpel. Should the alien be trying to hide in a small pile of weeds, then Rick felt that he needed to be better hidden from our ground agent and again using the prop wash would bury him under huge piles of tumbleweeds (Russian Flax). After the ground agent arrived, if the alien wouldn't come out after Dave called him on the loudspeaker, the weeds were again rolled away so the agent didn't have to dig him out.
I've never tried it, but tumbleweeds are extremely prickly and I don't think that being holed up in them would be much fun; especially after running a distance and being all hot and sweaty.
