Flying high and sipping champagne in the desert

AGAINST THE ODDS:Vegas was a magnetic maelstrom of madness; everything was out of proportion, including the gargantuan breakfasts, large enough to feed an army

STRAPPING himself into the helicopter, Vinny Fitzpatrick masked his apprehension by whistling a couple of bars of Let’s Hang On To What We’ve Got, one of the many hits from the fabulous ‘Jersey Boys’ show he and Angie had enjoyed the night before.

It was almost seven o’clock on a crisp Nevada morning and the skies over Las Vegas were tinged with cherry as fingers of sunlight peeped over the craggy Black Mountains.

The chopper ride to the Grand Canyon

had been booked the day before, on a post-breakfast whim after Vinny convinced Angie it was worth stumping up nearly $800 for the trip, which included a champagne breakfast on the valley floor.

The price was outrageous, he knew, but Vinny was flush after a successful run on the roulette wheel in The Golden Nugget casino where he’d punted on the numbers eight, nine, 14 and 31 – the family birthdays – and had cleaned up.

(The twins, Oisín and Aoife were born five minutes apart, either side of midnight which explained this anomaly).

As the pilot, Mike, ran through a check-list, he requested Vinny and Angie to sit alongside him in the front row, explaining that was normal procedure for the lighter passengers.

“It’s the first time a 16st Dublin fatty has ever been bottom of the handicap,” he grinned to himself, stealing a glance at the burly figures of Hank, Bill and Leroy from Cinncinati, who were providing considerable ballast, in the rear. The last chopper Vinny sat in was a bike of the same name about 35 years earlier. This time, he was bricking himself, but he tried to be strong for Angie.

As Mike moved the joystick forward and the chopper became airborne, Vinny reached out for his wife’s hand only to be snubbed. “No offence, love but you’re dripping with sweat,” said Angie, unflappable as ever. Vinny glanced at his fleshy mitts which were glistening. He rubbed his palms into his jeans, blew on them and hoped it would do the trick. With that, he sat back and tried to enjoy the ride.

As the chopper nosed its way East towards the Hoover Dam, Vinny grappled with the fact that he was 3,000 feet above the Nevada desert in mid-December rather than behind the wheel of the 130 on the Clontarf Road.

The trip of a lifetime was courtesy of Big Fat Ron, Angie’s flashy ex-husband who’d put up the lavish prize at a quiz at his recent 50th birthday bash – against the odds, Vinny and Angie had won.

It had been a long-haul 14 hours from Dublin via Chicago to Vegas, but he and Angie had barely paused for breath, as they took in the sights, sounds and slot machines of the famous Strip. Angie was a slave to the poker machines; Vinny’s vice was roulette, but neither of them could get their heads around the game of craps. “It’s a bit like baseball,” thought Vinny, “a curiously American thing”.

Vegas was a magnetic maelstrom of madness; everything was out of proportion, including the gargantuan breakfasts, large enough to feed an army.

It was also a place of contradictions.

While the Venetian Hotel was a shrine to the Italian renaissance – there was a gondola ride on the second floor – outside, hawkers and hucksters lurked on every street corner.

If you wanted, you could have a girl, any girl, delivered to your room inside 20 minutes, for a fee of course.

Everything in Vegas came with a charge, noted Vinny, including, believe it or not, bottled air. The Oxygen Bar would hook you up for $30 dollars for a 15-minute gasp.

“Don’t knock it,” said Angie. “Everyone laughed when they charged for bottled water in Ireland 25 years ago.”

The sheer enormity of the extravagance shocked Vinny. In the Venetian alone, there were almost 60 restaurants and over 100 shops, but just one casino, which was a gigantic sprawling mass of dream-seekers and addicts, where the action was non-stop 24-7.

It was all in your face. To get to and from rooms, visitors had to pass through the casino where high rollers played Black Jack at $50 a deal, alongside desperadoes spinning 25 cents a turn on the slots.

There were no windows, no clocks and the drinks were on the house, if you could catch the eye of the flimsy-clad waitresses – there were no waiters.

Vinny loved a bet, but reckoned he’d go bonkers, as well as broke, if he was held captive in the casino for more than two or three days. It explained his willingness to break free, to take flight in a glass bubble bound for the Grand Canyon.

However, as the flying ant buzzed towards one of the greatest natural wonders on earth, Vinny knew his first chopper ride would also be his last.

His palms stayed clammy, his breathing

was erratic and his heart pounded like a pneumatic drill.

As Mike informed the passengers they were crossing the state line into Arizona, Vinny’s mind was in a whirl.

“What in the name of jaypurs am I doing here?” he thought to himself.

More than once, he wanted to rip open his seat-belt, yank the red door handle and take flight. It was insanity he knew, but the urge to free-fall just wouldn’t leave.

Vinny always had a fear of heights, since he was a nipper, and it was coming back to haunt him. If he was on a plane, he would always sit on an aisle seat; in a hotel, he’d ask for a ground floor room; on his rare visits to Goodison Park, he’d buy a ticket close to the goals; but here, 3,000 feet up, there was only inches of glass between him and nothingness.

He closed his eyes and began to pray. He prayed that his parents, Finbarr and Bridie, were looking out for him and made a solemn vow to go to Mass every Sunday if he got through safely.

Some time later, Vinny felt a downward motion. He risked taking a peek and saw the gurgling flow of the Colorado River right below. Soon, the chopper was on terra firma, Indian Land, and Vinny could finally breathe a little easier.

Mike served up the champagne breakfast and Vinny eagerly emptied his glass.

When Hank, Bill and Leroy passed up, he gleefully supped theirs.

As the fizz flowed through his veins, Vinny felt light-headed and relaxed for the first time that morning.

The return journey was far less stressful.

Vinny exchanged seats with Hank and took the middle seat in the rear. He couldn’t reach any door handle and could only see out in front, which suited him fine.

Half an hour later, the helicopter touched down safely in a quiet corner of McCarron Airport, and Vinny linked arms with Angie, knowing he would never suffer the experience again. “Time for a hearty breakfast and maybe a wee wager or two,” he grinned.

The following morning, a headline in the Las Vegas Sun newspaper caught his eye. There was a report of a helicopter crash, near the Grand Canyon, the day before. Five people, including the pilot, had perished.

As Vinny stood in the sunshine on the Strip, he froze. His thoughts were a jumble. He thought of his parents and the prayers he had said.

Suddenly, he felt a lump rise in his throat. Then he remembered that big girls don’t cry.

Bets of the week

1pt each-way Captain Chris in King George VI Chase (8/1, Paddy Power)

2pts Aston Villa to beat Arsenal in Premier League (4/1, Ladbrokes)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Darren Clarke to be BBC Sports Personality of the Year (5/1, general, liability 5pts)