My first ever solo cross-country flight took me down the beach from Fort Lauderdale to Watson Island, Miami (a garbage strewn grass field posing as a heliport).
At the time, there was a small helicopter tour company operating out of a quonset hut there, with two six foot grass mounds in front for helipads. Never having been there before, I nervously hovered over and onto one of the mounds, assuming that this was the local FBO where I would be promptly provided with fuel and refreshments.
Shortly a person appeared, gestured to me and then walked up to the helicopter. I uncupped my right ear in happy anticipation of the cordial exchange that was sure to follow, pilot to service person. His words, after leaning into the aircraft to get as close to my ear as possible: "GET... THE... F%&#*... OFF... MY... PAD!". I nearly crapped my pants.
Last edited by rotorusa; 8th Aug 2003 at 02:44.