Ho, Ho, No! You ain’t getting me into that thing! And with that, Santa left his sleigh and drove off in his car.
Dad and I stared at each other. “Huh,” he said. “I guess we go with plan B.”
It was the yearly tradition of The Santa flights.
Helicopters were a new novelty and the FAA had not yet slapped restrictions on where a helicopter could and could not be landed. Cities had not yet enacted noise ordinances and the police weren’t obliged to arrest pilots who landed inside their city limits. It was therefore not an issue for Santa to be delivered to the waiting families at the tri-county Malls.
When we first started the Santa flights, my dad was the delivery pilot. He owned the helicopter company, and his name was known as iconic in the state’s aviation industry. Plus, it was free publicity for the company because the newspapers were always there to cover the flight. I can remember watching the Santas arrive at the airport and having dad buckle them into their seat and lifting them off to destinations with eager children waiting. School principals even wore the costume to be delivered to their playground after a planned fire drill had sent all the children outside.
Each time I watched Santa fly away I would think to myself, “That would be so cool to do.”
Eventually, I had built up enough hours and ratings in a helicopter that dad assigned me the Santa flights . . . my dream come true.
Here are my disillusioned observations of the Santa flights.
First, the guys who played Santa weren’t built for the part. They weren’t fat, they didn’t have their own beards, it was all fake. As they sat in their cars waiting for the preflight of the helicopter, some would be chain-smoking to relieve the tension. I watched one guy polish off the remainder of a bottle of liquor. Then his bald head rocked back against the seat, and he passed out. Helping him out to the cockpit, he couldn’t figure out how to put the wig and the Santa hat on properly. I am sure that the wig was on backwards because I’ve never seen a Santa with long bangs before. Naturally, between the airport and the mall, he was asleep again.
The malls on the other hand never took our landing area requirements seriously. This was mainly because the Christmas season mall parking was at a premium. They didn’t want to tape off a proper landing pad and lose customer parking. Thus, flying over the mall and looking down at the crowds and the postage-stamp sized helipad, I’d think, “Ho, Ho, boy. This is going to be a tight approach.”
The reason that malls don’t try publicity stunts like this anymore is that their insurance carriers won’t allow it, but back then they hadn’t yet been hit with massive claims.
Santa and I were landing in a steep approach to a too small landing pad surrounded by children and adults. We were approaching at a 45-degree angle. At approximately 20 feet in the air from touchdown, something unique to a helicopter happens. Rotor wash. If you could see it, it would look like tossing a large rock into a body of water. A big splash will radiate out 360 degrees. With rotor wash, an invisible wave of wind blows out 360 degrees.
It was impressive to say the least. Headwear got blown into the air as well as shopping bags full of Christmas presents. Dust from the ground spread across the crowd blinding those who were wearing hard contacts. Amusing were the women whose dresses filled with air and blew up over their heads. They frantically batted their skirts down with one hand while holding onto little Johnny with the other.
It was evident the once joyful crowd had now turned surly. Santa turned to me and yelled something that sounded like, “Oh ship!” I’m sure even the children could read his lips.
Climbing out of the cockpit as the rotors were winding down, he cautiously walked toward the angry mob with his bag of candy over one shoulder.
“Ho, Ho …” he shouted, and the first purse slapped him across the head.
As he pushed his way through the mob of crying children and angry adults, I noticed that his hat and wig were missing, and the bald Santa was fleeing in terror to the safety of the mall.
I blame the whole mess on the mall management who didn’t heed my instructions for a proper helipad.
So, the malls got wise and decided that the helicopter Santa should land away from the crowds. He should land on the top floor of the parkade and walk down the car ramp to the shoppers below. A safer idea for everyone.
The Santa for that year met us at the airport. He got out of his car and walked around the helicopter.
“Do you know that according to the laws of science, neither helicopters nor bumblebees should be able to fly?” he asked. “Have you ever crashed a helicopter?”
“No, I never have,” I answered.
“Statistics say that you’re due then. Ho, Ho, No! I ain’t flying in that thing. See you at the parkade.”
He walked back to his car and drove away.
Dad and I stared at each other. “Huh,” he said. “I guess we go with plan B.”
He made a quick call home to my mother and made his request. She drove up 15 minutes later.
“Hop into the passenger side. I’m flying,” he said.
Once I was buckled in, mom brought over a bag. She removed a red blanket and tucked it around my legs and upper body. She next gave me a Santa cap and a pair of white mittens to wear. Last she brought out some cotton batting and formed it into a beard.
“That should fake them out,” she said. “Just don’t let them see you up close.”
Dad started the engine on the helicopter, and we left Bellingham Airport. On the way to the parkade I wondered to myself, “What Santa is afraid to fly? He’s done it every Christmas Eve for hundreds of years.”
Upon reaching the parkade, dad made two large circles overhead. I waved to the crowds as they waved back. They were none the wiser. Making a steep approach to the top of the parkade, the helicopter skids touched down on the surface.
“Now what?” I asked.
The driver’s door on a familiar looking car parked on the top floor opened. Santa climbed out, tossed a cigarette onto the ground, and stomped it out with his boot. Out of his bag he pulled a flask from which he took one long swig. He shook his head wildly, threw his bag over one shoulder, and started down the ramp to the crowds below.
And I heard him exclaim as he walked out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, y’all have a good flight.
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