While living in Hawaii in the late 1960’s, many unusual events happened to me when surfing, but none as exciting as the one on that memorable Sunday morning 16 November 1969, the year the Apollo 11 went to the moon and back to a Pacific landing in which I played a big part*.
My favorite surfing area was on the southwest corner of the Island of Oahu in plain view of Diamond Head about 20 miles west of Waikiki Beach. The Pacific trade winds generate excellent surfing waves around the Hawaiian Islands. Of course, the northern shores of Oahu are the most famous for the big waves--places like Sunset, Waimea, Haleiwa,and Makaha. The big waves occur in the winter with northerly winds off the Northern Pacific.
I lived in Ewa (pronounced “Eva”) Beach. My home was on a typical Hawaiian street called “PuPu” (meaning hors d’oeuvre) about 300 yards from the surfing area the natives called ”Haubush”. Because a plantation owned this property, no development occurred and the surfers could come and go as they pleased without the typical Hawaiian mob scene.Many luaus were held here with gallons of Primo beer consumed.
THE END
On this particular day, I had been surfing in four to six foot waves that were breaking over the sunken coral reef a thousand yards from the shore. I was pleasantly tired and decided to lie down on my 9’4” Duke Kahanamoku board. It was the common board of that era, solidly built and costing $45.00 (used). Today, that kind of board is called a “logger.”
When the waves are small, this large board enables one to ride to the beach and step off right onto the soft, white sand. After surfing, I always enjoyed relaxing on the clean, quiet beach. Exhilarating as surfing always is, it leaves me exhausted but happy--in a dreamy state. On that afternoon as I stretched out on my board I heard the disturbing roar of a jet engine in the sky. I looked up squinting through my sunglasses and saw an F-102, a delta wing jet plane that the Hawaii Air National Guard used.
The jet was at an altitude of about 1,000 feet and was making its final approach to the Hickam Air Force Base runway. Hickam hangared ten of these Convair-built single engine, needle-nosed aircraft.
this spectacular event. “Why did I leave my Yashica 35MM camera at home?” The plane rolled over to the right, passed overhead at about 800 feet and headed out to sea. Obviously, the pilot was going to ditch away from land to protect human lives. It was then that the canopy on top of the cockpit of the plane blew away from the fuselage. Just before the delta wing jet started its momentous plunge toward the Pacific Ocean below, the pilot ejected from the cockpit with a “bang” from the explosive shell beneath his seat. In the clear, azure sky, I watched him push his seat away. I could see the gray flight-suited pilot yank at the ripcord. The seat fell toward the ocean. Then, from an altitude of about 500’ above the water, the orange and white chute opened. In the background about three miles off the coast, the plane nosed downward.
I was watching the plane on its final approach when I heard a loud blast--a flameout--the engine had quit. My eyes
were fixed on that F-102 and were recording
“ What a magnificent sight!” My thoughts were racing.”What should I do? “
“God, what a picture!”- the parachute floating downward with the pilot dangling beneath rocking back and forth as his hands reached up holding the shrouds—then,the early morning sun glinting off the silvery gleaming plane as it slithered quietly into the blue-green Pacific.
“Wouldn’t that make a beautiful cover for a Life, Time or Newsweek!”I thought.
The F-102 hardly made a splash as it knifed into the water and quickly sank.
I was spellbound with the drama unfolding before my eyes. But--as the parachute floated toward the waters below, I was jolted out of my entrancement with the thought, “That guy is going to ditch in the Pacific Ocean and just off Ewa beach yet!!
If he is hurt in any way, what will happen to him? Will his chute become entangled around his Mae West? Will the plane blow up? Are the waters shark infested? Does he have open cuts? My God, he could drown.”
I arose “like a bolt from the blue” chastising myself all the while. “Get off your duff, Brandli, and get moving.”
I grabbed my “Duke Kahanamoku,” ran into the water, jumped onto my nine footer and paddled like crazy. I couldn’t see the pilot. In my prone position, the waves--even though small--obscured my view. My mind went in circles. I wondered if the pilot had landed safely, if he was alive--or dead--or trapped in his parachute. I paddled steadily away from the Ewa Beach coastline toward the crash site. It was a long haul and I had plenty of time to soliloquize on my so-called “mercy mission.”
“Brandli, you’re nuts--your arms can’t hold out much longer. Certainly a helicopter will be sent to pick up the pilot. Oh, God,” I prayed, “Give me the strength to do the right thing. Keep me going. But what if the pilot is injured and has attracted sharks? Feet, stay on the board!” Gathering new strength, I paddled swiftly but with my hands and arms in the water only a fraction of a second with each push ahead. I must have been paddling a good 20 minutes. AND THEN, I saw the parachute floating on the water--but no pilot.
“Please, God, don’t let me panic.” Could the pilot have been dragged under and drowned. I shuddered. I would have to reach down, grab the chute cords and pull his body onto my surfboard.
“Why did I come out here? For publicity? For fame?” Again my mind was playing tricks on me. NO, I didn’t come out for those reasons. I came out here to save a life!”
“But, where is the pilot? Where is the rescue helicopter? Isn’t anyone, anyone at all going to help? Perhaps there would be a drowned surfer as well as a drowned pilot. Surely a helicopter would be dispatched from Hickam Air Force Base only 20 miles away.”
I heard someone yell, “Over here!” With his arms waving wildly and his Mae West on bobbing miraculously, floated the National Guard Pilot.
I paddled quickly to him and said, “Hey, you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. “Sure glad to see you.”
“Any sign of sharks?”
“Haven’t seen any.”
“Sure you’re not hurt?”
“No, I’m okay. Everything went just like the book. No complications.”
“Thank God you’re alive,” I said. “Although there aren’t supposed to be many sharks out here, I’m sure the plane crashing and you hitting the water have attracted a helluva lot of attention in these waters.”
“No sweat. Used some of that shark repellent stuff from the survival kit.”
“Beautiful!”
“Think you can help me in?” he asked.
“You bet, that will be easy. With this big board the two of us can paddle and when we get nearer to the shore, I’ll let you ride the waves right in to the beach--suspect a chopper will be here any moment.”
“They should have been here ten minutes ago--can’t imagine what’s keeping them. Weather couldn’t be better--I gave a May Day on my final approach and I’ve been here in the drink a good 20 minutes.”
It wasn’t until then that we finally introduced ourselves.
“I’m Jim,” he said.
“Hank,” I responded. “What do you do when you’re not flying the Guard, Jim?”
“Fly for Aloha Airlines. What about you?”
“Weather forecaster at Hickam.”
We both laughed and he said, “Hank, there were no weather problems in this accident.”
“Sure glad of that cuz I’m the character that will have to write up the weather portion of your accident report.”
We both laughed.
As we paddled toward shore we were soon “greeted” by about ten or so local Hawaiian surfers, most on boards smaller than mine. I supposed they had come to help or to appease their curiosity. Instead, they were angry and terribly upset with the pilot for having ditched his plane in the ocean and creating a “big oil slick.”
“What you do?” they yelled.
“You mess beach!”
Jim and I couldn’t resist a chuckle over this. Anyhow, I finally convinced one of the Hawaiians to give a little help. I wanted to get Jim onto shore as quickly as possible. We could see the Coast Guard helicopter approaching. It circled overhead checking to see that the pilot was okay and then headed for the beach to land at the approximate place where we would come ashore.
“Jim, have you ever done any surfing?”
“None at all, Hank.”
“Well, you’re starting today. In a few words I’m going to tell you how to ride this board in to shore on your belly. Alone, you will get to the beach one heck of a lot faster than the rate we’re now going.”
I had him lie down on my 9”4” board with his chin about two feet from the nose, his boots up near the other end and I placed his Mae West under his head as a pillow. I looked over my shoulder watching and waiting for the next set of wave to arrive. The fourth one was it--the big one. One last shout of admonition, “Hang onto the rails, Jim,” just as the roaring wave started its break and I pushed the board with all my might. He caught it--full blast--and headed straight for the beach like a motorboat. 100 yards--200yards--500 yards, 1000 yards. I breathed a sigh of relief certain that he had made it safely to shore.
My Hawaiian ally took me on board his small surfboard and we paddled toward the beach--you can be sure it was extremely slow going. When we were still a good distance from land we could see a tremendous amount of activity. The helicopter was surrounded by curious beach watchers. Jim climbed aboard and the chopper took off. It was another ten minutes before we reached the shore. I thanked my Hawaiian friend for the lift, picked up my board and plodded home, exhausted but with a warm glow and a silent prayer, “Thank you, God, for saving Jim’s life.”
A few hours after the rescue the Association Press contacted me after learning from Jim Moncrief, the pilot, that I not only brought him in to land but that I was the weather officer at Hickam Air Force Base and would have to make the official weather report. Weather reports must be filed on every aircraft accident. In this particular case, the Hickam AFB weather officer certainly had it made. He not only knew the weather--he had first hand knowledge of the entire incident and had helped the pilot to safety. The Associated Press received a full account of the story, which later was in the mainland nationwide news media.
“NATIONAL GUARD PILOT JIM MONCRIEF DEPARTED HICKAM AIR FORCE BASE, HAWAII IN HIS SINGLE SEAT, F-102 DELTA DAGGER JET ON NOVEMBER 16, 1969 ON A ROUTINE WEEKEND MISSION OUT TO SEA. HE RETURNED ON A SURFBOARD!”
My father, a painter who worked nights at Filene’s Department Store in Boston read this story which named me as the surfer from from Boston while reading the Boston Record-American on the MTA train home to Roslindale.He called me when he got home.
Ironically, nothing appeared in the Hawaiian newspapers (Bad press-Scare away tourists from beach ?)
And, the pilot, Jim, and I never spoke again.
The pilot climbed on board my “Duke Kahanamoku” and we started to paddle toward shore. It was quite difficult and extremely slow going for the two of us. His flight suit and boots added considerable weight to the already heavy surfboard.
*
NASA’s Unwritten History
When the Apollo 11 mission to the moon re-entered earth 30 years ago, the entire nation cheered at the thought of what
mankind and NASA could accomplish in space. What the public did not know was that the mission that led to Neil
Armstrong’s famous, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” would have ended in tragedy had it not been for
the quick-thinking of one MIT alumnus.
Hank Brandli, SM ’65, course XVI, was one of a handful of satellite meteorologists who had access to advanced
weather-imagery equipment that could forecast an intense storm at the exact site where the astronauts planned to splashdown in
the Pacific Ocean. He was the only one to notice an impending storm in the landing zone, and because the technology was
strictly classified in 1969, the law prohibited Brandli from warning NASA.
“You can imagine how I felt. I knew this and I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t sleep at night,” Brandli said.
As a captain in the U.S. Air Force, Brandli was given the task of mapping weather systems for the Corona Spy Program.
The program, which was de-classified by President Bill Clinton a few years ago, used an advanced satellite positioned 150
miles above earth to photograph Russian activities. The satellite would then drop a roll of film into a canister and release it via
parachute down to earth where Air Force planes would make the secret catch and fly the information to the Pentagon. Brandli
had to ensure that the planes could grab the canisters without encountering any bad weather.
NASA did not yet have the kind of satellite information that the spy program did, and without it, Brandli knew the mission
was doomed. With 72 hours until re-entry, he called up Captain Willard “Sam” Houston Jr., the then-Commanding Officer of
Fleet Weather Central in Pearl Harbor, HI, and convinced Houston to meet him in the parking lot outside the Air Force base.
Brandli sneaked Houston into a vault where he spent an hour and a half briefing him on the classified imagery.
“I was fortunate that he knew about the spy program and the satellite capability or we would have been there for four
hours,” Brandli laughed. “He didn’t know about the cloud pattern and I had to educate him on the phenomena. I said, ‘Captain,
this storm will move westward at five degrees a day directly into the area of the astronauts.’”
The weather system, a cloud formation that Brandli dubbed “Screaming Eagle” because of its bird-like shape, is a
predictable storm that only Brandli had been studying on a regular basis using the classified equipment. “It moves at the same
rate each day in low latitudes in the Pacific Ocean and then bursts into monstrous thunder storms,” he explained.
Houston returned to NASA and convinced those in charge to reprogram the mission and change the course of the USS
Hornet Navy carrier that was waiting to collect the astronauts upon splashdown. Houston never told a soul where he got the
information. Planes were sent to the original landing site when the mission returned and what was found was exactly what
Brandli had described: huge ocean swells, strong currents and violent thunder storms that would have shredded any parachute.
“It was a huge undertaking to move the recovery fleet and to convince the ‘powers that be’ in Washington to change the
landing. Houston did a hell of a job. The rest is history,” Brandli said.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. “Sure glad to see you.”
