Life Flight: heard, seen, coming to save

Someone once said insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

They’re wise words but in a Wellington airport hangar I’m doing exactly that: asking the same question of the same person and expecting a different answer.

Twice now helicopter pilot Harry Stevenson has said no, he doesn’t get nervous in the moments before a rescue mission begins, but I ask him again just to be sure. ‘‘No,’’ he says.

On Wednesday morning I’m following Stevenson around Life Flight’s Wellington headquarters. He’s been flying with the organisation for the past 15 years and his work is always in the news.

Whether it’s plucking someone from the sea or transporting tiny, vulnerable babies, the rescue helicopter has been flying New Zealand skies for decades. This year it’s celebrating 40 years of sponsorship from Westpac, and Stevenson and his flight team have been lumped with showing The Dominion Post around.

As visual journalist Ross Giblin sets up his cameras, I approach paramedic Nigel Stephens who’ll shortly be dangling on a wire under the helicopter.

‘‘Are you nervous?’’ I ask. ‘‘No,’’ he says.

While Stevenson, Stephens and flight crew member Scott Palmer won’t play ball with the nervousness question, they’re effusive when it comes to talking about their jobs. The service saves lives every day and the men say it’s an honour to be involved. Asked individually about their favourite missions they all mention those precious babies.

It’s all about teamwork, Stevenson says, completing the preflight checks. During the day the helicopter will be in the air within 10 minutes of getting the call for help; at night it takes 20 minutes at most.

Time matters when you’re saving lives, an old adage from which the service stemmed.

When Peter Button ran to help after the Wahine ferry sank in 1968, he watched more than 50 people drown in sight of the shore. He knew a helicopter could have saved them and, in 1975, the Life Flight Trust was born. More than 36,000 people have been flown since.

Life Flight boss Mark Johnston says it’s also teamwork that funds the organisation’s work. Sponsorship and donations account for about half of the

$12 million a year it costs to run; the other half comes from central government and district health board contracts.

When asked why the service isn’t entirely government funded, Johnston is quick to answer: ‘‘Good point. You’d have to ask the Ministry of Health or government officials.’’

The coronavirus pandemic has stymied many of the service’s usual fundraising methods and, while Westpac came to the rescue with a million dollar top-up in addition to its ‘‘significant’’ sponsorship deal, money is always a worry.

Fortunately, community loyalty is reflected in donations. You don’t have to go far in New Zealand to find someone who’s benefited from the service, and the sight and sound of the helicopter evokes strong feelings even for those not being rescued.

For those who have been on the receiving end of Life Flight, Johnston says the most common thing the crew hear is how that sound made them feel.

‘‘They say ‘I heard you, I saw you, and I just felt relieved because you were coming to save me’.’’

On board the helicopter that sound is deafening. Communicating through anything other than a headset needs to be done by yelling, and the roar of the rotors thumps in your chest. I bellow at Stephens the sound is reminding me of something, and he gives me a thumbs up.

The interior of the helicopter is cramped, even when there’s no stretcher on board. It’s in this small space Stephens has performed CPR umpteen times – his hands on a patient’s chest, his back banging into the ceiling.

On this very non-rescue mission Stevenson flies us out to Pencarrow, drops us on a hill, and we watch Stephens winch himself out of the chopper just below us. Amid the noise and wind he looks as calm as anything.

Back at base I’d asked Johnston about the rescues that stood out for him, and he’d told me about a small boy plucked from the sea last year. ‘‘He said he heard the helicopter coming and he knew he had to hold on. The paramedic grabbed him just as he went under.’’

After our flight, Stevenson says the reason he doesn’t get nervous is because safety is absolutely paramount. Even in those hairiest

rescues, when Wellington’s notorious flying conditions challenge all the crew, nothing is left to chance.

‘‘If you’re getting nervous, it’s a sign you should call it off. You should have actually called it off before you got nervous,’’ he says.

He disagrees when I say he and his colleagues are heroes, though he suspects his kids secretly think he’s cool. He used to sometimes fly over their school on his way back to base after a mission; they’d hear the noise and know it was their dad.

Later I pin down what the noise reminds me of. It’s like a heart beating extra fast, that’s what it sounds like.