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Risk Isn't Just a Board GameNovember 27, 2005 Elaine e-mailed this morning that the new trail had been cut. She and her husband are kind enough to let horseback riders coming through Chicama Vineyards, e.g., fairly frequently, me, cut along the edge of their farm to get to the state forest. In the process of expanding a pasture, the old route was bisected by new fence. I e-mailed back that I hoped to try out the new route this afternoon -- tomorrow morning a half hour before sunrise Deer Week begins, during which hunters bearing shotguns stalk the deer of their dreams. I and most of the walkers, cyclists, and riders I know stay out of the woods during Deer Week, especially the state forest that sprawls across the island's midsection. Ginny, having just seen her daughter and five grandkids off after Thanksgiving visit, was likewise up for a trail ride, so we headed out through Chicama Vineyards, which are just up and on the other side of the dirt road. Up in the partly overcast sky a helicopter circled, a noteworthy sight: helicopters hereabouts are generally either searching for something on the ground or evacuating a sick or injured person from the hospital. This one was too high to be searching, and it obviously wasn't headed for Boston or Hyannis. Elaine's husband, Mike, is a pilot; I figured he'd know something about it. We trotted down the vineyard road into the woods, found the new trail, and followed it up to the farm. Mike was so intently hanging a gate that he didn't hear us till horse hooves crunched the gravel. He asked, "Did you hear the sirens?" before we could ask if he knew anything about the helicopter. Short version: A plane had crashed, the pilot, Jimmy Rogers, an experienced pilot and mechanic, had been killed when his plane crashed shortly after takeoff from Martha's Vineyard Airport. Says the Cape Cod Times online edition: "Associates described Rogers, a builder, as a longtime Vineyarder, an avid and skilled aviator, and a popular member of the island's flying community." Of course Mike knew him; all the island pilots know each other, just like most island horse people -- a bigger group -- know, or at least know of, each other. Elaine came up with her younger mare, Caroline, in hand; they'd been working in the round pen at the far end of the pasture. We talked horse for a bit, then Ginny and I continued on our way, arriving back at the barn an hour and a half later, just before dark. Riding is considered a dangerous activity, but I don't feel when I put my foot in the stirrup that I'm taking my life in my hands or even doing anything especially risky. I've got some pretty compelling reasons for wanting to survive intact till tomorrow and the next day and the day after that: a novel to sell, a couple more novels and plenty of other stuff to write . . . When he took off, Jimmy Rogers must have assumed that he'd be landing safely at some time in the not too distant future. He had reasons as compelling as mine to want to live till tomorrow. It didn't happen. To steal a line from "My Terrorist Eye" (it's OK; I wrote it): "WARNING: Life may be hazardous to your health and safety. To function in this life, denial mechanisms must be enabled. Please test your denial mechanisms now."
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