OH, THE JOYS OF A CHOPPER RIDE THROUGH SUBURBIA!

Many young girls dream of being a princess but I always wanted to fly a helicopter. Years ago, I'd signed up for lessons but was notified the company had shut down. I searched the obituaries for the cause but apparently it was just a business decision.

I was ecstatic to discover one could take beginner lessons in Manassas, VA. It cost $115 for one hour including 1/2 hour in flight. A lot? I would have paid double; I mean, it should cost more than my gym trainer, right? And surely it couldn't be harder than an hour of heavy weight lifting, I kidded myself. Best of all, they guaranteed that after training, I could take over the controls and fly it myself. They must be nuts! I have a hard time maneuvering my vehicle down here on earth.

My mind tantalized me: Would I get to buzz the White House? Flash the Pentagon? Wave down to my friends in Middleburg? The possibilities were seductive.

I was certain to be a 'natural', one of the "Great Women in Flight". There were online outlines on how it all works; I would learn to operate the machine through osmosis and go marching in there ready to rock and roll. (Unfortunately, that's what the whirlybird did when I took over the controls.) 'Natural clumsiness' was more like it.

It was worth it for the instructors alone. I was greeted by my pilot. Aha! So this is where all the handsome guys in uniform are. I admonished myself: 'pay attention to his words, not his looks!'

After a half hour of safety instruction, we strolled to the machine. Well, not exactly...the wind was howling, it was a freezing cold, blustery April winter day. He assured me all would be fine, despite the wind. I bet he also had a bridge to sell me. I raced to the helicopter to escape the cold, planning to hop right in - but it doesn't quite work that way. We first had to walk around it for a pre-flight inspection, kind of like a car rental but with words like FAA & UFO instead. It finally came time to board, and thankfully I had been working out enough to hoist my small frame up about 10 feet onto the seat. The only issue was that my legs couldn't quite reach the pedals. But no problem - the pilot gallantly rolled his eyes, then took off his jacket and folded it up behind my back.

My helicopter ("Buzzy") was tiny, more like a mosquito! It was so cute, I wanted to pet it. Built for executives to flit about from their offices to their mansions, it's small enough to land on a placemat.

We finally got to the serious part about how the thing actually works. Think patting your head, rubbing your belly and riding a unicycle all at once. I thought I had stepped into Little Nell from " You Only Live Twice." I'd settle for surviving this one life. After contacting air traffic control ("Tower, all hands on deck for this one!"), we lifted off the tarmac and my bravado vaporized. It was more like "Great Women in Fright" and hard to decipher which whining was worse - mine or the 'copter's rotor blades starting up. I urged him to stay low in case we came crashing down. Everytime we began a turn, the little bird banked, and I thought the door was going to fling open and I'd go flying out. Not like Peter Pan, more like an earthbound asteroid. Our attitudes were very different: "Lean into the turn", he advised. "Get real", I advised back.

I took over the controls and forced 'Buzzy' to climb so I could observe something besides my own internal panic. Gazing out over the verdant landscape, the view from above took on a unique perspective: "Jeez, that Monopoly house could use a new roof !" "Ants can jog?" "Wow, isn't that Costco? Let's land and make a quick grocery buy!" (certain that I was about to lose my lunch). My biggest challenge was 'hovering' -- much like keeping a paddle boat at a standstill with forward/backward motions, except adding up and down and side to side plus a little nausea all at once. But I liked it because I figured if we weren't moving, we couldn't hit anything.  I don't think the lesson could end fast enough for the poor guy.

OK, so Amelia Earhardt I'm not.  When we finally landed and disembarked, my sigh of relief was audible all the way to a very grateful White House and Pentagon.  It was scary to be sure but also exhilarating (kind of like the pilot).  For the life of me, I can't understand why they didn't ask me to sign up for advanced lessons.

http://www.americanheli.com (703) 368-9599

DON'T BOTHER ME, I'M CRABBY!

Whoever coined that was obviously a sophisticated, citified woman who had just experienced her very first weekend ever 'camping'. It wasn't such a crazy idea (my friends told me after they stopped laughing), it was only May, no bugs yet, and the cause was noble - volunteering for the official annual Horseshoe crab census count under the full moon in Cape Henlopen, Delaware. The crabs have been around 350 million years; it remained to be seen if I could survive two days.

Rule #1: Think twice before testing the great outdoors with a buff Nordic companion, no matter how cute he is. We were driving a van - not like a delivery van as I had feared, but a large, plush one, big enough to hold all our supplies and equipment; enough for Army maneuvers, in fact. I don't understand why he seemed genuinely puzzled that my belongings did not fit neatly into a backpack. Along with all the required gear, a girl still needs her pillow, chair, Starbucks, sleeping bag with built-in magnifying mirror and Chanel flip-flops, right?

It rained the entire day of the drive up to Delaware. But, being the perfect party planner, I had called ahead to verify that there were rooms available in Lewes as an alternative to a wet tent, which for any sane person is not an option. His alternative: Sleep in the van, of course! Since I’d never even made out in the back seat of a vehicle in high school, I certainly wasn't about to spend the night in one now. But as we sped right by the B&B's, me waving wistfully out the back window and choking up with grief as they disappeared into the horizon, I realized my fate was sealed.

It was actually pretty cozy after we set it all up - the equipment was in the wet tent, we in the cushy, dry van. With soft music, the light of the moon through the trees, it was the Ritz Carlton by comparison. It's all relative as they say. I was with a true Viking to whom the great outdoors was second nature; or probably first nature; to him, a civilized hotel is unworthy, what with all those annoying man-made conveniences like bed linens, hair dryers, and room service. I assumed I was in good hands.

That night, we embarked on our first 'stroll to the beach' maneuver, in the pitch dark, along a wooded trail, with rustling in the forest that I just knew came from bears and coiled snakes. We plodded on....and on....and on, my feet killing me, begging to turn back, whining that I was still 'in training' – until we were finally stopped by a Do Not Enter, Secure Area barrier. Whew! Now we could go back. Not! Like a dutiful girl scout, I halted but the warrior leapt over the barricade and disappeared into the black never-neverland, for what seemed like hours. So I took a much needed rest. We finally reconnoitered for the trek back, only to get lost amongst giant sand dunes, like Moses in the desert, wandering around, no water, no manna from heaven, no map. I never thought I'd be so elated to see a campsite.

The next day was another exercise, this time covering the entire length of the beach, sun blazing, perfect sky, with my 'Get in shape' sergeant by my side. (I kept insisting "Round IS a shape!", to no avail.) The Horseshoe crabs had obviously been on just such a forced march and were found dead where they collapsed, unable to make it all the way to the end of the Point. I wanted to join them. But I trudged and waddled to the end and back, where Harald the Horrible had jogged ahead in perfect form and settled in to await my eventual return.

The food was delicious, especially the lamb steaks which he grilled to perfection. Tip of the day: Don't eat meat on a camping trip if you're not used to it. Fortunately, the public bathroom was within sprinting distance and remained my best friend for most of the day. I decided not to further test my system, so while he sipped Pinot, I guzzled Canada Dry. Little did I know that meant I would have to drive the van. What? I'm 5'3"; how am I supposed to conduct a locomotive? My panic reared its ugly head but the choice was made clear: either drive or walk. (Note to self: Next time (ha!) just say "Yes Dear", then shoot him.) I finally decided it was preferable to risk our lives with me driving than try to hoof it yet several more miles at night and become roadkill. I pity the driver behind me as I zig-zagged the giant tank down the dark road, but we finally made it to the crab census in one piece.

Although there were zero, count ‘em, zero live, spawning Horseshoe crabs to count because of a recent storm, the event was unique and serene, the lighthouse twinkled and beamed, and we twinkled and beamed back. Remarkably, even the dead horseshoes were an awe-inspiring sight, like little slain knights in shining armor scattered across a battlefield.

Would I do it again? Perhaps, armed with experience, imodium and relationship-training. There's a lot to be said for a taste now and then of the simpler life, where nature rules, and the sight of giant campers skulking silently by their campsites is preferable to the cacophony of the city and traffic jams. And I’d know next time to slip a sedative into my companion's drink upon arrival.