Mason
En-Route
Copied from somewhere Canadian:
Guard Police
The steady thrum of the mighty P-dubs drone incessantly into the night. I am almost oblivious to their presence as I maintain my vigil, patrolling 121.5 from Timmins to Toronto like a pacing Doberman. The toothpick rides up front, balanced on my lower lip just above the soul patch, the tip vibrating like a tuning fork. A sudden burst of static flares out of the #2 radio, causing the adrenaline to race madly for a split second before subsiding. The toothpick shoots up like a power antenna and then lays flat once more, waiting patiently for the next intrusion. “Easy, my friend”, I mutter under my breath. “They’ll be back….
“Whas that?” The left seat warmer emerges from behind his papery tent of Globe and Mail, an inquisitive look on his face. “You say sumpin?” I wave him away impatiently and return to the task at hand. You see, chaps, I have no time for such frivolous recreational pursuits such as reading when flying.
My mission is far bolder and my purpose clear: I am a self-trained, highly experienced member of the guard police.
In fact, if the guard police handed out ranks, I would probably be a corporal. To date, I have over 2367 confirmed penalized violations on 121.5, all swiftly punished by my ruthless and relentless curt radio transmission: “YOU’RE ON GUARD!!” These three powerful words smite violators like a scimitar, laying bare your error for all of your peers to judge. No matter if you are a hapless student pilot calling final on the wrong radio, or a chubby corporate flyer calling ahead for a lav dump at the FBO, nobody escapes my swift intervention into your shocking transgression. I consider it a personal travesty that a trained professional could be so irresponsible to transmit on the wrong freq, and delight in clenching the transmit button and snarling my stern correction from my listening post in the Dash. I’m like an AWACS in that sense, gents.
I pause from my post briefly and watch the lights of Sudbury slide by in the inky blackness. Maybe everyone will behave tonight and maintain strict radio protocol after all. I make a routine entry in the guard police black notebook. 2230 local. All is quiet.
And then it happens.
A heavy Korean accent making a position report.
Stammering and stumbling over fuel quantities, time over, next waypoints….and all on 121.5! The mullet curls up in anger like an epic wave, and the toothpick stands straight up at attention, vibrating like a guitar string. My fingers twitch over the mic button, waiting for the horrific crescendo to be complete. Excitement pummels the seat cushion beneath me as the flight deck fills with a gaseous explosion consisting of limburger cheese, baked beans and broccoli. The Left Seat Warmer slumps over, grasping for the wemac, the Globe and Mail flapping feebly like a limp sail!
Silence now, but only for a second. I stab the mic button with a sweaty grasp and howl my protest into the northern Ontario darkness. I bellow my distaste in a hail of abuse and rage. “On guard! On guard! YOU ARE ON GUARDDDDD!!!”
I release the mike and slump back in my seat heavily. Another successful round of punishment issued. I scratch the number with pride in my little black notebook: 2368.
Watch those transmissions out there, blokes. I’ll be listening. Notebook in hand.
Guard Police
The steady thrum of the mighty P-dubs drone incessantly into the night. I am almost oblivious to their presence as I maintain my vigil, patrolling 121.5 from Timmins to Toronto like a pacing Doberman. The toothpick rides up front, balanced on my lower lip just above the soul patch, the tip vibrating like a tuning fork. A sudden burst of static flares out of the #2 radio, causing the adrenaline to race madly for a split second before subsiding. The toothpick shoots up like a power antenna and then lays flat once more, waiting patiently for the next intrusion. “Easy, my friend”, I mutter under my breath. “They’ll be back….
“Whas that?” The left seat warmer emerges from behind his papery tent of Globe and Mail, an inquisitive look on his face. “You say sumpin?” I wave him away impatiently and return to the task at hand. You see, chaps, I have no time for such frivolous recreational pursuits such as reading when flying.
My mission is far bolder and my purpose clear: I am a self-trained, highly experienced member of the guard police.
In fact, if the guard police handed out ranks, I would probably be a corporal. To date, I have over 2367 confirmed penalized violations on 121.5, all swiftly punished by my ruthless and relentless curt radio transmission: “YOU’RE ON GUARD!!” These three powerful words smite violators like a scimitar, laying bare your error for all of your peers to judge. No matter if you are a hapless student pilot calling final on the wrong radio, or a chubby corporate flyer calling ahead for a lav dump at the FBO, nobody escapes my swift intervention into your shocking transgression. I consider it a personal travesty that a trained professional could be so irresponsible to transmit on the wrong freq, and delight in clenching the transmit button and snarling my stern correction from my listening post in the Dash. I’m like an AWACS in that sense, gents.
I pause from my post briefly and watch the lights of Sudbury slide by in the inky blackness. Maybe everyone will behave tonight and maintain strict radio protocol after all. I make a routine entry in the guard police black notebook. 2230 local. All is quiet.
And then it happens.
A heavy Korean accent making a position report.
Stammering and stumbling over fuel quantities, time over, next waypoints….and all on 121.5! The mullet curls up in anger like an epic wave, and the toothpick stands straight up at attention, vibrating like a guitar string. My fingers twitch over the mic button, waiting for the horrific crescendo to be complete. Excitement pummels the seat cushion beneath me as the flight deck fills with a gaseous explosion consisting of limburger cheese, baked beans and broccoli. The Left Seat Warmer slumps over, grasping for the wemac, the Globe and Mail flapping feebly like a limp sail!
Silence now, but only for a second. I stab the mic button with a sweaty grasp and howl my protest into the northern Ontario darkness. I bellow my distaste in a hail of abuse and rage. “On guard! On guard! YOU ARE ON GUARDDDDD!!!”
I release the mike and slump back in my seat heavily. Another successful round of punishment issued. I scratch the number with pride in my little black notebook: 2368.
Watch those transmissions out there, blokes. I’ll be listening. Notebook in hand.
some folks are just too self righteous for their own good. Haven't yet heard of a G. Nazi interfering enough in a real emergency to actually cause a problem, though.
