Two flew over Belarus

Richard Spencer’s experience of being fated to a ride a ski-lift to its conclusion in highly uncomfortable company prompts a story of my own fate on the chair.

In Richard’s case, fate had him stuck next to one Randy Scheunemann. Despite the discomfort, it was instructive (for me, anyway) to learn who this man was - an insider neo-con, influential during the W. Bush Administration and in fact, a member of Project For A New American Century, a.k.a., Operation Clean Break (to secure the ‘realm’ around Israel). Scheunmann was one of its loud voices advocating all of its wars and military operations going on behalf of Israel, using The U.S. and any other nation it could press into its service. But once out of a job with the “neo-cons” out of office, there he was, helplessly hovering, captive with an enemy.

My own experience in the fate of helplessly hovering did not have me placed in the company of an enemy, but with a man who was on amicable terms, could have been a good friend. Instead I ruined his day and caused a very uncomfortable, seemingly endless ski-lift ride to the top of Aspen Mountain. As this particular episode did not highlight the large fall of a once prominent man, but the pathetic bungling of normal relations, I intend to examine rather what I believe to be a non-trivial aspect – and that is the connection of fate. It is not my purpose to state that I have anything like a sufficient explanation yet for the meaning of fate. Rather, that I am compelled to believe in its more or less possibility – whereas I had not, and would not take the notion of fate seriously prior to experiences which I will recount.

Hovering with (people who should be) friends – a different kind of fate, the fate of a non-snob. Hovering with what should be friends above, friends below, friends on the level and not realizing who were and who were not friends - with bad effect.

Unlike Richard Spencer, I have been skiing exactly twice in my life. The first time was in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Having taken my ski lessons and mastered what was called “the intermediate slope” quite handily, I developed a bit of hubris in my ability – at least for the intermediate slope. I tried the advanced slope once and could not even stand before falling and being jettisoned downward. Nevertheless, even little kids were whisking down past me and I could not believe how they did it – I only realized that I could not handle the advanced slope.

Satisfied nevertheless, I returned to my hostel that evening (but did of course I see an interracial couple on the way, in case anyone believes New Hampshire is immune). One of the townies was there talking about how he advocated Pat Buchanan, who was running for Presidency (was that the year he had a Negro running mate? Perhaps); it struck me as strange for a kid that young to be promoting Pat (whom I never thought to be very good - “rather than ‘the sewer of multiculturalism’ all Americans should integrate as English speaking Christians” - good thinking, Pat. No wonder the mainstream media kept you around as a convenient foil all those years), but I appreciated his defiant conservatism. New Hampshire was one of the few places where Buchanan could win. Fate was kicking in, the trance recollections before and during my recent trip to Europe from which I’d just returned were prompting me..

There were some English skiers there at the hostel. A couple of young lads and an older English gent there solo. I could not forget his name, as it was Hamilton. We talked candidly about race. He expressed his admiration at how Germany had built their country right back up after World War II. When discussing the problems of our respective European nationalities, he gritted his teeth and said, “Jews!” I was not ready to go there. I still needed to hold breadth that this may be in some part, if not primarily a distraction from deeper issues. It was probably not in that moment but somewhere in that evening that I felt myself being aware that I was outside of my normal consciousness, castigating (laced with the vilest profanity) the girls running the hostel, one from France in particular, for being a nation of feminist bitches. They apparently understood that this was a trance as they calmly instructed me the next morning that I had to visit North Hampton - as I had told them that they were going to tell me to go to North Hampton in the next few days to meet my fate among the greatest concentration of lesbians in The U.S., North Hampton being the proximity of two of America’s most prestigious women’s colleges – Smith and Mount Holyoke.

The parting with Mr. Hamilton did not go as I might have liked. It was clear that we were both dearly committed to defending Europe against liberalism and non-Europeans. I had told him in the trance state the evening before that you can trust a man if you can look him dead in the eye and he does not look away. The next morning Mr. Hamilton had a big smile on his face as he saw me (my trances always seemed to have a healing effect on people); we shook hands in parting, he looked me dead in the eye; but I turned my eyes away and a puzzled frown came across his face. Though I regret making myself didactically untrustworthy in that instant, I know now that I did that because I did not yet know enough to express full enough agreement with him. That day, Hamilton, a Thomas Hamilton rather, massacred school children in Dunblane, Scotland. So it must have been the 13th of March 1996.

My hubris in prevailing over the intermediate slope of the White Mountains is humbled by the Nemesis of Aspen’s “intermediate” slope.

The next and last time I went skiing was in March again, four years later, in 2000, a few weeks after my father passed away. I had to drive his car from New Jersey to my brother in Arizona. On the way I decided to try skiing again – this time in Aspen, Colorado, on Aspen Mountain precisely. I must have made an awkward sight in my Carhartt pants amidst all other people equipped in proper skiing attire. But such was my hubris, I had mastered the intermediate slopes in The White Mountains. I could do this, just as I am. I rented my skis, took a day pass and hopped on the ski-lift next to a guy maybe around my age, late 30’s, obviously a nice guy – as one who clearly had experience, he nevertheless told me not to worry about my pants; and gave me some tips; to watch what other people were doing and encouraged me to have fun. We proceeded to talk and he said that he enjoyed hot air balloon racing.

I quickly chimed in with the story of the two balloonists who had accidentally drifted over Belarus the prior September, only to be shot as helpless sitting ducks. As I recounted the story to him, I did what many of you would do - I laughed, because it was so ridiculous and pathetic: the thought of these two sitting ducks, helplessly hovering there, American passports in hand, pathetically shot down as they dangled above the doltish force of nature that is a neo-Soviet mentality.

My raucous, cynical humor was not well placed. A sudden pained expression came over his face. “These were my friends” he said..

Oh, Christ.We were near the beginning of the ride. Danging captive, far above ground, I had to go all the way up the mountain with him after having laughed about his friend’s being killed. And he was nothing if not a nice guy. I don’t remember what I said to try to help us past my faux pas, but as the day went on, it became clear that it did not help. I saw him from time to time, either at the top of the mountain or on the lift. He was not mad at me, did not pay particular attention to me, in fact, but was clearly despondent.

I took to the intermediate slope only to find that the “intermediate slope” here was like the advanced in the White Mountains (and there were no beginner’s slopes on Aspen). It was all I could do to stand up - with that degree of incline beneath me it took every muscle in my body just to do that – using muscles I had barely used in my life, just to keep from falling. I was bewildered as people whisked by me, dashing down the mountain with joyous skill, virility and strength, while I eaked down in the most horizontal pattern that I could manage so as not to be hurtled down the mountain uncotrollably. It was during my first trip down that I realized my most important task was not to enjoy this, but to not get hurt.

Still, I wanted to do it. I made it down and back up twice this way. Some experienced skiers commended me, saying they were watching me and approved of my careful enjoyment of the slope. In truth, it was not particularly enjoyable. I was way out of shape for this. After the second trip and at the top of the mountain, I saw myself in the mirror, my face as red as a cherry, having to concentrate on breathing. I was exhausted. Other people, Nick Buoniconti among them, went about calm, relaxed, passing me by and enjoying their skiing. After resting, I managed to make it down and back up a third time. Now I was completely exhausted and I wondered how I could even make it down the mountain a last time, but as the slope’s closing time approached I had to try.

This time I was at a true snail’s pace in my perpendicular pattern down the slope. I was in pain. Falling down every two or three minutes after a while. It started to get dark. Skiers passing me by became fewer and fewer, more intermittent. Eventually it became clear that the last skier had passed me as I lay on the side of Aspen mountain unable to move. Finally, this lady in a red suit, white cross on her chest, whisked up to me and asked, “are you hurt?” I answered, “no, I just can’t move. And I don’t want to get hurt.” She said “it happens all the time”, got on her walky-talky and called for help: “we have a tired skier.”

Then this guy also clad in red suit and white cross whisked-up with a stretcher. Oh my god how humiliating. I have to lie down on that stretcher? Yep. With me humbly on the stretcher, he skied me down to the bottom of Aspen Mountain. About the only thing I can give myself credit for after having ruined the balloonist day and otherwise making a fool of myself was that I steered clear of pushing myself so hard as to hurt myself, perhaps winding-up embracing a tree in the manner of Sonny Bono or Michael Kennedy - who collided with tree on that very mountain.

In the ski lodge that evening, I sat at the bar having a glass of wine. Some famous looking guys saddled up to the bar. They looked like musicians I’d seen on television. One got on the bar phone and asked if he could speak with “Jane Seymour.” He looked at me and I pretended to be unimpressed, though I was thinking – that Jane Seymour? As in, Bond-girl, James Bond girl? Hmmm. I’ve got to see her. Soon she did indeed emerge from the stairwell in a shimmering white chiffon dress and made her way to a table right nearby. Appearance-wise, she has always been among my favorite types. It was surprising that she did not disappoint, but was as beautiful, if not more, in person. The conversation I overheard was not particularly interesting and she did not touch her glass of wine before leaving. It is too bad that she is half Jewish.

Maybe it was not a coincidence but fated to encounter her, as I had always cited her as an exemplary beauty. Gene hijacking is a terrible thing; and tanstaafl’s focus on Jewish crypsis is well emphasized.

I will detail more of my experience of what appears to be a phenomenon of fate, its meaning and truth, in some posts to come.

Perhaps next I ought to begin with what was the big trance for me, when I inappropriately talked about race in an Al-Anon (ACOA) 12 Step meeting at The First Congregational Church in Amherst, Massachusetts – must have been in early 1995. There were about 30 people there from all walks, a Muslim woman, hijab and all, a French girl who I had a crush on but who was never at that particular meeting, Jews, German Americans, a large gamut. In my stressful but impassioned despair over miscegenation a fart came out. Not loud but audible and I apologized. Being the nice people that they were they told me not to worry about it. But one of them was a lawyer who angrily said that I probably had not broken any law, not for the fart, but for the racial talk. It was a deadly serious moment with tense silence, but then I farted loudly. Everyone laughed. I said slowly…..“niggers and Jews”.... everybody laughed again and we all went into a collective trance for the next few hours…

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Here is an account (by Tom Hamilton, naturally) of the balloonists shot over Belarus

Tragedy in Belarus

by Tom Hamilton

The grand event in ballooning, Coupe Gordon Bennett, lifted off from Wil/SG, Switzerland on Saturday September 9. The 15 teams from seven countries had excellent conditions and it appeared that new records might be set for this prestigious event.

Founded by publisher James Gordon Bennett in 1906, this international gas balloon race is decided by which balloon flies the greatest distance. Pilots have been known to stretch the limits in order to achieve the best result.

As the race progressed, Jacques Soukup, president of the International Ballooning Committee, was giving lively updates on Internet. A number of teams had stayed in the air two nights. And then three nights. As reports of the team’s progress filtered in one could sense the excitement. This year’s event was going to be a true test of which team could fly the longest.

By Wednesday morning, September 13, four teams were reported to be still in the air. Then the magic of this event was shattered by an AP wire story from Minsk, Belarus. Two Americans flying a balloon had been shot down and killed by a Belarussian military helicopter near the Polish border.

The shooting occurred on Tuesday, September 12. The Belarus government waited 24 hours to inform the U.S. Embassy that the two pilots, who were carrying American passports, had been killed.

Alan Fraenckel, 55, and John Stuart-Jervis, 68, representing the Virgin Islands, had been shot down after crossing into Belarus airspace from Poland and, according to an official statement from Belarus, failed to respond to radio calls and warning shots. Their balloon was reported to be near the Osovtsy military base and an adjoining missile base.

Both pilots were reported to have died from injuries suffered when their deflated balloon fell to the forest floor near Beryoza, about 60 miles from the Polish border.

Alan Fraenckel, a professional airline pilot for TWA, resided in St. Croix, Virgin Islands, and Ballston Lake, NY. John Stuart-Jervis, a retired Royal Navy pilot and business man, also resided in St. Croix, Virgin Islands…

http://www.balloonlife.com/publications/balloon_life/9510/tragedy.htm

Another take, from one of the widows:
http://www.rferl.org/content/Widow_Of_Slain_Balloonist_Still_Seeking_Answers_From_Belarus/1760608.html

An analogous, but even more senseless and numerous killing of helplessly danglers (This time by a US fighter pilot flying into cables of a ski-lift):

http://www.nytimes.com/1998/02/04/world/20-die-in-italy-as-us-jet-cuts-a-ski-lift-cable.html