# The Pilot by Sean Corey



## HUGGY (Apr 29, 2013)

The Pilot

Sean Corey

Chapter One

Possession

Stealing the plane wasn't easy. It had not gone like clockwork. Flying it from
Seattle to the Cartel&#8217;s private airstrip in Virginia was becoming a bit problematic. 
The kidnapped bird was straining my wits and testing my endurance from the 
moment of takeoff from Boeing Field. 

When the right engine blew a seal and smoke started billowed out of the engine
 cover as I was climbing out heading South over Kent and Auburn I knew I was in
 for a hard ride. I banked left, said goodbye to the Boeing tower and headed North
 over Lake Washington to my first stop and a chance to gather my wits and plan
 the rest of the trip.  Flying North to Arlington Airport, near Bellingham, gaining
 altitude at 200 knots as the sun was just slicing a few scant rays over the Cascades 
I could see Arlington ahead covered in fog.  Just the very end of the runway 
threshhold was visible with the magnetic heading number just readable from 
1000 ft AGL.  I pushed the switch to lower the gear and I got one green light 
out of the three.  The nose gear had extended and locked but both main wheels
 had not fully deployed.  Obviously something was wrong with hydraulic pressure. 
So, that's what happened at take off, I though to myself.  A hydraulic pump seal 
on the right engine had blown.

Now I was low on fuel and trying to land a stolen Cessna 402 with no landing
 gear into a fog bank covering Arlington Airport.  Nice.  I was laughing to myself 
at what the Seattle Times headlines would read.  There would be no time for 
self depredation.  I might kick myself later but now I had to land this plane!

OK.  First things first.  I climbed up to a couple thousand feet and snap stalled 
the plane a dozen times and attempted to force the gear to extend and lock. 
 No dice. Time was running out so I had to do something I really did not want 
to do. I had no choice.  I pulled the cable handle on the emergency gear extend 
system which was a CO2 bottle full of compressed gas that blew into the 
hydraulic system and ensured a landing on wheels instead of the lower fuselage
 of the plane.  Normally I do not sweat when under stress but I could feel a
 liquid film start to accumulate on my forehead and wrists.

There was a loud bang and a thud that shook the plane as the gas forced the 
gear into place.

Now that the gear was down and I had three greens and a plane that would 
fly about half as fast with twice the fuel consumtion I had to land on an 
airstrip almost completely covered in fog.  Sweet!  The Gods were apparently 
pissed off.

I lined up on the tiny scrap of visible runway by my magnet heading and blasted
 in at 95 knots into pea soup.  I kept my eyes on the barely visible centerline and 
as soon as the wheels touched asphalt I stood on the brakes.  Somehow I landed
 the plane. I can't fully explain how as there were no visible references to gauge 
how it happened.

I taxied off the runway at the first curved reference indicating an exit and still 
unable to see any buildings or parking areas I just followed the white line away 
from the runway. Dimly the taxiway lights indicated a sign that simply read "fuel" 
and I headed the Cessna in that general direction creeping along as I really didn't 
want to clip anything and abruptly end this theft.


I pulled up next to the locked fuel pump looked at my watch 4 A M and just 
leaned back and fell soundly asleep.  It seemed like no time at all but I awoke 
at 6 AM just as the manager drove his pickup to the door of Arlington Airport's 
office.  I exited the plane and with as little conversation as possible paid cash 
for 100 gallons and topped off both wings tanks.  When finished I got back in the
 Cessna and nodded of again.  It was now 9 AM and the fog had lifted from the 
runways.  I fired up the Motors and started on my journey East and South.

The second planned fuel stop in Pendleton, Oregon had taken longer than
expected. Flying East I was losing time with the sun. The farther away I got
from Seattle the better my chances were in keeping this prize and staying out of
prison. I was doubling down with quickly shrinking daylight and time. Within
the closing darkness I risked an unseen vengeance far more dangerous than
anything threatened by the authorities. Chaos hidden in the blackness could be
my immediate undoing. I was betting that I was prepared for anything. It was
beginning to look like a fool&#8217;s wager.

It was already dark over the northern Utah desert and I was on my second
day out of Boeing field. I was only a third of the way to safety and fulfilling a
non-negotiable rendezvous with Cory and Junior, my newest partners in crime. I
knew I was running out of time.

The drone of the turbocharged motor driven propellers was becoming
slightly irregular. The annoying sound was an uncomfortable reminder that this
pirated thoroughbred of an airplane was still fighting me en route to its new
vocation, international smuggling. The arrhythmic beat, although not dangerous,
was like the forced pounding of a boxer&#8217;s heart throbbing in the middle rounds as
he resolves to final push toward a clean flawless run of finishing punches. I
reached to the Cessna 402&#8217;s dash and adjusted the propeller synchronization
knobs until the motors sang together on the same powerful beating note.
For the last half an hour I had been at eight thousand feet as indicated on the
altimeter, around 1,000 feet above ground level (AGL). The details of the
Northern Utah high country showed in striking miniature clarity under the light of
a new moon. I could easily see the sage brush and pick out individual cattle
grazing out in the open range in the stark moon light. The soft white glow of Salt
Lake City was visible off to the South.

The temperature inside the cabin had been an acceptably uncomfortable 50
degrees as the plane&#8217;s heater was fighting a desperate battle with near zero outside
the aircraft. Although I had been flying on and off for over eighteen hours
straight since last sleeping. The frigid environment challenged my senses. They
were still crisp and sharp. I wish I could have said the same for my plane.
This theft had not gone exactly as planned. Flying an airplane, under the
best of conditions, has its intense moments, like taking off, avoiding other air
traffic and of course, landing. These points of extreme focus are separated by
more mundane activities like scanning the gauges, calculating course corrections
and thinking. There is usually plenty of opportunity to think ahead, and what has
transpired in the past. This trip had been a shitstorm of adversity with little time
for the usual flight maintenance and reflection.

I was already missing my girl Rhonda, whose help I depended upon to
steal the Cessna 402. This adventure was born of fits and starts. My mind
was working likewise scanning forward to my future work as a pilot for
the Cartel and back through the last several weeks&#8217; activities that had led
to this opportunity. I slipped the &#8216;Stones&#8217; into the cassette player and let
&#8220;Girl with the far away eyes&#8221; sing into my headphones.
Now 10:30 PM, I was airborne nearly a thousand air miles and safely
20 hours from this planes theft, on my own, and headed for future base of
operations in Virginia. Recent events had been continually creeping into
my thoughts. I must have lost some of my focus because; here now over
the Utah Mountains, I hadn&#8217;t noticed how quickly the range of visibility
was closing in on me. Still, I was not alarmed sufficiently to make a
navigational adjustment and drifted off again with my thoughts. The gods
must have still been angry over the rude acquisition of this fine bird.
I quickly snapped out of my reverie. Looking out of the windscreen, black
and gray had replaced what was left of visibility. &#8220;What the fuck?&#8221; I muttered out
loud. From what a few moments earlier had been relatively clear air was now
rapidly becoming a dangerous situation. I had seen the gathering of tall white
cumulus cloud formations to the south but figured I would just weave my way
through them towards my next scheduled stop in Loveland, Colorado. In the
darkness I hadn&#8217;t seen what was closing in fast behind me.

Then it happened
Without so much as the slightest of warnings I felt a massive motion
towards my left and in the violence of the moment I could briefly see the altimeter
spinning like a crazy clock displaying my acceleration in altitude. The powerful
updraft of the unseen thunderhead behind me was sucking my plane like a bubble
in a drinking straw. The blood was rushing from my brain. I must have blacked
out for a few seconds. It did not matter. In a micro burst of wind shear so violent
the airplanes control surfaces were useless. Like a drunk in a car crash I was
probably lucky to be summarily disconnected from control. If I had been able to
fight this assault I and my plane would have been lost.

Coming back to consciousness, all I could do was just hold on tight to the
yoke and try to make some sense of this wild ride towards the moon. Apparently
the deities were just joking because I was released from my vertical trajectory
almost as quickly as it they had devoured me and the plane. I was summarily
spat out of this thunderhead, like you would a watermelon seed, at approximately
28,000 feet and upside down. My plane and I had been lifted over 20,000 feet, to
an altitude well above breathable air. The whole wild ride happened in less than
20 seconds!

Now came the real test, a test far more critical than my ability to find and
steal an aircraft. Could I get out of this predicament and live to tell the tale?
Think fast. Be sure. Act now. My ears were painfully popping and strained
breathing was quickly becoming impossible. I was falling from the sky inverted.
The motors rpms were rapidly spiraling out of control. With a steady pull on the
yoke I got the nose down and then started to loop back towards level flight. I
dropped flaps and quickly set the mixture to full rich and adjusted the props to
maximum thrust. With the racing engine speed brought down I dug my foot into
the right rudder pedal started a controlled bank away from the clouds I had just
been ejected from. Almost as quickly as I was to disaster I had regained control
of the righted twin Cessna.

The plane had oxygen which I had not tested. I quickly felt for and turned
the lever on the valve, slid the plastic mask over my nose and was relieved to
breathe in the clean life supporting taste of cool pure oxygen.
I don&#8217;t want to complain but things weren&#8217;t exactly going as well as planned
at this point. I nosed the bird over and dove for the mountain tops beneath me.
As I sought out a patch of clear air at 12,000 feet to regroup in, I wondered out
loud &#8220;What fucking else can go wrong&#8221;. Checking my instruments for a
navigational correction, I discovered that my wild little unscheduled ride up the
elevator had also sucked me more than ten miles north of my previous position.
Snow was blowing all around me and lightning was leapfrogging horizontally
across the nearby cloud tops.

I had seen enough violent weather for a lifetime in the last few minutes. It
was time to set this bird down, check for damage and evaluate my chances of
completing this stolen journey.

I dug into my flight bag and grasped the familiar little plastic bound book.
Flipping on the red cabin night light I quickly thumbed to the Wyoming section.
It appeared, in my Western Flight and Airport Frequency Guide, that the closest
usable runway would be Rock Springs, Wyoming at around 7,600 feet above
mean sea level. I made a desperate dash for this high plateau refuge. It wasn&#8217;t
long before I was in the airport&#8217;s radio range.

Again I had to do some quick thinking. I took a chance that it was snowing
hard in Rock Springs and gave a false aircraft number identity contacting the
airport. At least for a short time the foul weather was going to be an advantage.
The tower informed me of a couple of inches of snow on the landing surface
with small blowing drifts. They advised I try to find a different place to land. I
replied I was low on fuel and would take my chances. They resisted but I insisted.
Seeing my landing lights approach they were good enough to turn on the runway
RAIL strobing lights. With a crosswind of twenty knots the runway was obscured
in a shallow sea of white tumbling flakes flowing from left to right. I stuck the
wheels hard, a strain on the gear, and landed relatively safely in white out
conditions. Fortunately the taxiways were well identified with bright blue
markers.

I taxied carefully and slowly off of the frozen blizzard obscured runway
towards a couple of planes tied down near the end of the tarmac. Passing them I
spun around 180 degrees and pulled my bird into the line. I couldn&#8217;t see the tower
through the heavy blowing snow which meant that they couldn&#8217;t see me either
and read my numbers. I shut down the plane&#8217;s motors and exhaled. It seemed my
first completely safe breath in what had felt more like combat than cross country
flying.

Reaching back, for the big blue nylon bag that secured my traveling
wardrobe, I fished for and felt the familiar down parka. I used it rock climbing,
for many years, weathering many Northern Cascade mountain storms and brought
it along just in case. Pulling it over my tired and cold torso I felt it&#8217;s warmth like
a good old trusted friend.

The faithful goose down did its magic against the icy air. I got out and
slipped the prop covers on the propellers to prevent ice from sticking to them in
the snowstorm. Too dark to do a proper inspection for storm damage, I returned
to the plane to crawl into the down sleeping bag I had brought with me for just the
possibility of cold weather and this occasion. I couldn&#8217;t measure the temperature
but I was sure it was below zero.

It was bitter cold now that the motors and therefore the heaters had
been shut off. The Rock Springs tower would close soon at midnight
and open up again at 7 AM. I would safe for a few hours. A sliver of
doubt was stealing into my thoughts as the cold was closing in around me
and throughout the cargo bay of the plane. I had to keep focused and
remember why I was doing this and the commitments I now could not
back out of.
* * *
It was too late for questions. The answers to those questions, that
were useless to ask, haunted my thoughts. Two months earlier I was
more confident. Two months earlier I met Cory, my new partner and
portal to the Cartel.
* * *
It was too cold to sleep. I was too tired not to. I started thinking
about the events that had led up to this icy interlude. As I surveyed the
snow blowing like swarms of crazy white bumblebees drifting across the
runway before me my thoughts and consciousness started drifting off with
them.


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## HUGGY (May 1, 2013)

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfiGj-8VsCs]Cessna 402 Landing - YouTube[/ame]


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## HUGGY (May 3, 2013)

Chapters 2-3 pages 9-18 of 333 "The Pilot" by Sean Corey

*Breaking In*

It took two years of working my way into the business of smuggling and
drug dealing in Florida and points West and North before I knew the right people
to make my big move.
Talk was cheap and deadly in the moving of pot and precious powders.
Asking questions could prove equally as dangerous. The only way to get inside
was to be inside. What little trust was allowed had to be earned. That meant
proving I was worth knowing. I started by flying commercially like a
professional tourist moving as much product as it took to work my way up near
the top of the drug supply food chain.

10

It was obvious from my observations of this game that the guy with the
plane was the most valuable player on this deadly chess board. That is why I
became a pilot.
It took another year after I had fully committed to smuggling, to secure my
pilots license. I started renting planes everywhere I went.
On one such occasion in late 1978 I was back up in Seattle taking an old
drug dealer friend, Gary Clarke; out on a recon flight. He wanted to look at some
old gold mines up in the Washingtons North Cascade Mountains. Gary was
always trying to find his elusive pot of gold. Sitting in the frozen cargo bay of the
Stolen Cessna I recalled my big break into the big time.
* * *
You ever fly any dope in these things? Gary asked.
Why do you think I got the license Mr. Yuk? Thats what everyone called
him. His grinning weasel eyes gleamed. Gary was funny. He made you laugh.
Gary knew Cory. Cory had some heavy connections with the Cartel in
Baranquilla, Colombia. My name was raised in conversation, seeking a pilot,
between the two of them.
I got the call early in the morning.
It was raining that cool misty Seattle drizzle and I was apprehensive about
committing to a rendezvous with Cory. He had a reputation of being a hard man
to negotiate with. It was said that everything had to be his way and on his terms.

11

I was not sure if there would be room for both our egos in any deal we may agree
upon.
Cory had a horse ranch out in Redmond, east of Seattle. I pulled up the long
driveway in my midnight blue 76 Ford F 150 shortbox 4x4 pickup.
The barking of dogs gave away my 6 AM arrival. A Rotwieler and a
German Shepard were straining at their chains guarding the big back porch. Next
to the large naturally weathered farm house on the hill overlooking the Redmond
Valley stood a huge classic red barn.
I heard some coughing from an upstairs open widow. I would be able to
recognize Cory many times in the future from this distinctive hacking.
A scruffy farmhand popped his head out of the back door and asked Who
the fuck are you and what are you doing here?
Strange. I thought.
I was invited here by the owner, a guy calling himself Cory was my reply.
The guy just stared blankly out into space.
Thats cool man. If he isnt here, tell him next time you see him, I will get
back to him. That is if I can work him into MY schedule I was annoyed at the
sloppy way I was greeted. Fuck this. I muttered under my breath.
Hey O.T.! I heard through my open cab window as I started pulling my
truck around to go down the driveway.
What the hell? I said out loud in amazement as only a handful of people
called me that.

12

O. T. stood for Out There. That was the nickname my friends gave me
for being on and over the line so frequently.
I stopped the truck and this six foot thin balding curly brown haired hippy
looking guy is staggering out off the back porch coming shakily in my direction.
He is either drunk or suffering from a hell of a hang over. It was the latter.
How good can you fly a plane? A strange start for a conversation, I
thought. Corys nasal voice was as distinctive as his never ending coughing. He
sounded like Stephen Hawking, that Genius from England in the wheelchair that
speaks through a computer.
I lashed back. Good enough Sparky. How do you know my nickname?
And you would be? I feigned curiosity and queried.
Im the guy that can make you richer than your wildest dreams Sparky!
Cory bounced back.
We did not exactly hit it off at first blush.
I turned off my motor, got out and sized up this arrogant son of a bitch that
didnt have the good graces to let his hired help know to expect the guy that was
going to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams.
The mood quickly shifted down a couple of notches and we walked next to
each other towards the barn, Cory leading the way.
You like horses O.T.? Cory asked so quietly I thought he was trying to tell
me a secret.
Ya Cory. I whispered back. I think they make fine dog food. He
laughed. At least he liked my joke.

13

My friends down in Colombia and I are looking for a pilot. Clarke says
you are the best he knows and you dont mind what the cargo is. He confided.
True?
Maybe. I returned
While we are being so crystal clear of our needs and intentions I may as
well tell you that I work for myself.
I stated my demands. Ya, I will fly anywhere. That is anywhere I chose to
and with any cargo legal or not if I so desire but I will only do it on my own
terms.
You got a plane? My people want to know if your plane can do the job.
Cory was feeling out my worth and trying to decide if this smart mouth asshole
was valuable enough to waste his and his very serious friends time on.
That will not be a problem. In a word, no. I do not have the right plane for
the job. But I will find the right one and take it. I bluntly countered his thinly
veiled objection.
How are you going to get a plane, genius? Cory whined.
I can pick a planes lock in ten seconds with my eyes blindfolded sport.
Leave that detail up to me
I guess we had a preliminary deal though it seemed that the confrontational
nature of my new relationship with Cory was bound to be troublesome.
The next day I was back in Seattle having lunch at The Black Angus up on
Aurora with Mr. Yuk. Cory walked into the bar and he joined us sitting down
next to me at the counter.

14

Hey Cory! Howzit? I said in my Tongan friend Bones Hawaiian
accent. He gave me a not so subtle look of disgust.
My people want us to fly down to Miami early next week to meet you.
He demanded. But first I need to see how well you can handle an airplane so I
can be sure you will be worth all of our time.
You guys expect a lot with little reason on my part to jump when you say
jump. Not letting on my sense that my stock was gaining altitude.
OK, what are you doing this afternoon? I countered back. Ill make a call
and go rent a plane. Ill pick you up down at the main terminal at Boeing field in
two hours. Be there.
Now who is moving fast? He retorted. Just be there I said coolly. He
got up and walked out and for the first time in our short acquaintance he was
smiling.
I pushed my half eaten prime rib back and threw down a twenty to the
hostess. I headed straight to the pay phone on the wall.
Hey, this is Sean Corey. You gotta Cessna 172 available for four hours
starting at 2 PM ? The voice working for Renton Aviation on the other end of
the line answered in the affirmative and I said Thank you, sign me up. I hung
up the handset and turned towards the bar.

15

*Test Flight*

Putting on my Rayban Aviators I motioned to Gary to follow me outside
into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the Angus bar.
Cory was there in front of the terminal as we taxied up near the airplane tie
down area. Gary got in the back seat and Cory piled into the passenger or copilot
chair.
Everybody buckled up? I said over the drone of the Lycoming engine
and pulled my phones down over my ears, without waiting for a reply, we
taxied out onto the tarmac that lead to the taxiway that lead to the threshold of the
main Northern facing runway that was used by the smaller planes at Boeing Field.
I pushed the throttle full forward and we rolled past the threshold at the
words you are next for departure Cessna Yankee Whiskey seven-sevenniner.

16

With those magic words from the tower we quickly accelerated to 78 knots and
took off.
I motioned to Cory to put on the extra set of DB headphones and he
complied as I was already describing our intended flight plan and destination for
this audition through the radio intercom.
One of the shortest runways around was the one at the marina in Anacortes
up north of Seattle about 45 minutes from Boeing. It being next to some water
added to the impression of landing on an aircraft carrier.
We descended from 4500 feet AGL. The wind had shifted 180 degrees from
Seattle and I prepared the aircraft for an abrupt landing.
Without a go-around or as much as any notice to my passengers, I crabbed
severely into a 20 knot cross wind and stuck a perfect landing on the very front
edge of the runway. My landing was almost sideways, pivoting the plane back to
straight and level with a single violent but totally controlled motion. I had our
172 stopped in about 300 feet, about half of normal. I pulled off the runway onto
the grass, did a 180 spin and turned off the key. I jumped out my door and stood
next to the plane looking out towards the boats moored at the marina in front of
us. Cory looked a little flushed and without a word cupped his hands to his mouth
and ran to the edge of the grass and bent over.
ARRRAAUUUUNNNGGG!!! He puked his guts out for about 5
minutes. He pulled an old red and blue bandana handkerchief out of his back
pocket and wiped his face.
That was some landing O.T. Mr. Yuk quipped.

17

We laughed out loud. Cory joined us and he too started laughing. It
appeared I had passed my audition. It was not long after that I had to prove I
could steal a suitable airplane. My involvement was getting deeper at light speed
and so was my risk.
* * *
I awoke from the stupor of my half sleep. My search for meaning, my
recapping recent events in the clues I laid down in this smuggling game would
have to wait. The cold was overwhelming. I refocused and checked my watch. It
was three in the morning. I was still stuck in cold Rock Springs Wyoming.
The windows inside the Cessna were covered in thin sheets of frozen breath.
I needed something warm to fight off the bitter cold that was creeping into my
extremities and my thoughts. I had brought along a little butane one-burner stove
kit with my travel gear. The problem was that it needed ventilation and the
airplane wasnt really designed for camping. I decided that the air outside wasnt
any colder than what I was sleeping in and cracked open the cargo bay double
doors. Peaking outside, I could clearly see the stars above this high plateau Rock
Springs airstrip. Big puffs of white cotton candy were racing across the sky.
I had one full and one partial thermos of coffee remaining. I
opened the lighter one. Three cups was what remained. Fortunately it
was not frozen into ice.

18

As the coffee steamed in the stainless pot I already felt warmer.
Sitting on the edge of the cargo entryway I was wondering if I was really
prepared enough for this flight. I had encountered more than I had
bargained for in the last twenty-four hours Sometimes just the
unshakable belief in your own preparation can be troublesome, even fatal.
It reminded me of the events shortly after my audition with Cory and my
first encounters with the Colombians.
* * *


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## HUGGY (May 3, 2013)

Met Cory and Mr Yuk to start my international smuggling career.







[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gY3WkLUkzg]Best Cessna 172 Landing - YouTube[/ame]

Boeing field..where the 402 Cessna was stolen, picked up Cory for flight to Anacortes






Anacortes airport


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## HUGGY (May 3, 2013)

Arlington WA airport in fog.


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## HUGGY (May 5, 2013)

Pages 19-38 "The Pilot" by Sean Corey

*Ten Seconds or Less*

&#8220;Ten seconds&#8221; was my foolish boast to Cory and through him to
Junior. Maybe I was high or drunk, but the claim had been made to my
two dangerous new partners. Cory was the big time American pot buyer
and Junior the Colombian nephew to the cartel boss of bosses based in
Baranquilla, Colombia.
I had purchased the two lock sets from the Cessna dealership in
Renton Washington two months previously. Unbelievably, those two
simple four pin locks were standard issue in a 402 and all that kept anyone
with enough balls from flying off with a four-hundred-thousand dollar
airplane. After several hours of practice with my hand crafted picks I was
confident that I could open either lock within a few seconds in total
darkness. Cory and Junior, with more responsibility than a bragger&#8217;s
reputation to support in air piracy, were skeptical. I had foolishly bragged
to Cory, my contact to the Cartel, about how long it would take me to pick
a Cessna lock. He passed this dangerous babble on to Junior, who pushed

20

it on to some of the older Cartel elders living in Miami. They were
curious how I could back up my claim that getting a plane for my
participation in the enterprise would be the easiest part of all. I even went
a step farther and claimed I could do it blindfolded because I would be
doing it at night with no lighting.
So there I was, two weeks before the planned theft, taken from the
Miami airport motel, blindfolded in a limousine and driven to the location
of my demonstration.
The scene of my survival or failure to impress the Florida
representatives of the Cartel was to take place Little Havana. When the
limo stopped my blinder was removed to reveal our arrival outside of a
large mansion. I was escorted inside to meet half a dozen elderly
Colombians. They were accompanied by a couple of Uzi packing younger
thugs. They would be forcing this brash young pilot and supposed
airplane thief to prove his claim.
I was sweating from the humidity but confident in my ability.
One of the old gentlemen advanced towards me. &#8220;Pilota, have you
brought the airplane lock you claim you can open in 10 seconds?
I nodded my head and pulled the lock out of my pants pocket with
my left hand. With my right hand I fished the pick and the spring out of
my other pocket.
How do you want to do this?&#8221; I asked.

21

&#8220;Is it true that you told Junior you could do this blindfolded?&#8221; The
old man more accused than asked.
Again I nodded.
&#8220;You must now demonstrate your claim.&#8221; He demanded as the others
nodded in agreement. He reached forward and slid the black elastic band
over my eyes.
&#8220;Just say when.&#8221; I coaxed. My hands were sweaty and I almost
dropped the picks out of my hand. I tightened my grip on my tools and
brought them and the lock up chest high so they could get a good view of
the demonstration.
The old man counted backwards from three and at zero I stuck the
pick into the tumbler. Holding the lock in my right hand I wedged the
spring tool into the outside edge of the lock opening and put pressure on it
with my palm.
The old man was counting forward to ten and had reached two. I
feverishly pushed at the pins in the lock and within two seconds I had
three of the four locked into the open position. I carefully, slowly, pushed
the fourth pin into its position and just as the old man said &#8220;Nine&#8221; there
was an audible &#8220;Click&#8221; as the cylinder released and spun into the open and
unlocked position. I pulled off the blindfold. The old men were smiling.
The demonstration went &#8220;as they say&#8221; like clockwork. Without any
fanfare or chitchat or even before the sweat was wiped from my face I was
blindfolded again and whisked straight away back to the airport and

22

dropped off at the motel to immediately begin the hunt for a suitable
airplane.
My ticket had been punched into the big time.
From that point on, the Colombians started taking a much more
hands-on approach to my involvement with their operation. They wanted
to know what kind of an airplane I would steal, where I would find it and
how much it would cost them to help expedite my mission. That was their
first suggestion that they would contribute funds towards what was now
the procurement of &#8220;our&#8221; plane.
I had been a fairly successful domestic smuggler up to that point. I
was knocking down maybe twenty to thirty thousand a month delivering
four to six pounds of pure &#8220;Cola&#8221; to several dealers scattered throughout
the continental US every two weeks or so. A pound cost me anywhere
from 150 to 300 dollars an ounce but could get say $2000 to $2500 in
Seattle or Chicago or Boulder.
My income had come to a screeching halt when I started working
exclusively on this new international smuggling operation so I expected
their investment in my expenses during this phase of our partnership.
I joined Cory in his room at the motel after the &#8220;timed test&#8221;. He had a
huge wad of hundreds in his hand and a smaller one the bed next to him.
&#8220;How much do you need?&#8221; He blew the words through his nasal
passage. That&#8217;s the way he talked. Cory was my height but very thin
perhaps a buck and a half and when he talked it sounded like one of those

23

guys that has a hole in his throat and talks through a mechanical device,
sort of a weird buzzing monotone, like Peter Frampton without the guitar.
I remembered my grandfather Berry sounded like that. I just
assumed that Cory had done way too much blow and had destroyed his
nasal passages.
He was laying on the bed watching porno. He tossed the smaller
wad of money onto the nightstand. &#8221;That&#8217;s five thousand for starters.
Keep your receipts.&#8221; He didn&#8217;t look at me as he spoke.
&#8220;You have got to be fuckin kidding Cory. Tell your friends that I
don&#8217;t keep receipts or leave paper trails. They have seen what they needed
to see already. I&#8217;ll do this my way.&#8221;
&#8220;You are working for these guys now. You had not better cross
them.&#8221; Cory threatened.
&#8221;Wrong answer Cory. I work for myself. I&#8217;m the one flying the
plane. They had just better learn to trust me. They will have to when it is
just me and the load out over the ocean&#8221;.
&#8220;There will be one more thing.&#8221; I demanded. &#8220;I&#8217;ll still be needing to
see the runway in Colombia.&#8221;
&#8220;Are you crazy?&#8221; Cory screamed.
&#8220;Make it happen or I&#8217;m outta here. Pass it on to Junior and his
people. It&#8217;s not negotiable&#8221;.
&#8220;O K. It&#8217;s your funeral&#8221; was Cory&#8217;s reply.

24

An hour later I returned to my room and there was a phone message to
call Cory. I dialed the number and Cory answered. &#8220;You were right.
They were expecting you to say that. Got your passport ready?
Tomorrow we leave for Colombia.&#8221;
These guys were not messing around. They were not going to let me
out of their sight until I was committed to do this thing.
Baranquilla Airport might just as well have been Beirut Airport for all the
guys in military gear and machine guns standing around. I could see them,
looking like ants standing around on the concrete next to the runway as we were
about to touch down. It was a sweltering 99 degrees with two thousand percent
humidity. We came in on a worn out 727 and entered the Stone Age. The
runway was a series of large concrete squares with some kind of asphalt
concoction separating them. The bleached white cement had its boundaries
defined by gooey black ridges that rose up about an inch above the runway. This
parquet design made a very noticeable. &#8220;thump, thump, thump&#8221;. The rough
surface seemed to want to shake the landing gear right off of the plane. As we
slowed to taxi speed the impacts became slower coming but no less a potential
hazard of knocking the wheels from under our plane. Finally, mercifully we came
to a stop. Still several hundred yards from the terminal we departed from the
Boeing aircraft down a long mobile staircase.
Looking back up at the 727, I had the feeling that it might be the last
glimpse of modern civilization that we would enjoy for several days, maybe much

25

longer. The plane&#8217;s baggage compartment opened up and there was a hurried
Chinese fire drill finding mine and Cory&#8217;s luggage.
Entering the airport proper we quickly marched up to the ticket counter that
also served as customs check in. I had my passport in my right hand along with a
light jacket, two carry-on bag straps and the outer shirt I was wearing on the
plane. My left arm cradled my soft luggage bag.
&#8220;Tourista?&#8221; the disinterested customs agent queried. This South American
version of Barney Fife looked like a Midwest cop right out of the 50&#8217;s. &#8220;Uh, Ya!
Errr, Si!&#8221; I stumbled.
&#8220;Kerplatchet-kerplatchet&#8221; was the sound as his mechanical stamp struck
home a couple of times in my passport and we were on our way out of the airport.
Two brand new Toyota Land Cruisers picked us up after we cleared customs.
Cory and I were quickly whisked away toward the city proper nestled on the
ocean and on to our hotel. As it turned out it was to be my hotel.
Did I say &#8220;A hotel?&#8221; Nothing in Colombia was as it seemed. The whole
place is a study in third-rate Picasso. What should be is not, what cannot be is.
What should be is not there, just jokes, just ghosts of what could be with the
punch line reinforced by the bounty we take for granted here in America.
Our expectations are played as a cruel hoax in South America. What does a
starving South American native just free from the stench of one of those
cardboard shacks buy? A fuckin television. The lie you live reaches out past you
and your million dollar townhouse as you make your choices between
Nordstrom&#8217;s kitchen accessories and the Chef Knife Special on the TV

26

commercial. It goes way past you down the food chain to the poorest of the poor
whose only hopes and dreams are bets placed on our worthless values. They may
not have much in Baranquilla but they do have TV. Everywhere. That would be
everywhere but my fuckin criminal excuse for a hotel room.
I was dripping wet from perspiration and had a brief thought of taking a
shower. I felt my way back to the bathroom in the dim light and opened the door.
The odor would have been in itself enough to turn me around but I was
determined to rinse the sweat off of my jet lagged ass. I pulled back the tattered
shower curtain and as soon as the cockroaches had stopped moving my eyes
started searching for the shower head. There was none. Just a skinny pipe
sticking out of the wall still dripping a rust and brown liquid that had left a nasty
stain down the length of the wall and as wide as the base of the tub as it entered
its descent into the bath. This big patch of chemical who-knows-what was multilayered
and had clearly been there on this wall for many years with no effort to
remove it.
Cory spoke up. &#8220;I&#8217;m sorry man, this place is a shit hole.&#8221; He was to be
staying with our Colombian guests and this was going to be my room for two or
three days.
I said. &#8221;Hey, don&#8217;t sweat it, I&#8217;ll make do. We won&#8217;t be here that long.&#8221;
Cory said we were going up to Santa Marta tomorrow morning. Maybe up
there will be a place to clean up properly. I had heard it was a fancy tourist area.
We did in fact leave for that beautiful coastal town the next morning.

27

Three brand new Toyota Land Cruisers pulled up in front of the hotel. It was
about six in the morning. I could hear Cory&#8217;s voice through the thin wall that
faced the street from the second floor. His nasal monotone was unmistakable.
&#8220;Hey Pilota!&#8221; he called up from the street. I don&#8217;t remember falling asleep. I
still had on exactly what I was wearing the day before. &#8220;You got five minutes.&#8221;
Cory grunted.
I couldn&#8217;t wait to escape the roaches and who knows what else I was sharing
this elevated dungeon with and popped out of the front door with a couple of
minutes to spare.
We drove directly out of the city with only one stop near the east edge of
Baranquilla to get some coffee and snacks before the long drive north towards
Santa Marta and the airstrips I was to inspect. We drove for maybe four or five
hours through the mountains and past huge garbage dumps with thousands of
shanty shacks surrounding them, then onward and northward. We passed several
small villages as the road wound up into the hills and back to the ocean. Each one
of these enclaves had a row of tiny houses next to the road away from the village
proper. These almost doll houses were there for the prostitutes to service
truckers. There was a scattering of military looking dudes that appeared to be
guarding the little whorehouses at every civilized junction.
Ok, in all fairness Santa Marta is one of the most beautiful places on earth. It
was the picture postcard poster child of perfect South American little vacation
beach communities. It was a small town. By Colombian standards it was clean
and luxurious. The sand was white and freshly raked every morning by the

28

residents who make most of their money from the tourists who are by in large
from Europe. The town proper is about five miles from the main highway.
We pulled up to the beach road in our Toyota land cruiser fleet and jumped
out. We had some time to kill before going on the inspection tour of the airstrip
and I got a chance to lay on the beach and drink rum for a couple of hours. Cory
went on into the town and I was left alone to gaze out onto the crystal blue
Caribbean and ponder what might transpire later in the day. An odd thing
happened while I was laying there on the sand in my zorries, shorts and custom
embroidered long sleeve cotton shirt with the Peruvian mountain scene on the
back and large gold lightning bolts stitched onto the arms. My expensive Ray
Ban sun glasses, heavy gold chain and custom beach attire made it clear to any
Colombian observing that I was somebody special.
I was completely taken by surprise when a bunch of beautiful teenaged girls
started gathering around me After a short conversation in my broken Spanish it
was clear that these girls had mistaken me for some kind of South American
television star and one of them in particular had some rather grown up plans for
my activities that afternoon.
We communicated awkwardly for an hour or so. She indicated that her
parents were away working and would not be home until late in the evening and
she would like to take me home and show me a good time. Christ she was
tempting. All of maybe 14 or 15 but very physically developed. She was
stunningly beautiful with long straight black hair and that wonderful combination
of Spanish and native South American Indian that I find as attractive as any

29

woman on this planet. It was plain that she definitely had some kind of sexual
activity in mind. Oh my god! I was going to be the victim of a South American
Groupie!
&#8220;OT!&#8221; I recognized the nasal voice. It was Cory come to pick me up and
finish our journey to the airstrip.
It was still early in the afternoon when we pulled off the highway onto the
dirt road in the Ria Hoacha district of the Northern tip of Colombia. The
driveway could have been leading to any big farm in the Midwest of the United
States. It wasn&#8217;t.
From the very instant we got off of the big new paved highway we entered
another world. There were only two noticeable things about the landscape. One
was a forest of short trees that went on forever over the horizon. These were not
just any trees either. All were about eight to ten feet tall and virtually covered
with two inch spikes between their bright green leaves. A man could not walk ten
feet into this thicket of knives and daggers without being punctured and lacerated
beyond recognition. The other aspect of notice in this nightmare dreamscape was
termite hills, millions of them. The ground was actually flat for miles but the
termite mounds were right next to one another as far as the eye could see. This
topography made it impossible for man or beast to wander off the main road into
the business of the Colombian Cartel&#8217;s drugs running operation. No Jeep or
Army tank or any other vehicle stood a chance at impregnating this area. The
only way to get in was if you had the resources to cut a road with a large

30

bulldozer. That kind of road construction would take weeks to make a half mile
dent in this desolate land.
There was a road, none-the-less, that lead into the Cartel&#8217;s belly where they
exchanged fortunes for what was almost free from the local pot farmers and cocoa
growers. This is where the planes took off with their booty headed for the rich
Americans. This was the place that generated mountains of cash for the Cartel
and the Colombian Army.
They had left Cory back in Santa Marta, and the procession of Land Cruisers
pulled up to a plain cinder block building about fifty feet square. There was a
barbeque smoking by itself at one side of the fortress but no windows and no
visible doors. Various farm birds, geese, chickens and ducks were wandering
around pecking at the dirt and the mud puddles. There were no people to be seen.
Then from around back of the building a few guys appeared that looked like
native farmers.
I heard them murmuring. &#8221;Pilota, Pilota, Pilota.&#8221; One of the brown skinned
men lifted the cover on the barbeque and grabbed a long stick with a dozen or so
pieces of meat skewered on it and handed it to me grinning a big open smile with
no teeth. He was apparently proud of the fare he was offering and I asked what it
was in English. He just nodded and pointed to his mouth as if to coach me in the
art of eating finger food.
Someone said, &#8220;Iguana&#8221;. Well my friends I had never dined on lizard
before, but the offering actually smelled delicious. I popped down one of the
morsels and damn if it wasn&#8217;t as tasty as anything I have ever had off a grill.

31

A Jeep drove up and out jumped a couple of guys who were clearly in
charge. They motioned to me and those that had brought me there for the landing
strip inspection to get into the cinderblock building. We did, accompanied by the
farmer guys, and there we all were with only a little light stealing its way into the
cracks near the top of the walls and watching an American soap opera on the
television hanging from one of the ceiling rafters about ten feet up in the air. This
went on about twenty minutes.
One of the jeep guys yelled from outside the door. &#8220;Pilota!&#8221; I came out of
the door almost blinded from the sudden sunlight and nearly tripped over two
ducks fucking furiously in a mud puddle just outside the building&#8217;s entrance. The
owner of the voice that called me had vanished.
Why the guy had beckoned me outside would remain a mystery for only
about ten minutes because as I stood there by myself a couple of brand new
Colombian Army Suburbans pulled up. They parked next to each other about a
hundred feet away from the only visible walled structure, from which I had just
stepped out. They walked over to what appeared to be a picnic area that had
several tables and benches under the shade of a palm branch roof supported by
poles. They opened up eight large aluminum suit cases and laid them on the
tables. Then a small building I hadn&#8217;t even noticed had its door swing open from
behind a screen of palm leaves. From this opening I witnessed a very unusual
demonstration. A young boy wheeled out a rickety wheel barrow stacked as high
as he could with bundles of one hundred dollar bills. The youth made a dozen
trips to the table area and what appeared to be highly decorated Generals loaded

32

the cases with the mountains of cash the boy provided. Then the Military guys
packed the bags into their trucks and drove off. I watched this whole display
alone and in silence.
Within ten minutes after that awesome show of wealth and power a tractor
pulling a trailer rumbled up and I was motioned to get on the back of the wagon.
After what seemed an eternity of going up and down and up and down over the
endless termite mounds we finally got to the airstrip. I walked the strip in about
twenty minutes. It was a fine airstrip especially for where we were. The surface
was hard packed gravel with no potholes. The trees were cut back fifty yards on
each side of the runway. I was satisfied.
Upon arriving back at the bunker building, I was dropped off and the tractor
mysteriously waddled back into the jungle. Again I was alone. It was just
minutes later that Cory and the bodyguards pulled up. I jumped into the lead
Toyota and we left heading back towards Baranquilla.

33

*Our Way Back Home*

Cory and I were in the lead Land Cruiser on the highway back from the
airstrip inspection. He was in the back seat and I in front. There were two
vehicles behind us each with four bodyguards. We had a driver and the head
security man with us. We were maybe half way back to Baranquilla when we ran
into our first bit of trouble.
Colombia, like Mexico, is broken up into several states. Each state line has a
military check point. It isn&#8217;t much of a check point most of the time. On the way
out to Ria Hoacha we passed three of them and all our driver did was wave to the
soldiers and they waved back and we just kept driving unimpeded.
As we approached one of these boarder crossings there were soldiers
standing out in the middle of the highway brandishing automatic weapons. Half a
dozen guys with machine guns pointing at you will definitely get your attention.
We slowed as we approached the soldiers. They motioned for us to pull over to

34

the little shack they used as their military headquarters. The whole facility
looked like an abandoned gas station constructed of concrete and adobe. The
window openings in the two room building were barred with no glass. A thick
wooden door seemed to be the only entrance.
The guy in charge, a sergeant I think, came out of the enclosure sporting a
chrome helmet and was completely over dressed for the 100 degree heat and 90
percent humidity. He looked like one of those Banditos from the Bogart movies
the &#8220;The Treasure of the Sierra Madre&#8221;. You know the guy, the one who said.
&#8220;Badges? We don&#8217;t need no stinking badges.&#8221; Ya, that guy. For the purpose of
the description of this encounter we&#8217;ll just call him &#8220;Sarge.&#8221;
Well ol&#8217; Sarge strolled straight away up to the SUV I was in and said in his
best broken English, with a big toothy gapped grin. &#8221;Hey gringos. You guyce in a
lotta trouble. Heh, heh. Get outta the truck. &#8221;
We exited our vehicles and stood next to them. I was expecting our driver to
make a call or give the secret handshake and straighten everything out. We would
be back on our way within seconds. Without the slightest amount of discretion
one of the soldiers puts down his machine gun, walks over to the door I just got
out of and produced a large bag of what appeared to be marihuana seeds with a
lesser amount of smokable pot in it. Maybe it was half a pound in all. Then this
monkey in a soldier suit dumps the whole fuckin bag out on the front seat and
floor where I was just sitting a couple of minutes earlier. Now my newest buddy
&#8220;Sarge&#8221; says. &#8221;Oh my, oh my gringos. Yes you definitely have a serious
problem.&#8221; I couldn&#8217;t fuckin believe what I had just seen.

35

We were escorted at muzzle point into the building and Cory and I were
taken further into &#8220;Sarge&#8217;s&#8221; office, the only other room in the place. It stunk like
these morons pissed on their own floor. The place could have used a coat of paint
also. The chromed dome sits down at his old desk and leans back in his wooden
swivel chair and says to me in perfectly broken englais&#8217;, &#8221;Hey you, the fancy
gringo, let me see your gold chain.&#8221; I just stood there staring at this Neanderthal
and from behind me one of the goons snapped my beautiful chain off my neck
and tossed it to &#8220;Sarge&#8221;. Cory looked white as a ghost. I was busting up trying
not to laugh at these punks. &#8220;You think something eeece funny gringo?&#8221;
I just stared ahead trying not to laugh out loud. I do that sometimes as a
reaction to stress. I can&#8217;t help it. I find people like him amusing. So good old
&#8220;Sarge&#8221; orders both Cory and I to strip to our underwear which naturally I don&#8217;t
have on so in a minute I am standing there naked and old &#8220;Sarge&#8221; is twirling my
gold chain and I am starting to get pissed. Maybe this isn&#8217;t the best time to
comment out loud but I have never been afraid to speak my mind and went with
it, I figure if I&#8217;m gonna get shot it won&#8217;t be for being somebody&#8217;s punk.
&#8220;Hey Sarge? You a faggot? Are you some kinda fuckin homosexual? I
don&#8217;t know how you boys play it down here in the jungle, but back home we call
men that spend too much time staring at other naked men sissys. You know,
funny.&#8221; and I held my hand out and gave the international rotating wrist sign for
faggot.
Fortunately for me and Cory, and you the reader, the phone in front of this
maggot faggot rang and I never saw such an abrupt exchange of personalities.

36

Mr. Badass Colombian military guy is now instantly the nicest guy on the
planet. He can&#8217;t be sorry enough for the unfortunate mistake that has just taken
place. Whatever. Cory and I got dressed. I snatched my chain from the still in
shock &#8220;Sarge&#8221; and we trotted back out to our land cruisers. The marihuana
evidence had mysteriously completely disappeared in the brief time it took us to
get back out there and we piled in and took off.
On the way back to Baranquilla, just fresh from our run in with the military
at the check point, we were approaching the outskirts of the city and I took notice
of something that had escaped my view earlier on our way out. It wasn&#8217;t totally
light out when we left so I could be forgiven I suppose. Now in the bright late
light of the afternoon the harsh reality that only daylight can make clear was a sad
scene of the conditions of some of the poorest of the poor that were in a holding
pattern waiting and hoping to make their way out of the jungles and mountains
and into this shit hole of a Colombian metropolitan society.
The landscape was as you have seen it many times on your television with the
kindly old gentleman Christian man and the starving waif at his knee and the pitch
is that for 18 cents a day you can make life bearable for this young tot. She will
now have school, shoes and something to eat. Ya, whatever.
First of all this little girl does have parents. They voluntarily dragged her and
her siblings out of the Stone Age. These families are there in those cardboard
shacks working at any job they can. They can save some money and within a few
weeks rent a room in town. They will have to share with ten or more other such
refugees. If the family is lucky they will eventually get a small house and a beat

37

up car and a better job they can drive to or set up a little fruit stand etc, etc and the
little cardboard hut will already be occupied by more transients like the several
thousand standing next to it, and yes, this desperate little community is right up
against the city&#8217;s garbage dump. Sure it looks and smells awful. What the guy on
the TV doesn&#8217;t tell you is that beautiful wide eyed child recently lived in a very
nice village up in the mountains. These people, that normally had few if any
worries, were escaping guerilla wars and natural disasters. OK, they didn&#8217;t have a
doctor on call or a television set. Big whoop.
Many of the women that get dragged along on this dubious road into the
twentieth century turn to selling their bodies to help pay the way.
We pulled up in front of my nasty hotel and Cory got a call on the walkie
talkie from one of the security guys traveling with us. Apparently everything
went well, they didn&#8217;t mention the harassment from &#8220;Sarge&#8221;. Mr. Big, whoever
he was, wanted to treat me and Cory to a weekend at a bordello.
I told Cory &#8220;Sure, why not? Let&#8217;s see some of the local talent.&#8221; and jumped
out to go to my room to change clothes. Five minutes was all it took to get what I
needed and I was back in the SUV contemplating what this bordello was all
about.


----------



## HUGGY (May 5, 2013)

Baranquilla..






Satalite image.. Baranquilla airport


----------



## HUGGY (May 5, 2013)

Santa Marta , Colombia..


----------



## HUGGY (May 17, 2013)

The Pilot by Sean Corey  Pages 20-33

20
it on to some of the older Cartel elders living in Miami. They were
curious how I could back up my claim that getting a plane for my
participation in the enterprise would be the easiest part of all. I even went
a step farther and claimed I could do it blindfolded because I would be
doing it at night with no lighting.
So there I was, two weeks before the planned theft, taken from the
Miami airport motel, blindfolded in a limousine and driven to the location
of my demonstration.
The scene of my survival or failure to impress the Florida
representatives of the Cartel was to take place Little Havana. When the
limo stopped my blinder was removed to reveal our arrival outside of a
large mansion. I was escorted inside to meet half a dozen elderly
Colombians. They were accompanied by a couple of Uzi packing younger
thugs. They would be forcing this brash young pilot and supposed
airplane thief to prove his claim.
I was sweating from the humidity but confident in my ability.
One of the old gentlemen advanced towards me. Pilota, have you
brought the airplane lock you claim you can open in 10 seconds?
I nodded my head and pulled the lock out of my pants pocket with
my left hand. With my right hand I fished the pick and the spring out of
my other pocket.
How do you want to do this? I asked.
21
Is it true that you told Junior you could do this blindfolded? The
old man more accused than asked.
Again I nodded.
You must now demonstrate your claim. He demanded as the others
nodded in agreement. He reached forward and slid the black elastic band
over my eyes.
Just say when. I coaxed. My hands were sweaty and I almost
dropped the picks out of my hand. I tightened my grip on my tools and
brought them and the lock up chest high so they could get a good view of
the demonstration.
The old man counted backwards from three and at zero I stuck the
pick into the tumbler. Holding the lock in my right hand I wedged the
spring tool into the outside edge of the lock opening and put pressure on it
with my palm.
The old man was counting forward to ten and had reached two. I
feverishly pushed at the pins in the lock and within two seconds I had
three of the four locked into the open position. I carefully, slowly, pushed
the fourth pin into its position and just as the old man said Nine there
was an audible Click as the cylinder released and spun into the open and
unlocked position. I pulled off the blindfold. The old men were smiling.
The demonstration went as they say like clockwork. Without any
fanfare or chitchat or even before the sweat was wiped from my face I was
blindfolded again and whisked straight away back to the airport and
22
dropped off at the motel to immediately begin the hunt for a suitable
airplane.
My ticket had been punched into the big time.
From that point on, the Colombians started taking a much more
hands-on approach to my involvement with their operation. They wanted
to know what kind of an airplane I would steal, where I would find it and
how much it would cost them to help expedite my mission. That was their
first suggestion that they would contribute funds towards what was now
the procurement of our plane.
I had been a fairly successful domestic smuggler up to that point. I
was knocking down maybe twenty to thirty thousand a month delivering
four to six pounds of pure Cola to several dealers scattered throughout
the continental US every two weeks or so. A pound cost me anywhere
from 150 to 300 dollars an ounce but could get say $2000 to $2500 in
Seattle or Chicago or Boulder.
My income had come to a screeching halt when I started working
exclusively on this new international smuggling operation so I expected
their investment in my expenses during this phase of our partnership.
I joined Cory in his room at the motel after the timed test. He had a
huge wad of hundreds in his hand and a smaller one the bed next to him.
How much do you need? He blew the words through his nasal
passage. Thats the way he talked. Cory was my height but very thin
perhaps a buck and a half and when he talked it sounded like one of those
23
guys that has a hole in his throat and talks through a mechanical device,
sort of a weird buzzing monotone, like Peter Frampton without the guitar.
I remembered my grandfather Berry sounded like that. I just
assumed that Cory had done way too much blow and had destroyed his
nasal passages.
He was laying on the bed watching porno. He tossed the smaller
wad of money onto the nightstand. Thats five thousand for starters.
Keep your receipts. He didnt look at me as he spoke.
You have got to be fuckin kidding Cory. Tell your friends that I
dont keep receipts or leave paper trails. They have seen what they needed
to see already. Ill do this my way.
You are working for these guys now. You had not better cross
them. Cory threatened.
Wrong answer Cory. I work for myself. Im the one flying the
plane. They had just better learn to trust me. They will have to when it is
just me and the load out over the ocean.
There will be one more thing. I demanded. Ill still be needing to
see the runway in Colombia.
Are you crazy? Cory screamed.
Make it happen or Im outta here. Pass it on to Junior and his
people. Its not negotiable.
O K. Its your funeral was Corys reply.
24
An hour later I returned to my room and there was a phone message to
call Cory. I dialed the number and Cory answered. You were right.
They were expecting you to say that. Got your passport ready?
Tomorrow we leave for Colombia.
These guys were not messing around. They were not going to let me
out of their sight until I was committed to do this thing.
Baranquilla Airport might just as well have been Beirut Airport for all the
guys in military gear and machine guns standing around. I could see them,
looking like ants standing around on the concrete next to the runway as we were
about to touch down. It was a sweltering 99 degrees with two thousand percent
humidity. We came in on a worn out 727 and entered the Stone Age. The
runway was a series of large concrete squares with some kind of asphalt
concoction separating them. The bleached white cement had its boundaries
defined by gooey black ridges that rose up about an inch above the runway. This
parquet design made a very noticeable. thump, thump, thump. The rough
surface seemed to want to shake the landing gear right off of the plane. As we
slowed to taxi speed the impacts became slower coming but no less a potential
hazard of knocking the wheels from under our plane. Finally, mercifully we came
to a stop. Still several hundred yards from the terminal we departed from the
Boeing aircraft down a long mobile staircase.
Looking back up at the 727, I had the feeling that it might be the last
glimpse of modern civilization that we would enjoy for several days, maybe much
25
longer. The planes baggage compartment opened up and there was a hurried
Chinese fire drill finding mine and Corys luggage.
Entering the airport proper we quickly marched up to the ticket counter that
also served as customs check in. I had my passport in my right hand along with a
light jacket, two carry-on bag straps and the outer shirt I was wearing on the
plane. My left arm cradled my soft luggage bag.
Tourista? the disinterested customs agent queried. This South American
version of Barney Fife looked like a Midwest cop right out of the 50s. Uh, Ya!
Errr, Si! I stumbled.
Kerplatchet-kerplatchet was the sound as his mechanical stamp struck
home a couple of times in my passport and we were on our way out of the airport.
Two brand new Toyota Land Cruisers picked us up after we cleared customs.
Cory and I were quickly whisked away toward the city proper nestled on the
ocean and on to our hotel. As it turned out it was to be my hotel.
Did I say A hotel? Nothing in Colombia was as it seemed. The whole
place is a study in third-rate Picasso. What should be is not, what cannot be is.
What should be is not there, just jokes, just ghosts of what could be with the
punch line reinforced by the bounty we take for granted here in America.
Our expectations are played as a cruel hoax in South America. What does a
starving South American native just free from the stench of one of those
cardboard shacks buy? A fuckin television. The lie you live reaches out past you
and your million dollar townhouse as you make your choices between
Nordstroms kitchen accessories and the Chef Knife Special on the TV
26
commercial. It goes way past you down the food chain to the poorest of the poor
whose only hopes and dreams are bets placed on our worthless values. They may
not have much in Baranquilla but they do have TV. Everywhere. That would be
everywhere but my fuckin criminal excuse for a hotel room.
I was dripping wet from perspiration and had a brief thought of taking a
shower. I felt my way back to the bathroom in the dim light and opened the door.
The odor would have been in itself enough to turn me around but I was
determined to rinse the sweat off of my jet lagged ass. I pulled back the tattered
shower curtain and as soon as the cockroaches had stopped moving my eyes
started searching for the shower head. There was none. Just a skinny pipe
sticking out of the wall still dripping a rust and brown liquid that had left a nasty
stain down the length of the wall and as wide as the base of the tub as it entered
its descent into the bath. This big patch of chemical who-knows-what was multilayered
and had clearly been there on this wall for many years with no effort to
remove it.
Cory spoke up. Im sorry man, this place is a shit hole. He was to be
staying with our Colombian guests and this was going to be my room for two or
three days.
I said. Hey, dont sweat it, Ill make do. We wont be here that long.
Cory said we were going up to Santa Marta tomorrow morning. Maybe up
there will be a place to clean up properly. I had heard it was a fancy tourist area.
We did in fact leave for that beautiful coastal town the next morning.
27
Three brand new Toyota Land Cruisers pulled up in front of the hotel. It was
about six in the morning. I could hear Corys voice through the thin wall that
faced the street from the second floor. His nasal monotone was unmistakable.
Hey Pilota! he called up from the street. I dont remember falling asleep. I
still had on exactly what I was wearing the day before. You got five minutes.
Cory grunted.
I couldnt wait to escape the roaches and who knows what else I was sharing
this elevated dungeon with and popped out of the front door with a couple of
minutes to spare.
We drove directly out of the city with only one stop near the east edge of
Baranquilla to get some coffee and snacks before the long drive north towards
Santa Marta and the airstrips I was to inspect. We drove for maybe four or five
hours through the mountains and past huge garbage dumps with thousands of
shanty shacks surrounding them, then onward and northward. We passed several
small villages as the road wound up into the hills and back to the ocean. Each one
of these enclaves had a row of tiny houses next to the road away from the village
proper. These almost doll houses were there for the prostitutes to service
truckers. There was a scattering of military looking dudes that appeared to be
guarding the little whorehouses at every civilized junction.
Ok, in all fairness Santa Marta is one of the most beautiful places on earth. It
was the picture postcard poster child of perfect South American little vacation
beach communities. It was a small town. By Colombian standards it was clean
and luxurious. The sand was white and freshly raked every morning by the
28
residents who make most of their money from the tourists who are by in large
from Europe. The town proper is about five miles from the main highway.
We pulled up to the beach road in our Toyota land cruiser fleet and jumped
out. We had some time to kill before going on the inspection tour of the airstrip
and I got a chance to lay on the beach and drink rum for a couple of hours. Cory
went on into the town and I was left alone to gaze out onto the crystal blue
Caribbean and ponder what might transpire later in the day. An odd thing
happened while I was laying there on the sand in my zorries, shorts and custom
embroidered long sleeve cotton shirt with the Peruvian mountain scene on the
back and large gold lightning bolts stitched onto the arms. My expensive Ray
Ban sun glasses, heavy gold chain and custom beach attire made it clear to any
Colombian observing that I was somebody special.
I was completely taken by surprise when a bunch of beautiful teenaged girls
started gathering around me After a short conversation in my broken Spanish it
was clear that these girls had mistaken me for some kind of South American
television star and one of them in particular had some rather grown up plans for
my activities that afternoon.
We communicated awkwardly for an hour or so. She indicated that her
parents were away working and would not be home until late in the evening and
she would like to take me home and show me a good time. Christ she was
tempting. All of maybe 14 or 15 but very physically developed. She was
stunningly beautiful with long straight black hair and that wonderful combination
of Spanish and native South American Indian that I find as attractive as any
29
woman on this planet. It was plain that she definitely had some kind of sexual
activity in mind. Oh my god! I was going to be the victim of a South American
Groupie!
OT! I recognized the nasal voice. It was Cory come to pick me up and
finish our journey to the airstrip.
It was still early in the afternoon when we pulled off the highway onto the
dirt road in the Ria Hoacha district of the Northern tip of Colombia. The
driveway could have been leading to any big farm in the Midwest of the United
States. It wasnt.
From the very instant we got off of the big new paved highway we entered
another world. There were only two noticeable things about the landscape. One
was a forest of short trees that went on forever over the horizon. These were not
just any trees either. All were about eight to ten feet tall and virtually covered
with two inch spikes between their bright green leaves. A man could not walk ten
feet into this thicket of knives and daggers without being punctured and lacerated
beyond recognition. The other aspect of notice in this nightmare dreamscape was
termite hills, millions of them. The ground was actually flat for miles but the
termite mounds were right next to one another as far as the eye could see. This
topography made it impossible for man or beast to wander off the main road into
the business of the Colombian Cartels drugs running operation. No Jeep or
Army tank or any other vehicle stood a chance at impregnating this area. The
only way to get in was if you had the resources to cut a road with a large
30
bulldozer. That kind of road construction would take weeks to make a half mile
dent in this desolate land.
There was a road, none-the-less, that lead into the Cartels belly where they
exchanged fortunes for what was almost free from the local pot farmers and cocoa
growers. This is where the planes took off with their booty headed for the rich
Americans. This was the place that generated mountains of cash for the Cartel
and the Colombian Army.
They had left Cory back in Santa Marta, and the procession of Land Cruisers
pulled up to a plain cinder block building about fifty feet square. There was a
barbeque smoking by itself at one side of the fortress but no windows and no
visible doors. Various farm birds, geese, chickens and ducks were wandering
around pecking at the dirt and the mud puddles. There were no people to be seen.
Then from around back of the building a few guys appeared that looked like
native farmers.
I heard them murmuring. Pilota, Pilota, Pilota. One of the brown skinned
men lifted the cover on the barbeque and grabbed a long stick with a dozen or so
pieces of meat skewered on it and handed it to me grinning a big open smile with
no teeth. He was apparently proud of the fare he was offering and I asked what it
was in English. He just nodded and pointed to his mouth as if to coach me in the
art of eating finger food.
Someone said, Iguana. Well my friends I had never dined on lizard
before, but the offering actually smelled delicious. I popped down one of the
morsels and damn if it wasnt as tasty as anything I have ever had off a grill.
31
A Jeep drove up and out jumped a couple of guys who were clearly in
charge. They motioned to me and those that had brought me there for the landing
strip inspection to get into the cinderblock building. We did, accompanied by the
farmer guys, and there we all were with only a little light stealing its way into the
cracks near the top of the walls and watching an American soap opera on the
television hanging from one of the ceiling rafters about ten feet up in the air. This
went on about twenty minutes.
One of the jeep guys yelled from outside the door. Pilota! I came out of
the door almost blinded from the sudden sunlight and nearly tripped over two
ducks fucking furiously in a mud puddle just outside the buildings entrance. The
owner of the voice that called me had vanished.
Why the guy had beckoned me outside would remain a mystery for only
about ten minutes because as I stood there by myself a couple of brand new
Colombian Army Suburbans pulled up. They parked next to each other about a
hundred feet away from the only visible walled structure, from which I had just
stepped out. They walked over to what appeared to be a picnic area that had
several tables and benches under the shade of a palm branch roof supported by
poles. They opened up eight large aluminum suit cases and laid them on the
tables. Then a small building I hadnt even noticed had its door swing open from
behind a screen of palm leaves. From this opening I witnessed a very unusual
demonstration. A young boy wheeled out a rickety wheel barrow stacked as high
as he could with bundles of one hundred dollar bills. The youth made a dozen
trips to the table area and what appeared to be highly decorated Generals loaded
32
the cases with the mountains of cash the boy provided. Then the Military guys
packed the bags into their trucks and drove off. I watched this whole display
alone and in silence.
Within ten minutes after that awesome show of wealth and power a tractor
pulling a trailer rumbled up and I was motioned to get on the back of the wagon.
After what seemed an eternity of going up and down and up and down over the
endless termite mounds we finally got to the airstrip. I walked the strip in about
twenty minutes. It was a fine airstrip especially for where we were. The surface
was hard packed gravel with no potholes. The trees were cut back fifty yards on
each side of the runway. I was satisfied.
Upon arriving back at the bunker building, I was dropped off and the tractor
mysteriously waddled back into the jungle. Again I was alone. It was just
minutes later that Cory and the bodyguards pulled up. I jumped into the lead
Toyota and we left heading back towards Baranquilla.
33


----------



## HUGGY (May 20, 2013)

The Pilot written by Sean Corey pages 34-43

34

*Our Way Back Home*

Cory and I were in the lead Land Cruiser on the highway back from the
airstrip inspection. He was in the back seat and I in front. There were two
vehicles behind us each with four bodyguards. We had a driver and the head
security man with us. We were maybe half way back to Baranquilla when we ran
into our first bit of trouble.
Colombia, like Mexico, is broken up into several states. Each state line has a
military check point. It isnt much of a check point most of the time. On the way
out to Ria Hoacha we passed three of them and all our driver did was wave to the
soldiers and they waved back and we just kept driving unimpeded.
As we approached one of these boarder crossings there were soldiers
standing out in the middle of the highway brandishing automatic weapons. Half a
dozen guys with machine guns pointing at you will definitely get your attention.
We slowed as we approached the soldiers. They motioned for us to pull over to
the little shack they used as their check point. The whole facility
looked like an abandoned gas station constructed of concrete and adobe. The
window openings in the two room building were barred with no glass. A thick
wooden door seemed to be the only entrance.
The guy in charge, a sergeant I think, came out of the enclosure sporting a
chrome helmet and was completely over dressed for the 100 degree heat and 90
percent humidity. He looked like one of those Banditos from the Bogart movies
the The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. You know the guy, the one who said.
Badges? We dont need no stinking badges. Ya, that guy. For the purpose of
the description of this encounter well just call him Sarge.
Well ol Sarge strolled straight away up to the SUV I was in and said in his
best broken English, with a big toothy gapped grin. Hey gringos. You guyce in a
the little shack they used as their military headquarters. The whole facility
looked like an abandoned gas station constructed of concrete and adobe. The
window openings in the two room building were barred with no glass. A thick
wooden door seemed to be the only entrance.
The guy in charge, a sergeant I think, came out of the enclosure sporting a
chrome helmet and was completely over dressed for the 100 degree heat and 90
percent humidity. He looked like one of those Banditos from the Bogart movies
the The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. You know the guy, the one who said.
Badges? We dont need no stinking badges. Ya, that guy. For the purpose of
the description of this encounter well just call him Sarge.
Well ol Sarge strolled straight away up to the SUV I was in and said in his
best broken English, with a big toothy gapped grin. Hey gringos. You guyce in a
lotta trouble. Heh, heh. Get outta the truck. 
We exited our vehicles and stood next to them. I was expecting our driver to
make a call or give the secret handshake and straighten everything out. We would
be back on our way within seconds. Without the slightest amount of discretion
one of the soldiers puts down his machine gun, walks over to the door I just got
out of and produced a large bag of what appeared to be marihuana seeds with a
lesser amount of smokable pot in it. Maybe it was half a pound in all. Then this
monkey in a soldier suit dumps the whole fuckin bag out on the front seat and
floor where I was just sitting a couple of minutes earlier. Now my newest buddy
Sarge says. Oh my, oh my gringos. Yes you definitely have a serious
problem. I couldnt fuckin believe what I had just seen.
35
We were escorted at muzzle point into the building and Cory and I were
taken further into Sarges office, the only other room in the place. It stunk like
these morons pissed on their own floor. The place could have used a coat of paint
also. The chromed dome sits down at his old desk and leans back in his wooden
swivel chair and says to me in perfectly broken englais, Hey you, the fancy
gringo, let me see your gold chain. I just stood there staring at this Neanderthal
and from behind me one of the goons snapped my beautiful chain off my neck
and tossed it to Sarge. Cory looked white as a ghost. I was busting up trying
not to laugh at these punks. You think something eeece funny gringo?
I just stared ahead trying not to laugh out loud. I do that sometimes as a
reaction to stress. I cant help it. I find people like him amusing. So good old
Sarge orders both Cory and I to strip to our underwear which naturally I dont
have on so in a minute I am standing there naked and old Sarge is twirling my
gold chain and I am starting to get pissed. Maybe this isnt the best time to
comment out loud but I have never been afraid to speak my mind and went with
it, I figure if Im gonna get shot it wont be for being somebodys punk.
Hey Sarge? You a faggot? Are you some kinda fuckin homosexual? I
dont know how you boys play it down here in the jungle, but back home we call
men that spend too much time staring at other naked men sissys. You know,
funny. and I held my hand out and gave the international rotating wrist sign for
faggot.
Fortunately for me and Cory, and you the reader, the phone in front of this
maggot faggot rang and I never saw such an abrupt exchange of personalities.
36
Mr. Badass Colombian military guy is now instantly the nicest guy on the
planet. He cant be sorry enough for the unfortunate mistake that has just taken
place. Whatever. Cory and I got dressed. I snatched my chain from the still in
shock Sarge and we trotted back out to our land cruisers. The marihuana
evidence had mysteriously completely disappeared in the brief time it took us to
get back out there and we piled in and took off.
On the way back to Baranquilla, just fresh from our run in with the military
at the check point, we were approaching the outskirts of the city and I took notice
of something that had escaped my view earlier on our way out. It wasnt totally
light out when we left so I could be forgiven I suppose. Now in the bright late
light of the afternoon the harsh reality that only daylight can make clear was a sad
scene of the conditions of some of the poorest of the poor that were in a holding
pattern waiting and hoping to make their way out of the jungles and mountains
and into this shit hole of a Colombian metropolitan society.
The landscape was as you have seen it many times on your television with the
kindly old gentleman Christian man and the starving waif at his knee and the pitch
is that for 18 cents a day you can make life bearable for this young tot. She will
now have school, shoes and something to eat. Ya, whatever.
First of all this little girl does have parents. They voluntarily dragged her and
her siblings out of the Stone Age. These families are there in those cardboard
shacks working at any job they can. They can save some money and within a few
weeks rent a room in town. They will have to share with ten or more other such
refugees. If the family is lucky they will eventually get a small house and a beat
37
up car and a better job they can drive to or set up a little fruit stand etc, etc and the
little cardboard hut will already be occupied by more transients like the several
thousand standing next to it, and yes, this desperate little community is right up
against the citys garbage dump. Sure it looks and smells awful. What the guy on
the TV doesnt tell you is that beautiful wide eyed child recently lived in a very
nice village up in the mountains. These people, that normally had few if any
worries, were escaping guerilla wars and natural disasters. OK, they didnt have a
doctor on call or a television set. Big whoop.
Many of the women that get dragged along on this dubious road into the
twentieth century turn to selling their bodies to help pay the way.
We pulled up in front of my nasty hotel and Cory got a call on the walkie
talkie from one of the security guys traveling with us. Apparently everything
went well, they didnt mention the harassment from Sarge. Mr. Big, whoever
he was, wanted to treat me and Cory to a weekend at a bordello.
I told Cory Sure, why not? Lets see some of the local talent. and jumped
out to go to my room to change clothes. Five minutes was all it took to get what I
needed and I was back in the SUV contemplating what this bordello was all
about.
38

*A Fine Bordello*

You could not see the building from the street. A hedge of vines or something
like them standing about thirty feet tall hid all view of the enormous old mansion
behind it. There was an arched entrance through the foliage and as we
approached it in our Toyota there were several guys exiting the opening some still
pulling up their pants and trying to put on shoes and socks while on the run.
Apparently as we entered it had become clear that not only were we being
treated to a bordello we were to be the only guests in the establishment over the
weekend and the men who were already in there were being forcibly thrown out.
OK, call me persnickety but at the time I did not smoke cigarettes and the
thought of having sex with anyone that smoked I found to be disgusting. I
mention this little quirk of mine to Cory and he whispered something into the ear
of the guy in charge and the 50 or so girls that were milling around in the big
39
foyer just past the huge front door formed two lines. I kid you not. Those on the
left smoked, those on the right claimed they did not. I walked over to the right
and pointed to three especially attractive young ladies and they proceeded up a
big staircase like the one in the mansion in Gone with the Wind. I followed.
My choices were girls clearly, native Indians, straight out of the jungle. None of
these human sex animals spoke a word of English but somehow we muddled
through a couple of days of massaging and fucking and snorting some of the best
cocaine I have ever had without any spoken word. I had never bought a whore
before in my life and technically I did not break faith with that tradition. I wasnt
paying and that was all that mattered. Oddly the best parts of the weekend were
the baths and showers. After the terror of the one in my hotel room this little slice
of heaven was most welcome.
It was a Monday that we actually were booked to leave Colombia. We had
been in country for four days. Cory and I had been holed up in the bordello from
Friday evening through Sunday morning.
Today we were Leaving on a Jet Plane.
We pulled up to the airport baggage check in at around eleven in the
morning. As we debarked from the cab, we were no longer escorted by the Land
Cruiser entourage,
I heard a girls voice from behind me. Pilota? Damn if it wasnt one of
the girls I had spent some time with at the bordello. We were never formally
introduced so I didnt know how to respond to her.
Ola! was all I could muster.
40
Then she said in a thick accent. Do you remember me? Can you take me to
America?
What the fuck? Ya sure senorita. You go buy a ticket and Ill show you
around when we get to the U.S..
No senior, you have to marry me so I can go as your wife.
Ummm. I dont think we have time for all that sweetie. Me and Cory are
leaving in about an hour.
Believe it or not her response was that Oh these planes are always late.
This one wont be leaving here for another three hours. Now mind you this is
the very same girl that up until this minute spoke No Englais, the same one
that I had bent over the end of a four poster bed and was fucking doggy style the
last time I saw her. She had taken a break and sent in one of the others just as
fuckable to take her place on the mattress and I hardly noticed the exchange. Sure
we had been intimate but certainly no more so than a hundred men before me in
the last month. I gave her my beeper number and told her to call me the next day.
We parted. She never called.
After Cory and I cleared the desk for departure we were directed to go
through a door at the end of the entrance to the terminal. It took a lot longer to get
out of customs en route to leaving Colombia than it ever took getting in. We
where waved on through a big steel door and into a waiting room with rows of
tables and chairs all packed with people. People of all kinds, but it was mostly
native Indian Colombians waiting to depart. The room was about 60 feet by 100
feet. There were probably three hundred people packed into this sweat box. All
41
of the chairs and tables were occupied. Way off in the corner there was a dimly
lit neon sign that said Bar. It looked especially packed back there but I fought
my way through the throngs in that direction feeling like I could kill for an ice
cold margarita about then. It was well over a hundred degrees in this room.
Now here is where it gets weird. I push my way up to the little counter of a
bar that has maybe twelve bar stools in front of it with people all crowded up
against those lucky enough to be sitting down at ten of the chairs. On the far right
directly in front of the bar tender there are two empty chairs. Im thinking.
Thats odd.
So I leaned forward over one of the stools and asked Why are these chairs
empty senior?
These are for you my friend. He said looking straight in my eye. Im
thinking, ya sure is this some kind of a fucking joke?
Are you sure? I asked.
He nodded.
OK my friend, I was gonna have a margarita but it would be quicker to
make a greyhound so lets have one of those before I die from this heat.
As I was giving my order to the barkeep, I hadnt noticed someone had sat
down next to me. I could tell it wasnt Cory without turning around because this
person did not reek of English leather, which Cory did. No, I had smelled that
smell before and I turned to my left to be face to face with my old friend Sarge
from the checkpoint setup a few days before.
42
Before I could even say anything rude ol Sarge says to me through gritted
teeth. I hope your stay in our beautiful country was pleasant and that I want to
personally apologize for the misunderstanding from a few da-a-a-ce ago.
No problem. And we shook hands. He was obviously not happy. I was
wrong about who he was angry at though. I turned away towards the bartender
and when I looked back Sarge had left my side.
In my hand Sarge had slipped me a small envelope. I started to open it but
the little investigation was interrupted by commotion out in the crowd of dark and
sweating hordes waiting to leave this hell hole. I put the envelope in my pants
pocket unopened.
As he walked past one of the last tables with two of the goons that I
recognized from the check point, over 100 miles from where we were at that
moment, good ol Sarge reaches over one of the tables and literally grabs an
elderly woman right off her chair and slams her down on her back on the table.
He reaches for her neckline and rips her dress clean off of her to expose maybe
two or three kilos of coke packed in little bags and taped to her body. Her
husband started yelling and one of the goons spun and smashed a rifle butt under
his chin and the old man went backwards and down like a sack of rocks. The
soldiers dragged them both out of the waiting room. I doubt anyone ever saw
them again.
On the flight home, after I settled into my seat, I ordered a drink from the
stewie and, reaching into my pocket for the cash to pay her I felt the mysterious
envelope.
43
As my drink arrived I fondled the little envelope curious of its content. I
opened the plane little paper cover that was hiding inside it a gold razor blade.
The blade was dull edged and gold plated steel with something lightly etched on
its surface. It appeared to be a name and a series of numbers. The scratches were
so small and feint that I couldnt read them clearly. In the bright light of the
planes window I could just make out Raul 467-5789-68 IOU. I took my gold
chain off and slipped it through the hole in the blade.
* * *


----------



## HUGGY (Jun 12, 2013)

*The Pilot *by Sean Corey  pages 44-59

*Cold Reality*

The early dawn light of Rock Springs was creeping into the frozen
cargo bay of my 402. Somehow reminiscing about the trip to Colombia
had given me hope that I would survive this frozen scene and once again
be warm. There was time for more hot coffee and more reflection. I
would have to get out and sweep the snow off of the wings and see if the
motors would fire up in the bitter temperature. I still had to do a thorough
walk around to see if last nights storm had damaged the planes structure.
It was hard to get motivated. My rest had been sporadic at best.
Cupping the now cold vessel of java I put off my responsibilities. I
re-evaluated the preparation and the trouble I had gone to, to steal this
Cessna. I wondered if I had done enough. I wondered if stealing this
plane was a bite too much. I had gone to great lengths to learn everything
I could about flying. My preparation was a total commitment.
* * *
45

*Bird Hunting*

While I was getting my student time in at Pompano Air center and
Boulder County airport I was mindful of the eventual purpose of this
training. As well as picking up as much experience as I could about the
physical and mental techniques to pull off the mission, I was always aware
of the fact that I would most likely have to somehow secure my own
plane. That left only two possibilities. I would have to buy an airplane or
steal one. The latter seemed more likely.
I had been studying the Airplane Trader and looked at the specks for
every airplane that was feasible to do the job. All of my training had been
in Cessna and Piper aircraft. For that reason I concentrated on those types.
One of the biggest obstacles I faced was that all of my official
training had been in single engine airplanes. I studied the FAA flight
training manuals for multi-engine aircraft and was confident I could pick
up the working knowledge I would need to be proficient with a very few
hours of dual flight time. I was going to need official training from a

46

flight instructor or perhaps something else that would have the same
desired outcome. The good news was that I had spent just over a year
learning to fly and knew the system thoroughly. It is said that a pilot
learns over ninety percent of what he needs to know just getting his
license. The rest is just learning specific aircraft types and how to operate
them. One could compare learning to drive a car and then learning to
drive a truck. Almost all of the same rules apply.
The plan I settled on called for a twofold scheme to circumvent the
normal training necessary and to look at as many potential candidates as
possible as I sorted out the best aircraft to fly the long distances to
Colombia and back to the United States.
I settled on the Cessna 402 Cargo configuration for several reasons.
First it had controls I was familiar with. Secondly, it was powered and
configured almost identically to several similar twin engine Cessna
models.
Cessnas were built in Kansas and most popular in the Midwest so I
secured a motel room near Denver and started making phone calls to
several airplane dealers in Colorado and Kansas that sold Cessna 421
Eagles. The Eagles controls and its size were very close to the 402. I
was pretending to be a pilot working for a cattle rancher in Wyoming
looking for a new plane for the ranch. Using this ruse I test flew nearly a
dozen planes and got at least twenty hours of dual flight time and half a

47

dozen landings. I kept up the exercise until I felt completely competent to
fly this type of plane.
The next thing I did was to purchase a complete set of official
operator and repair manuals for the Cessna 402. I studied the operator
manual until I knew every typical flight procedure by heart.
After my timed trial by fire, in Miami, the actual stealing of the 402 was
going to be simple. With my girlfriend Rhonda as my lookout I only had to wait
to around 11:30 PM for the courier services regular pilot to land, taxi down to his
parking spot on the flight line and go into the hanger for a nice long bathroom
break. I had opened the planes cargo door several times before to make sure my
technique was well thought out and swift.
I had chosen Boeing airfield in Seattle as the best location to steal an
airplane and prove my worth to Cory and Junior, whose uncle was the
boss of bosses of the Pot Cartel based in Baranquilla, Colombia. Once I
had pirated the gleaming white cargo plane my dreams of fortune would
be within reach. With this plane I would soon be dispatching fortunes in
pot out of Ria Hoacha about a hundred very dangerous miles north of
Santa Marta Colombia.
* * *
48

The automated tower light of Rock Springs started affecting me like
a hypnotists jewel. Sitting there in the frozen cargo bay, the cold and my
exhaustion consumed my consciousness. I retreated from the trance into
the cargo bay for another much needed hour of fitful sleep. As I drifted
off again trying to escape the cold I thought of Rhonda and yesterday. It
was four AM and the snow had let up hours ago. I was alone in Rock
Springs. I felt like I was on that cold moon still overhead. Laying in the
down bag my thoughts were of staying warm and surviving this desperate
act of theft. I was thinking of my last comfort, my last contact with
Rhonda.

49

*Stealing*

The cold had been unbearable sitting out the snowstorm in this remote
Wyoming airport. Warm again inside the down bag, my thoughts came back to
what was important. I reviewed the theft and searched for ways I could have done
the job with fewer mistakes. Three weeks ago they had made me prove it.
Tonight I would have to take the experiment out of the classroom and into the real
world. It was a foolish suggestion, let alone a guarantee, that ten seconds was
within mine or anyones ability. Smuggling is not a movie or an action television
series. Real lives and fortunes are at stake. You cant just change the channel or
put in a different DVD when things go south. My boast to the Colombians on
how long it would take to achieve this procurement had to be proven. They had
made me prove it. What did I now have to lose? Nothing, everything.
Strangely, twenty four hours ago, the air in Seattle seemed more
uncomfortable at just above freezing. I had much to consider which must

50

have added to my uneasiness. Rhonda, my partner in crime, and our
faithful 142-pound Doberman, Brutus, sat quietly with me on the grass
of the frosty hillside overlooking surprisingly busy Boeing airfield just
south of Seattle. It was after eleven PM, with a heavy cloud layer hanging
around a thousand feet over the airport. As the tower light turned around
in its circular path the alternating green and red beam made surreal
Christmas colored angel hair out of our freezing breath.
We spoke little as we waited patiently for the Gelco Courier flight
from Spokane to arrive. The quarry would arrive soon, packed with its
cargo of bank statements and cancelled checks. I had sat on that very
same hillside logging the routine a half dozen evenings before. Believing
it was safe to observe from this vantage point, I had brought Rhonda into
the loop. Nothing was left to chance. Nothing was further from the truth.
As I sat in the brittle cold grass I laughed quietly to myself.
Rhonda flashed her beautiful green eyes into mine. I was just thinking
about the test a couple of weeks ago. She rolled her gaze up briefly
with a knowing smile acknowledging her amusement at my ability to, one
more time, pull a rabbit out of the hat.
The neon numerals on my Seiko showed eleven fifteen and I gave
Rhonda a long warming kiss for luck and headed down the hill to position
myself for striking fast. It was the most loyal Rhonda Dowell, my girl,
my friend and partner in crime who was on the other end of the walkietalkie.
She was overlooking the airport with the binoculars from high up

51

on the hill. I awaited her signal on the radio from down at runway level. I
was sitting on the bench inside a Seattle transit bus stop not two hundred
yards from the spot where I knew the target plane would be parked during
its quick layover.
I patiently awaited Rhondas voice giving me warning that the 402
was landing. I needed to be able to make my move before the plane had
come to a stop to maximize the time available to approach the plane and
pick the lockset. Once I had gained entry I still had to settle into the pilots
seat, go over the controls and check fuel levels. If the fuel was to low I
would have to get out of the plane fast and try again.
I could tell from the sound of the engines that my 402 was flying
overhead on its downwind leg of the landing pattern. Fifteen seconds later
my radio crackled and my sweeties voice confirmed that the Cessna twin
was in its final and about to touch down. There is your plane honey.
Good luck. Be careful.
I could hear Brutus barking in excitement at her side as she gave me
the go signal.
The Gelco Courier plane made its landing and taxied as it always
did to the Flight Craft companys tie down area. The pilot exited the
aircraft as usual to get his nightly cup of Joe and toilet break a few
hundred yards down the flight line, conveniently out of sight of my entry
to the plane and its departure.

52

I was already through the cyclone fenced gate that was never locked.
I made a bee line straight for the Cessna as the company pilot was still
visible. I was taking a big chance that he would not turn around and go
back to the aircraft for some forgotten item. With flight bag and my duffle
in tow I speed walked through the darkness towards the quarry.
As I approached the Cessna I was struck on how big, sleek and
beautiful it truly was. My awe of the prize reinforced my will to succeed
it this piracy. I reached for my lock picks and just as smooth as I had
practiced so many hundreds of times the tumblers fell into place and I
turned the cargo door handle. I quickly raced up to the pilots seat and slid
in. I put my headphones on, which gave me credibility to anyone who
might notice. I flipped on the battery switch and checked the gauges. The
horizontal indicator came alive and the dash lights lit up the cockpit. For a
moment I hesitated. Fuel was low. I decided it would be enough so I
continued into my preflight checklist.
Boeing ground, this is Cessna November Sierra Tango Niner Niner
Seven ready to taxi to active runway. Please advise.
 Affirmative Cessna November Sierra Tango Niner Niner Seven
you are cleared to taxi to runway 35. Switch radio to tower frequency
122.2 at threshold.
It was now or never. I turned the ignition on on the left motor and
turned the switch to start. It fired up strong. It sounded like a big cat at
feeding time. I turned the switch to the right engine on and turned the

53

switch. Same result. Two powerful turbocharged pods of lightning ready
to take me the hell out of there before anyone catches on.
I released the brakes and taxied out onto the tarmac and on to the lit
taxiways towards runway 35. Boeing is a very long airport. The taxiing
seemed to take forever, but there I was at the threshold running up the
motors.
Tower, Cessna November Sierra Tango Niner-Niner Seven ready to
take off. I professionally squawked into my mike.
Cleared for takeoff, Cessna November Sierra Tango Niner-Niner
Seven. Depart south after clearing marker. Have a good day.
I pushed the throttles forward and rolled out. Before I knew it I was
at 95 knots and the airplane lifted up easy from the runway. I was now in
the possession of my own brand new Cessna twin, suitable for
international smuggling. There are no planes with blue lights, to chase
after you or pull you over, as there are in stole cars and boats. Once
airborne you are home free. I couldnt help but smile. I should have
saved that grin.
* * *
My consciousness returned to where I was and what had to be
done before I could resume my journey to Bumpass. It was time to get
motivated. I jumped out onto the snow with the Cessnas plastic snow

54

brush in hand and started clearing the wings from the thin layer of frozen
white flakes. I had to take off before the Rock Springs tower personnel
showed up at the airport.
As I worked feverishly to remove the frozen impediments I
wondered what new obstacles I would have to overcome. Aside from the
weather only two serious hitches had occurred during this theft. First
there was almost no fuel in the plane and secondly I didnt have the turbo
cooling flap on the left engine opened sufficiently for the conditions and
blew the seals on the turbo oil pump which also operated the hydraulics
for the landing gear.
That is the problem with taking something without a working
knowledge of that specific thing. If I had time to go over the flight logs
for the 402 I took I would have seen that they were watching a slight leak
in that particular seal and the plane was due for some maintenance to
correct the problem. If I knew that I would have set the cooling flaps
more open at take off and backed off on the power sooner as I was gaining
altitude. You cant know everything and I just had to make the best of the
situation.
No problem. Because I knew the operators manual so well I just thumbed
through the manuals quickly and realized what had caused the smoke coming off
of the left motor.
Once I discovered that the landing gear oil pressure was insufficient I had
to get inventive. I recalled an instructor showing me a trick in a retractable gear

55

Cessna 180. He let the airplane go into a controlled stall and jarred the landing
gear out with a violent jerking back into level flight. I tried that old trick forcing a
few stalls and recoveries that would hopefully force the gear down. No luck.
I would have to use my, one time only, last chance. I had to use the
emergency gas operated landing gear release. I knew that once I did this I would
have to fly the airplane, landing gear down, across the country to our airstrip in
Bumpass Virginia. Then the airplane would have to be repaired. Cory and Junior
would not be pleased with this development.
I blew the gear out with the emergency gas operated system. The only real
issue aside from pissing off my partners, would be that cruise speeds would be
about 50 knots slower than maximum from around 180 down to 130 and fuel
usage would be dramatically higher than planned. That changed the flight plan
from two pit stops to five.
My original plan was to fly somewhere in Western Washington and top up
the tanks. Then directly on as far as Colorado and proceed to Virginia in less than
twenty hours.
What actually happened was much more intense than the simple planned
stop at Arlington, a small airstrip in the fog, near Bellingham Washington. When
I flew over the location where I was supposed to see the runway there was a
problem. I could see the numbers at the threshold of the runway but nothing of
the rest of the landing surface. I was very low on fuel. I pushed down the
switches for gear down and nothing happened. I recycled the sequence and got a

56

forward thump and a green light for the nose wheel. I had lost hydraulic pressure
to the wing wheel gear.
After an hour of going over the procedures in the flight manual I was
critically low on fuel so I had to do something I had not planned on. I pulled the
t-handle of the co gas operated emergency landing gear extension system and with
a tremendous blast and a jolt that shook the whole fuselage the gear was down
and locked. All three lights were safely green. Without further hesitation I dove
towards the numbers on the runway still visible in the moonlight.
I touched down at 95 knots immediately past those woefully inadequate
indicators of the direction I must land the plane into the wall of fog. There was
going to be no visibility or room for error. I punched it in and glued my desperate
focus on what little I could see of the centerline right under the planes nose in the
filtered illumination from the planes landing lights. I made a good guess at the
turn off to the taxiway to the flight line and seeing a fuel truck in the mist pulled
up next to it and set the brakes. I shut her down and crawled into the cargo area
for a four hour nap.
As the sun came up I got out of my new Cessna and asked the guy in the
airport office for 110 avgas. They didnt have the right fuel for the plane. I
looked around and found an aircraft mechanic working in a nearby hanger. He
sold me twenty gallons of high test fuel and I headed off towards Pendleton,
Oregon, in the dawn light. With what fuel I still had on board it would be just
enough to make it. Gear down I couldnt fly faster than 140 knots in clear air
which changed my plan dramatically. In turbulence I had to rein back my

57

airspeed to less than 120. Fuel efficiency would be reduced by almost two thirds.
I calculated I could make it around 600 miles in the configuration I was stuck
with.
* * *
These were the conditions I had been fighting. One last little break before
heading out. I sat there finishing my third reheated cup of coffee on that bleak
cold Wyoming runway and could not help wondering what other pitfalls awaited
me.
* * *
The morning broke as the sun peaked over the horizon. The air to the East
was a brilliant orange. Before anyone could witness it, I was taking off into the
blinding morning sun. The next stops; Loveland, Colorado and Liberty, Missouri.
Finally, after more abuse in 30 flight hours and four days than I had
experienced in over two years and a thousand hours of flying legally, I looked
down and thankfully sighted our strip just outside of Bumpass Virginia. The
glitches encountered had added up. It had taken four days to overcome the
adversity encountered in the theft of the 402 instead of the two planned. I was
certain Cory and Junior would be pissed. I was certain they would get over it.

58

I banked hard to a short final and stuck the landing gear into the welcome
soft gravel of this back woods landing strip.
Upon arrival at the little unpaved airstrip in Bumpass I was thoroughly
physically and mentally exhausted. Forty eight more hours had been consumed
since Rock Springs and my last good rest. Before I contacted Cory, I wolfed
down two roast beef sandwiches I had held out in reserve along with a quart of
orange juice. I turned my portable radio on to a country station and Dolly Parton
was singing a song about eagles and flying and freedom. I drifted off to sleep
thinking about watching eagles up on Orcas Island as a youth.
It seemed like only moments in a dream but turned into a full twelve
hours of well deserved sleep. I awoke from dreams of big tits and eagles.
I jumped out of the plane to take a dump and a long piss. Standing in the
grass next to the airstrip, I felt safe, comfortable and rested for the first
time in four days. I had stolen the plane. I had survived. I had broken
several laws in several states. I was going to break many more here and in
South America.
I returned to the aircraft cargo bay to dress in the airlines pilot outfit
I had purchased for this occasion and my cover as a commercial pilot.
There were two last details that needed handling. I took out a Phillips
screw driver and replaced the lock on the cargo door with the new lockset
I had used in my timed test. Now I had a key to my new bird. The second
chore would be to change the 402s numbers. That could wait for a few
hours.

59

I needed to establish a short term base of operations and a more
comfortable place to sleep than the cargo bay of the plane.
A shack stood near the airstrip. It was locked up but the pay phone
attached to it was working.


----------



## HUGGY (Jun 16, 2013)

The Pilot by Sean Corey pages 60-75

*Trust No One*

I called a cab for a ride to Fredericksburg. The car pulled up half an hour
later. The driver leaned out of the door window and asked if I was his fare. I had
to think if even this question should have been answered honestly.
Take me to the best motel in Fredericksburg I instructed the cabbie.
The countryside of Virginia reminded me of growing up on Orcas Island
and visiting my relatives in the small towns in Washington State. I studied the
cabbie.
I learned at an early age to choose my words carefully. I thought back to the
exact moment I had lost my trust. It was 1958 in Kent, Washington, a small town
near Seattle.

61

I just learned from an early and impressionable age that trust is a contract
you blindly agree to that may have hidden in it conditions you did not believe in
when you made the bargain.
Nine is an impressionable age. It is a purer moment in a boys life and the
messages you remember stick with more tenacity. Its like when you put a
bandaid on a freshly cleaned wound or a patch of bruised skin. It sticks.
It was Thanksgiving at Great Aunt Jessies in Kent. Jessie, Grandma
Pinkertons sister was a never-married school marm that loved to have the
whole clan over as often as possible. In reality she could only coax the migration
once a year on the turkey holiday.
I was standing by myself out in the cold November afternoon on Jessies
front porch and dear mother came out to join me. I was daydreaming, I think.
Maybe I was trying to figure out if I would explode literally if I tried to stuff
down another slice of that most delicious pumpkin pie with the real sugared
whipped cream.
Mom leaned down with the scotch glass balanced carefully in one hand and a
Salem cigarette in the other and asked me at point blank Seannie? Would you
ever ride a bike in the street?
Not having one it was hardly the kind of question one would expect to be
tested on. I should have known better than to give a reply right then and there, to
be certain never an answer that she didnt want to hear.
Foolishly, I gazed out onto the scene in front of me and looked up and down
the abandoned Third Avenue in this little hick town of 15,000 in the then farm

62

country south of Seattle. For sure there were cars around somewhere just none to
be seen in the last ten or twenty minutes.
In my defense of blurting out the wrong answer there were also no
sidewalks in much of rural Kent Washington at the time, including the street my
Great Aunt lived on. No nevermind my mother would sing song frequently
enough for me to get physically ill at those syllables dancing together out of her
mouth like the testing tongue of a serpent.
Well I suppose that if I was riding a bicycle, right now here, in front of
Jessies place I would pretty much have to ride in the street seeing as how there
would be no other place to ride but if I heard a car coming I would surely get off
and push it. I had fucked up and I knew it.
Last birthday, in April, mom and dad started making noises that next year
the kids might be ready for bicycles. It was always the kids because Mike and I
had the same birthday. Everything I got he had to get and vice versa. It was only
fairness you know. I had long ago stopped trying to understand my mothers
definition of fairness. It lay somewhere between her convenience in supposed
rewards and group punishment.
Whatever.
It was as if the two years separating us in age didnt exist. Why she never
seemed to show individual attention was troubling at first. Then I realized that all
interaction with her was about her. She showed a slight preference for Katy, the
girl, and Jamie the youngest, but I think that was only because they were more

63

dependant on her approval. I was openly skeptical of her motivation and Michael
was just indifferent.
I never really prayed but probably did request some sort of divine
intervention on that one conversation as it stuck hard and angrily in the back of
my mind right up to the day of my tenth birthday. I wasnt disappointed. It was
Mike that burst open the secret envelope. He asked straight away where his bike
was.
Without blinking an eye, dear mother chimed in as if she had practiced the
timing. Oh dad and I had second thoughts about getting you kids bikes because
Seannie didnt reassure us he wouldnt ride his bike in the street.
Naturally my littlest brother, three years my junior, Jamie, got a bicycle in
June and I prayed again, that he would drive it in front of a semi.
This slight still burns today. Mothers hear this. Your damn kid is more
interested in his own safety than you are.
The lesson has stuck. Anything you say can and will be used against
you in court or relationships. Trust no one. Tell people what you believe
they want to hear. You will eventually betray yourself if you always tell
everyone the truth. That unfortunate lesson had been the foundation of
many of my future encounters with the opposite sex.
I knew I had issues with relationships with women. At times I treated
them as the enemy. A female friend pointed out my manipulative ways
when it came to relationships. She even speculated that I had a deep
unresolved hatred for women.

64

I responded to my friend Marva Oh contraire my friend, I do not
hate women, I love certain parts of them very much. I just do not trust
them.

65

*Hey*

I called a cab for a ride to Fredericksburg. The car pulled up half an hour
later. The driver leaned out of the door window and asked if I was his fare.
Take me to the best motel in Fredericksburg I instructed the cabbie.
I was a bit amused as I was paying the cab fare outside The Best Motel on
I-95.
The motel was set back off of the highway with parking in front. My eye
caught a familiar source of concern. A plain white Ford sedan parked in front of
the office looked like an undercover cops ride. I approached the suspect vehicle
and knelt down so I could take a look at the interior. My worst suspicion was
affirmed when I saw the recessed headliner and the assault rifle nestled in it out of
sight to all but those who knew where to look.
There was no way that the representative of authority that drove the
undercover car could know who I was and what I had just done in the last few

66

days. It would be an advantage to know for sure. There was really only one way
to find out.
Into the lobby and straight away to the counter I strode with
confidence. The young woman at the check in desk looked up. I had a
laser lock on her vacant blue eyes. Dressed to impress in a commercial
pilot captains outfit and looking like Tom Cruise and James Bond rolled
into one I knew I held the winning hand.
I opened with my best line. Can I help you? That threw her off
guard.
You have no idea how many women fantasize about pilots. She was
no exception. Quickly she told me the best place to stay in town was
not this motel. She confided that a much nicer one down the street was a
better bargain. I found that odd. Then she confessed to something much
more interesting.
It turned out early on in our encounter that she admitted to being an
FBI agent. She was working on a case posing as a clerk at the counter of
the Best Stay motel. One might ask and deservedly so why she would
share such sensitive information with a complete stranger?
It was a typical hot and muggy early spring afternoon in Virginia.
Just like all of the buildings seem to be made of the same red brick, all the
days seem to blend together and before you know it your life is set in
mortar and you are just another brick in the wall. Days do that in that part

67

of the country. When she couldnt look me in the eyes she was staring
out into space.
Picture her life, what she was faced with, what she was doing for the
FBI, who and what she was married to. She was almost cute, a little
mousy, yet very prim. Her five-five, a buck ten frame was topped off with
short brown hair. The small nose, thin yet revealing lips, smallish breasts
and nice curvy figure sported a pert ass that looked very inviting. She, as I
would find out soon, was married to a guard at Quantico, the FBI training
center. Not exactly her best career advancement choice. She being a
bonified field agent and her anchor a rent a cop made for strange
bedfellows and obvious career conflict.
It has always been a good line no matter what the circumstance.
There I am 6 black hair, mustached Donny Osmond face and trim
muscular build dressed like an Eastern Airlines Captain. Gold epaulettes
on the shoulders of my starched white shirt tucked neatly into my black
just pressed slacks and polished shoes told her I was the real deal, a man
that flew airplanes, the kind of a vision that could fly you away, to
anywhere else.
Excuse me? I queried. Asking her why she would recommend
another motel.
That was when she confessed to being a government agent working
on check fraud cases. She couldnt stop staring into my piercing green
eyes. I had her. I knew it. She knew it. So why would I bother? Why

68

take this chance? Maybe to a pirate pilot in my position an in to the FBI
might be advantageous. I had taken many chances in my business. This
could be the smartest or the dumbest thing I would ever try.
I was in town working for a pot Cartel based in Columbia with a
beautiful twin engine Cessna 402 airplane I had just stolen in Seattle four
days earlier. I had just landed said stolen property at a nearby private
airport in Bumpass. Now I was about to temp fate by getting close to
someone that could feed me information if she wanted to or more probably
feed me to the sharks.
My assignment was to assess the airworthiness of the plane and make
it ready for some long and dangerous flights to Ria Hoacha Colombia and
other points in the Caribbean, not to get laid by an unwitting mousy FBI
agent. I would have to work this new development into the plan. Most
anyone else in my position would have run not walked as quickly as
possible out of her sight but I had immediately decided on other plans for
her obvious passion for pilots. One thing for certain is that if Cory or
Junior found out about this FBI agent they would kill me immediately.
Clearly I was about to walk a fine line near the brink of disaster if I
was to pursue the fantasy of this young female FBI Special Agent.
For sure the second time we met it had to be all above board and just
friendly-like. I dropped by her stake out after a couple of days and
thanked her in person for her kind consideration on the tip for my new
residence, the motel she had recommended. That motel would soon be

69

the scene of her undoing as the first female FBI agent ever caught with her
pants down. While I was there sipping on a bottle of coke and waiting for
her to check in a traveling salesman I was thinking about how to get into
this womans life and therefore into bed with her. Most girls are nurturers.
They always are trying to be the mom, the helper. She was no different. I
asked her about the civil war history that was so rich in Virginia and how
she felt about it. That was all I had to say to get the ball rolling as it were
and she retorted like an eager beagle puppy that she would be pleased and
honored to give me a guided tour of the many cemeteries and battle fields
that were scattered all over the nearby Virginia landscape.
I had a part time girl friend in Boston about to drive down and pay
me a visit and Rhonda my live in girlfriend was minding the fort and
waiting for word of success or failure back in our Boulder mountain
hideaway. I already had more companionship than I had time for
considering what I was doing and the ominous curiosity of those I was
working for. Still, knowing an FBI agent could have its plusses under the
circumstance.
As it turned out we both had an interest in affairs military so we
went on several sightseeing forays over the next few days. I was the
perfect gentleman. Let me tell you this, my witnesses. You want to drive
a woman crazy? Be a perfect gentleman. Trust me. The deed will get
done.

70

This was to be seduction by design. Hunting is the art of both
patience and opportunity. One must develop a plan. Trust the plan. Take
the time necessary, be patient and execute the plan. When one sees the
timing reveal the opportunity that offers the most advantage, act. I had to
wait for the weather to change. First I had to do a little recon and find out
where she did her grocery shopping. That accomplished I had to wait it
out for the perfect storm which was not long coming.
When it rains in the early spring in Virginia it rains buckets and the
deluge is accompanied by lightning, lots of it. So there I was my
witnesses. Me standing outside the chosen Winn-Dixie in a beating
rainstorm getting drenched with several bags of groceries as she is exiting
the store on her way to get her car to pull up and load her own purchases.
Hey I said as casually as I could considering all of the trouble I had
gone through to be there at that critical instant.
Oh Hi! She exclaimed in her southern accent recognizing me
without the pilot costume. Can I give you a ride?
Ya, I said. Thank you. The cab I called must have gotten lost in
this storm.
The rain was beating down from all directions at once obscuring our
senses as she grabbed two of the bags and put them in the trunk of her
plain blue Ford sedan. I slid into the passenger side of the bench seat
holding the two remaining bags of groceries from the bottoms as if I was
carefully supporting two handfuls of a womans derrière gently on my lap.

71

The bags were soaked. To keep them from bursting apart I had my fingers
spread as wide as I could to prevent the contents from spilling out.
Women, especially maybe women special FBI agents, notice
everything. As we pulled out of the parking lot, with the wall of water
running down the windshield, only slightly broken by the helpless
wacking of the wiper blades, she ran the car over the rain obscured speed
bump at the edge of the parking lot entrance and with the jolt my grip
reflexed into the bags.
She looked at my fingers on the light brown paper and said Dont
squeeze them so hard. The bags in that store are cheep and they dont
stand up to much abuse. Then she smiled to herself.
I smiled to myself at that moment also. It was obvious to me that we
were playing the same game, just not on the same teams.
The parking lot at my motel was almost empty except for the spaces
directly in front of my street level room just around back of the highway
side of the typical red brick Fredericksburg building. The rain was
coming down faster than ever which did not seem possible.
She got out of the car before we had said anything about thank you or
goodbyes and I quickly jumped out myself with my room key in hand. I
was holding it like a sword running straight to the lock in the door that
would get us out of the storm. Looking at her next to me, at the entrance
to our escape from the deluge, was a woman that wanted something

72

desperately drenched to the bone with two bags of grocery props in her
arms.
I laughed and she joined me. The copious rainwater ran down our
faces like tears of joy.
I undid the door handle swiftly and opened the enclosure. A blast of
warm air invited my drenched special agent through the door. The light
and the AC/heater were already on having been part of the plan as I set the
love trap earlier in the afternoon. I had provided this final touch before
leaving in the rain three hours earlier to buy the bags of grocery bait and
hunt this FBI agent in the downpour.
I have to admit, this stormy day I was lucky. Sometimes all the
preparation in the world comes up short. I have bow hunted Elk on Mount
Baker in Washington State in the dead of winter, at 20 degrees below zero,
sleeping on a custom aluminum lounge, thirty feet up in the air lashed to a
huge branch, for two days straight. All of the game tracks in the area
converged under that tree. I didnt get off a shot. I had no luck at all.
We stumbled to the bed and I offered her to sit for a moment and dry
herself.
Hey, turn on the VCR I suggested. I rented a few movies for these
stormy Virginia days.
Ill be right back I said as I braved more of the torrent and raced out
to the car to gather the last of the groceries. Fortunately she had forgotten
to lock the doors.

73

I returned from the Ford with my other two bags to find her sitting on
the bed, her back to me watching the TV with the sound off. An old
Bogart/Hepburn movie The Queen of the Nile was on the screen. She
was mouthing the lines as though she knew the movie by heart.
I took the liberty of securing your car. I hope you have your keys. I
said as I re-entered the room.
I had also taken the liberty of guessing which movie to rent for the
occasion. I smiled to myself. She turned to me with a slightly lost far
away look in her eyes.
I closed the door gently and she turned and patted the spot on the bed
next too her beautiful ass. I came over to her and sat. She had her hands
on her knees and the rain water was still running down her hair and onto
the business suit jacket that kept her tits and her automatic pistol covered.
I sat briefly but saw more duty and another touch to the art of my
seduction.
I rose and walked quietly to the bathroom. As I reached to the rack I
turned to look back one last glance at her innocence. I grabbed one of the
small white bath towels and returned to sit next to her. I lifted the soft
clean cloth up to her neck line and dabbed at the biggest droplets still
running down onto her shoulders.
She turned to me and without a word and a finger to her lips put her
other hand behind my neck and gently but determinedly pulled my lips
onto hers. We kissed. We said no words. Our tongues and lips were so

74

involved that there was no place to exit words that would only slow down
or stop what could not be stopped.
She pulled off her wet jacket revealing a shoulder holster and a white
silky blouse hiding her pert breasts vainly covered in a thin black brazier.
She was obviously still a little chilled from the rain because her nipples
were sticking hard outward against the lace of the bra.
Or, maybe there was some other stimulus pushing the brown
protrusions as she turned to me and started unbuttoning my shirt and I
hers. The speed of our disrobing was gaining momentum and we started
laughing out loud as we fought the last objects inhibiting our naked assault
on the bed we were sitting on.
I had her hands held up high above her head on the pillow as I glided
up and in between her silky opening thighs with my member stiff and
eager to enter the juices she was generating inside. As her lubricated lips
closed down softly on me the trap had been sprung.
Somewhere deep inside she didnt care. She was being satisfied,
maybe for the first time. She wasnt bad. She was over her head. She
knew from the start she was in trouble.
Several years of pent up passion taken out on an attractive stranger
can make up for quite a lot. Reckless passion frequently has its
consequences. It would take some time for her to realize the full impact of
our brief affair but realize she would in due course.

75

I had taken an incredible chance courting this young FBI woman. She
dressed quietly sitting on the bed with her back to me. She got up and
walked over to me on the other side of the bed leaned down and kissed me
goodbye on the lips.
I enjoyed that very much my sexy pilot but we can never do this
again.
I know. I agreed.
She opened the door to discover the rain had stopped. She turned
back and looked at me in a quizzical manner, shook her head and left.
* * *
I lay back on the bed both proud and disgusted with myself. I thought
back twenty years earlier to a time when I was very young. How did I get
here from there? Was I arrogant or confident? How had I learned the
skills that would give me the confidence to pull off and win games like
the one I had just played and won.? Laying there on that motel bed was I
searching for reasons or excuses?
* * *


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## HUGGY (Jun 17, 2013)

*The Pilot *  written by Sean Corey pages  77-91

*Twenty years earlier
The birth of a pirate*

77


*Before the Beginning*

I was endowed with the adventure seeking genes of my fathers
fathers. Both of my grandfathers were successful adventurers and
inventers of their own lives.
My own parents notwithstanding added little directly to my character.
I mention these ancestors accomplishments because they and not their
own children left the torch to be picked up and carried forth. Perhaps my
mom and dad were too intimidated by their predecessors. For whatever
the reasons their kids chose the easier path and did little in their entire
lives than live off of the money and credibility of their parents. They felt
entitled.
My grandfathers legends opened my senses up to what was possible.
I learned much from both of them. Sam Pinkerton adopted my dad
Dwight when he was ten. His natural father, Dana Corey, a prolific
inventor, died of a misdiagnosed brain tumor. Sam was self-made man

78

and an inventor. He was a builder of big ideas. He was a quiet, proud
man over six foot two who played professional football against athletes
like Jim Thorpe. He went on to enlist in World War I risking his life to
save torpedoed freighters in a seagoing tugboat in the Navy. He continued
on to build several mansions for Midwest industrialists around the Great
Lakes in the late 30s. When I came into the world in 1949, he had just
built an oil refinery near Seattle that processed used oil back to its original
quality. His main customers were Burlington Northern Railroad and
Greyhound Buses. He was making a fortune selling a product that he
picked up, essentially for free, from full service gas stations.
Nathanial Berry, my mothers father, made his fortunes by inventing
new ways to help the less than fortunate. His talent was in knowing how
to invest money and using that ability to help people. Nat started a
Penny bank in the late thirties lending money to average people living in
Seattle soon after the great stock crash. These small loans helped regular
people get back on their feet. Most of the borrowed money was used for
the purchase of small appliances. He charged a fair rate of interest which
made him a very well-regarded pillar of our community. When I was first
held in his arms as a baby, he had amassed a substantial portfolio of
wealth, including several apartment buildings, hotels, hospitals, race tracks
and farms spread all over the country.
(My favorite thing about grandfather Berry was that he died in the
company of a prostitute on a train in Chile.)

79

The last time I saw Grandpa Berry, he was living on the top floor of
the Sorento Hotel on first hill in Seattle. He owned the hotel.
In fairness I have to admit I also enjoyed Grandfather Berrys gifts.
When my mother would dress me up in little three piece suits to visit the
king, I would always look forward to it.
As soon as mother would run along at her fathers insistence, to
leave me in his care, he would start the lemon drop game. Maybe he did it
to break the ice or make up for his self awareness of the large hole in his
throat. Perhaps it was the voice tube he had to hold up next to it to speak.
His vocal chords had been removed in an operation to save his life from
cancer. This left a hole in the front of his neck. He breathed and talked
out of this opening with the aid of a small tube that vibrated like a crude
wind instrument. He sounded like Peter Frampton without the guitar.
The lemon drop game was easy. Nat would ask me a series of simple
random questions and ask me to think about the answers. The next time I
would visit he would request my responses and for each question I
remembered and its proper solution he would let me reach into one of his
suit jacket pockets and take one sugar lemon drop. He made the visits
interesting for a five year old. When he got used to me not feeling
uncomfortable with his disfiguration he would sit me on his knee and tell
me that some day I would be the prince of the world.

80

He would write me letters with sealing wax on the envelopes. Sean
Patrick Pinkerton Esquire was the addressee. He gave me a sealing wax
kit for my return correspondence.
It was too bad he died when I was six. It was fun being his favorite
grandchild. It was clear at an early age that money was security, power
and happiness.

81

Skull Island and Massacre Bay
Could there have been a better place for the birth of a pirate? Could better
names have been dreamt by Walt Disney? Even from the very start of my
evolution towards my unlikely future vocation, the stars were in alignment.
The year of my families Protestant lord was 1957. This was the year my
spirit was reborn from a suburb kid living north of Seattle in a place called Lake
Forest Park. The city kid was transformed to prince of paradise on the Island
known as Orcas in the Northwestern American San Juans.
My wealthy grandparents both chipped in and there we were the six of us,
standing on the broad porch of the weathered farmhouse overlooking gods own
country. As the former owners, an elderly couple, motored off from Shell Island,
a two hundred foot rock that sheltered our beach, in their then new 50 foot Chris
Craft yacht, we all stood there like tourists and waved goodbye.

82

The pleasure craft had not even made it out of sight when we, my sister and
two brothers and I, were racing down the gentle slope of the 20-acre field that lay
between the county road and the beach.
We were exploring.
In this moment of magic, we could be stepping in places that no civilized man
had ever laid tracks. We were exploring our own new land. Screams of finding
arrowheads and Indian graves or bones from the early white settlers rang out as
we rushed to the beach.
It didnt take long before the wheat had separated from the chaff. My sister
Katy abandoned the beach first as uninteresting. Except for Fourth of July
fireworks displays to come in the following years, I dont remember seeing her on
the water again.
My one older sibling couldnt lead a kid to candy. I felt sorry for her when
she wasnt stabbing me in the back. I had inherited the vacancy of the Alpha
status from the moment I was born and she always felt cheated for it. The poor
girl just never understood that to be the leader of the pack, you must choose to
never be the victim.
Michael sat down in the middle of the beach and started collecting agates.
He soon discovered that the entire beach was covered with these translucent
beauties. He wrongly equated quantity with value and dropped his most recent
prizes from his hands, got up and followed Katy up to the farmhouse. If they had
been diamonds in the rough he would never have the curiosity to find out.

83

James, the youngest, at least attempted to scale the breadth of the beachfront
and in doing so climbed halfway up a small cliff that bordered our neighbors to
the East. He got stuck and started crying. He was about ten feet up in the air but
below the waterline of high tide. He attempted to get himself down but slipped
and scraped his stomach on some barnacles and mussels clinging better than he to
the rock face.
I was at the other end of the beach, almost a quarter mile from Jamie, when
he was wailing over his minor injuries. Jamie was traumatized easily and seldom
returned to the treacherous beach.
The beach would be mine.
I didnt mind being alone. That is, I already knew that I was not alone.
Orcas Island is teaming with rabbits, deer, and birds of every kind imaginable. In
the water were seabirds. There were otters, seals and fish. Yes, fish, there were
thousands of schools of them, everywhere. Orcas and the water surrounding it
was alive.
* * *
Before our move to Orcas there was a noticeable lack of purpose and unity in
our family that sprung doubt of worth and a fear of the unknown in me. Missing
was trust, loyalty and a sense of family blood that was the staple of the homes I
knew existed for others but not for us. They seemed like rituals of a foreign

84

religion kept secret. Nothing of value was modeled. I felt like I was outside of
the world in a deserted alley looking in at the coming and going of normal people
through a small one way window. No one ever looked back through the glass
because they already knew something of a purpose of which I was kept in the
dark. I observed but could make no sense of what I saw. Then in an act of
generosity my grandparents offered a change of scene, an opportunity not lost.
Thus in this migration the die was cast new and the artists wheel was
cleared. As I sat on my bed that evening looking down at the beach in the fading
light with the sweet smell of the madrona trees wafting under the raised window I
felt at home. The chatter from the others in my family around me was a fading
buzz that didnt register. Apart from my siblings I instantly understood this as
paradise, where I was meant to be. It was perfect. There was nothing in my way
but my own irrational fears. In this setting I was ready to face them. I learned
many lessons on that island as a youth that would be my strength as I grew up and
closed the distance to my destiny.

85

*Michael*

Massacre Bay had a rich Native American history. It was a place
where ancient tribes fought wars over the wealth of seafood and shelter the
San Juan Islands afforded. These bloody battles were for their very
existence. The Macaws (The Ravens) usually won those wars. Many
tribes did not and were wiped out or run off. Thus the name Massacre
Bay.
For a child growing up there, the ghosts of these ancient legends
added to the flavor of the environment. Children believe in such
aberrations. I firmly believed that everything I did was looked upon by
the remaining souls of the true warriors who had fought and died on those
grounds.

86

I chose, as the altar to this hallowed scene, the spires of rock that
jutted up out of the water overlooking Skull Island and our beach at the
very head of Massacre Bay.
On days when the tide was low these precipices stood sometimes
more than two fathoms tall, like pilings side by side, reaching twenty
yards out into the deeper water. At high tide one could jump from top to
top, out to the very last one and fish in almost thirty feet of water.
I loved the outdoors, day, night, rain or shine, calm or stormy. I
loved it all.
One very stormy morning, the wind was howling a forty knot gale
straight up West Sound, with breakers pounding, every few seconds, like
train crashes on our beach. Our claim to what could never be truly owned
was nearly a quarter of a mile across the head of the bay.
There were only two obstacles for the crashing walls of seawater.
Skull Island lay a hundred yards to the East and Shell Island just to the
West.
That morning I had chosen as my mission to brave this raging
storm. My assignment was to leap as far out as possible onto the tall thin
barnacle covered rocks that jetted out into the bay. Climbing out onto
these tiny platforms, sticking up at the very end of a small point one
hundred-fifty feet from the beach, was nothing to achieve when the water
and wind were calm. This test of my luck and perhaps my future on the
small point that split the beach, engulfed in storm, was nearly suicidal.

87

This would be a Druids test if there ever was one. What I would
do if things went badly I had not even let cross my mind.
Having donned my little yellow rain slicker, storm hat and boots, I
was certain I was prepared for the worst. The walk from the house to the
beach was intimidating enough with the wind blowing the brim of my
fishermans hat into my face, making it very hard to see. I stood at
waters crashing edge and judged my mission, studying my chances.
Keep your eyes open I was thinking. No matter what. This will be
no different than when you run on the tops of the cliffs. I reassured
myself. I played on the rock fortresses that bordered our land to the west
and to the east almost every day . Just watch where your feet land with
every step and dont think about the water. The first couple of leaps were
the hardest as they had the longest distances to clear.
With the wind blowing against my progress, I needed a running start
to span the first gap. My boot grabbed the granite and I caught balance. A
gap in the wind slacked the fury for a moment. I struck fast. The second
spire had been conquered. With a little more effort and a lot of luck I was
there. I had made it out onto the most far-reaching rock. I leaned into the
gale to defy the laws of nature herself. I was ten.
Apparently, I was not the only curious youngster in the neighborhood.
I had been standing up strong against good judgment and nature for maybe
ten minutes. As the waves crashed all around my legs, threatening to flush
me off my perch, the wind howled steadily against me. Even with the

88

overload of everything I could see or hear there came a strange sound.
This little splash sound was out of place.
It was as if you were watching a scary movie like Psycho with the
loud shrieking violins. Then someone is playing the Sound of Music
softly in the background. This sound was totally out of place. So I turned
around to discover the source of this aberration. Maybe I was hoping to
witness an Indian ghost or other guardian to this sacred spire. To my
complete amazement there was no ghostly entity. It was a young harbor
seal right behind me at my feet. It was staring up into my face. I was
transfixed, and so seemed the seal. Was he looking into the face of the
possibly craziest human boy he had ever seen?
This young pup seal was no more than two feet away bobbing up and
down in the crashing surf rolling and paddling and obviously amused and
curious to the purpose of my mission. I didnt know if seals could laugh
but I swear this one did.
We split the difference and had a mutual laugh as this boy giggled and
that one grinned. The amusement on my part immediately turned back to
terror as the next wave nearly dislodged me from my rock perch. The fear
that I refused to consider earlier was clear and apparent at that moment. If
I fell in, wrapped in all that plastic, I would sink like a rock and drown. I
resolved to persevere.
The waves and the wind kept coming steadily. I was clever at
making up my own sayings. This in my mind was the devil you know is

89

not as bad or as dangerous as the one that surprises you. I made myself
say it out loud. Still, the threat was clear and present. I was not going to
be defeated by something as simple as wind and water.
I turned back again to look for the seal and just glimpsed the top of
the pups grey speckled head slip down into the dark green water.
The tide was still coming in and it was time for a well-earned retreat.
I jumped and slipped and jumped again safely and made it back to the
beach. I ran with the wind at my back up to our cabin.
This day occurred before we got electric power installed at our then
summer farm house. In 1959 much of the sparse population of Orcas did
not have electricity.
The cozy home was oil lit and furnished with wood heat and a wood
stove. For the first couple of years the theory was that it was good for the
kids to rough it. It was supposed to teach us good values. I split and
chopped almost every stick of wood we burned so I guess I was the one
who needed all those values.
Let me pass on a little something to you wannabe survivalists. There
is nothing romantic about having to process a mountain of firewood. Your
children think you are retarded and sadistic.
The upper level of our farm cabin was a loft that bedded the three
young boys. Mom and sister Katy slept on the first floor. I was still
dripping seawater all over the place as I flew up the staircase to tell
anyone that would listen about the marvelous experience I had just had.

90

Michael was crouching behind my bed to the far left on the floor.
My first younger brother Michael and I were born on the same day of the
same month two years apart. Other than that, and having the same
parents, we had very little in common.
While I took every opportunity to be outdoors, Michael hated to be
outside of the security of the home. There he was, safely for him,
positioning one of his toys, a soldier, number 472 of the thousand plus
he had enlisted into the Confederate Army. He held it out over the blue
painted hardwood floor at arms length for its impending demise. It was a
feather bed battle in the warm confines of our loft.
The war in Michaels mind was raging all over my personal space.
The toy soldier had seemingly been shot and was falling off of the
imaginary cliff and onto the floor next to my bed. The battleground
numbered over a thousand lead soldiers each of the Blue and the Grey. It
included most of the loft, including his bed, Jamies and mine.
Mikey liked to think of himself as some kind of imaginary military
general. Mike looked up and the words Do you mind? seemed to echo
silently out of his face as he was shaken out of his dream war.
The disruption of his fantasy meant that I would be reclaiming my
bed soon and there would be the inevitable resentment rekindled about the
need for either of us in the others lives.

91

I was trying not to listen. The whiney words he had almost tried just
melted away. Even if vocalized they would have been ignored when
reaching my ears.
I would not share the magic I had just lived on Massacre Bay with
someone that still played with little toys.
Mother had observed that Michaels battles were brilliant plans and
he had a fine knack for detail and realism. My observation was that
Barbie Dolls could be substituted for his toy soldiers and little would have
changed in the picture I saw before me.
I was discovering who I was. The approval or even the
acknowledgement of my accomplishments did not matter. Seeking
excitement was becoming my lifes blood. It was going to be enjoyed,
with my siblings or in private.


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## HUGGY (Jun 17, 2013)

This is the water (Southern) portion of the farm on Orcas located at the North end of West Sound called Massacre Bay ..the Island is Skull Island one of my childhood playgrounds.


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## HUGGY (Jun 19, 2013)

*The Pilot*  Written by Sean Corey pages 92-116

*Noble Barnes*

Our place on Orcas was a farm in name only when we first arrived. The
elderly couple that previously owned the 167 acres of beaches, fields, orchards
and woodlands were not full time residents. It was their summer retreat. It would
be my familys for the first couple of years.
Mom thought she was living in a painting. She gave a different and twisted
meaning to the word romantic.
After the inevitable divorce, between the titans of self absorbtion, the life had
been sucked out of the combatants. Each one went to their corners. Mom chose
Orcas. Dad lived in Seattle.
Missing from her vision of a farm was actual farm animals. Unfortunately
for any prospective victims of her farm animal fantasy was any possible way to
handle or care for the farm animals. Vacant from her vision was the reality check
necessity known as planning. Practicality is not a term mom ever became
comfortable with. She had proven time and time again to be overly proud and foolishly fanciful.

93

Somewhere, at some time, she had seen a picture of a Scottish Highland
cow. They looked like Texas longhorns with long shaggy hair. She bought three
of them and had them shipped up to our farm. There was an immediate
problem with their arrival. There was no fenced place to put them.
Dad would visit on the odd weekend from Seattle. He spent some time
putting up barbed wire fencing along the paths of easiest access to him which left
little room for the cows. Mothers original intention was to use the cliffs to the
right of the house on both sides of an old rundown plum orchard with a fence
across its opening to confine the new arrivals. She completely misunderestimated
how much a cow eats. The less than two acre enclosure of native tall grass and
vine covered plum trees was eaten bare and completely trampled within a month.
I guess Mom believed the cows would live there comfortably without want
forever.
Backtracking against her dream of pristine non participatory farming she was
forced to opt for the pastures in front of our farm house on the south side of the
county road.
The front view of our property would soon suffer continuous and unrelenting
degradation with heaping piles of cow shit. With the prevailing Southerly breeze
there would also be a constant assault on the sense of smell. This predicament
was predictable. In typical fashion, she had painted herself and her dreamscape
into another corner.

94

There were about twenty acres between the house and the water. Mom hired
a fencing company to string a very nice wire and wood post fence on the right(West)
side of the lower field.
Dad was supposed to build a small barn to shelter the cows from the rain and
to store hay. He wasnt interested in the plan. His idea of visiting the kids did not
include forced labor at the whim of our mother.
Seannie?, do you think you can build a barn? I did not take my mothers
interrogatives lightly at that point in our history. She, as they say in prison, had
priors.
I had already built a small shed up behind the house with a glass front from
old wooden framed windows salvaged from a broken down greenhouse that used
to stand in the same location. I did a pretty good job for a kid. It stood twelve
feet tall at the front. It was twelve feet long and eight feet wide with large doors
on each end. I shingled the single side roof and hand mixed concrete for the floor.
It was a sturdy, useful and attractive complement to our farmhouse. Mom
filled it with useless junk within weeks of its completion. She had a knack for
making any worthwhile project meaningless.
The thought of building her cows a barn was painful. I knew that somehow it
would end up a joke with my name stamped on it.
Then the other shoe dropped or should I say a horse shoe was dropped. The
silly woman got it in her mind that if one had cattle and lived on a farm or in her
imagination, a ranch, one needed a Montana cutting horse to handle the cattle.
Again, we only had three cows and no cowboys.

95

This new development required riding lessons for the kids and now a barn for
sure because horses need cover when the weather turns nasty. Into her head and
out of her mouth, without being spoiled by any unnecessary consideration, were
the words selling the idea of getting the kids a pony. She would offer this pitch to
anyone who would listen as if it was a great thing she was doing for the kids.
Brownie Swann knew the truth. He was the local Island horse expert. I can
remember him standing there looking at Monty the spirited Montana cutting
horse standing a foot deep in the mud in the now totally useless cow pasture. He
just shook his head and walked away muttering something quietly about stupid
fuckin rich people.
Mr. Swann, horse expert, was no quitter though. I think what really got his
goat was listening to my mother in the first place. Real cowboys like Brownie are
suckers for anything in a skirt tied to the railroad tracks. They seldom look for
evidence that the heroine tied herself up as the victim.
Brownie must have needed the money pretty bad so he offered to put Monty
up in his own barn while he attempted to train a pack of unwilling students in the
art and obligations of horse ownership. Smart as a whip, he didnt even try to get
me suckered into the whole horse pride thing.
Brownie took me aside early on into the ordeal, looked at me and asked,
Kid, can you use a saw and a hammer?
Sure Mr. Swann. I said proudly. I built that shed up there behind the
house.

96

Im gonna draw you a picture of a small barn, kid. Do you think you could
build a barn for that noble horse if you had a picture?
Ill do my best, Mr. Swann.
We brought in gravel from the local quarry and I built a sturdy barn to store
hay and keep Monty out of the mud. It was a noble barn for the noble horse. It
was a pretty good barn raising job if I must say so myself. Brownie said so too
and that almost made it worth the trouble.
I could not change people. The pattern had been repeated many times. I was
learning to accept what was offered by chance and make the best of it.
The riding lessons were wasted on Katy, Mike and Jamie. I rode Monty
once in a while but did not really enjoy horses the way some kids did. The
hooves needed cleaning frequently and the horse had to be brushed. I didnt like
wasting time on my own little mop. Brushing a horse was almost as much work
as painting a small house.
I felt bad for the proud cutting horse from Montana. He was not
appreciated. Owning a horse is a full time commitment. I was a little young to
get married.

97

*Dad*

Stalking has only recently become a perceived perversion in our society. It
was not always so. It was a strongly revered skill held over still in far away
places that dont have 7-11s as the first option in feeding the family. Back before
the dawn of human societys existence until around a hundred years ago, it was
the only difference between starvation and survival.
I took to hunting straight away. I didnt need to be coaxed. I was ten when
my .22 single shot with scope included arrived via mail from the Sears Roebuck
catalog. Some kids, at ten years old, would buy candy or toys with their
allowance if they had one. Others might trade wages earned of any odd job a kid
could get for whatever trinket advertised on the back of a comic book. At that
awkward age between child and teen, I bought rifle cartridges. A box of 50 shorts
98
was $1.25. Longs were $1.75 and the most valued cartridges of all, Long Rifles,
$2.25.
I spent somewhere over $500 in bullets before I was thirteen. Even with my
crappy scope, at ten years old, I could clean kill a rabbit right through the eye
from a hundred yards. It takes only one rabbit kill to understand the importance
of a head shot. Aside from the consideration of the time of the pain and suffering
of the victim, there are problems with body shots. Shoulder or rump shots bruise
the meat and imbed particles of lead from the shattered bullet making the area
affected uneatable. This may be half of the entire rabbit. The other is the gut shot
which frequently mixes unsavory tasting and smelling bodily fluids of the dying
rabbit into the bloodstream of the carcass. Gut shots are just plain wasteful and
cruel. Maybe the worst thing is that rabbits scream loudly when in pain.
I was now twelve and an accomplished hunter. It was before deer hunting
season. Dad was visiting up from Seattle for the weekend. He had brought up a
new rifle to sight in. The latest newest treasure was a 1940 WWII .303 British
Enfield bolt action rifle. Dad dutifully warned everyone back and headed up into
the woods to find the appropriate target for this experiment in manliness. I am out
in the late summer sunshine in the back yard near the shed I built. I had raised the
shed and a basketball hoop a year earlier. I was practicing shooting baskets when
I heard two rifle shots in close succession. BANG! BANG! That seemed odd.
I was just starting to think that, hey, that old rifle couldnt shoot that rapidly
when CRASH! My dad had barreled out of the woods and was in the process of
attempting to dive over a barb wire fence that cut across our yard behind the

99

house. It wasnt high enough to stop the deer from eating as much as they wanted
from our vegetable garden but it was a serious obstacle to a 255 pound man with a
rifle still in hand. He was yelling at the top of his lungs that someone had just
tried to kill him.
We owned about a hundred and sixty acres, most of which was out back,
behind the house, with steep cliffs surrounding the property. Most of the land was
lush green woodland with every assortment of native evergreen, cedar and
softwoods such as birch, madrona and alder. I had spent much of my time in
those woods, my woods. There was no one that was going to shoot a gun on that
property without permission. That rule especially applied to game poaching
trespassers. Before dad could come out of his tantrum long enough to realize
what had happened I had snatched the English Army rifle out of his trembling
fingers and ran headlong back into the woods from which he had just retreated.
A few steps into the battle I began to hunt and stalk as I would every day
when I had to shoot a young rabbit before getting on the bus to school. Rabbit is
a good meal. It really does taste like chicken and with an assortment of fresh
vegetables from the garden makes a great stew. I seldom came back empty
handed from my early morning rabbit hunts.
The click of the safety off was all this drunken, poaching, and trespassing,
about-to-meet-his-maker, piece of shit heard as I buried the muzzle of the rifle
behind his left ear. I pulled my aim up gently and said softly and completely in
control,Dont turn around, asshole. Just keep walking straight off my property
and dont ever come back.

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His voice had a peculiar warbling sound as he tried to yell to his accomplice
in this trespass that they had to go now. They did and I stayed there for a couple
of minutes, then snuck closer in their flight to observe compliance of my demand.
It must have been half an hour that I was out in the woods when I emerged
victorious and navigated the garden barb wire the way you are supposed to by
first reaching the rifle through the fence and placing it on the ground bolt open
before carefully separating the wire and slipping through. My dad had not called
the police. There were none to call. He was more collected than when seen last
so I handed him the rifle. He had his head down and I said nothing. He handed
me back the gun and said it was mine. He asked me to be careful with it and
respect it. I just nodded. I said nothing.
* * *
That incident did not make me feel badly towards my father. He ran knowing
he was not up to the challenge of men with guns. There was no shame in doing
the smart thing. My actions were instinctive and successful. I was a hunter. Dad
knew this about me. My reaction was fundamental and foundational in my future
success as a pirate and a smuggler.

101

*A Bird in the Bush, Two in the Hand*


It is quite possible I just never grew up. Not in the ordinary sense of
the words, I suppose. It is true enough for a reasonable assumption, that
succumbing to authority has never been my strong suit.
Most kids cant wait to grow up. They envy the freedoms and
privilege that age gains.
Not me. My childhood was, if was is an appropriate box to
confine it in, a magical time. It was a never-ending series of special gifts
to unwrap and enjoy, each one special and indelible to savor one after the
other. The privilege most worked towards I already had acquired by birth.
The responsibility of growing up was not modeled nor expected.
Moving up to Orcas Island from Seattle quickly transformed an eightyear-
old city kid was into a wilder version of what he had been developing

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into previously. The environment offered more training in character and
responsibility than could ever be displayed by my trust fund baby parents.
Nature was not impressed with ones checking account or who you knew.
A letter of introduction would not save you from falling down into an
abandoned well. Nature demanded common sense, which in our family
was not so common.
Itll be good for the kids. I heard that often as the strings that tied
us to the city were severed from the friends we had known in Lake Forest
Park. There were plenty of woods in Seattle for a kid to explore. a
vacant lot here, an undeveloped patch there. Sure we had robins, squirrels
and blue jays. Orcas was and still is more like wilderness.
On the island much of the wildlife was bigger than I was. There were
friggin birds bigger than I was. A Bald Eagles wing span could be seven
feet. A buck deer with a rack of daggers could be three hundred pounds.
There was every sort of wild beast you could imagine along with the
real ones like the deer and the bears and the raccoons and the occasional
wild cats like lynx and bobcats and the rare sighting of a cougar. There
were rabbits. Christ! were there ever rabbits. We would go out at night
sometimes and chase around the fields in pickup trucks with spotlights and
catch them with fishing nets.
Kids have their own concepts of time and space. Do you remember
how long a minute used to take?, an hour?, a day?, or the unimaginable
eternity of a week? Do you remember how long it seemed to get

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somewhere in the family car and how it all changed when you got older?
Time and the world shrank. Not in my world.
The cause of this warpage of time and space is the attention span kids
are hard wired with. We were curious yet impatient about every thing we
heard, saw and felt. The problem was that everything was happening at
once and we didnt want to miss anything. We packed so much intensity
into everything we did that it seemed to make time stand perfectly still.
Sometimes as we navigated every new twist and turn of becoming a
human being time took a time out. At moments it appeared that time and
the other laws of nature abandoned us entirely for certain lessons and
experiences.
Two such occurrences still today seem like I was a witness to much
more than what I actually saw and felt and did. These are the things that
make some people believe in God. These were the things that helped me
believe in myself.
Early one crisp morning in the late spring I woke up much before the
rest of the human herd I was growing up in. Those that had to call our
gathering a family for their very social survival were still out maneuvering
each other with feigned sleepiness to avoid chores. Everyone around me
was, since their birth, in it for themselves. It seemed to me little interest
was paid or acknowledged of the existence of the others. I have always
preferred to define my own enemies. The pack of self-absorbed victims I
was forced to call my family hardly qualified as worthy opponents.

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I put on my faded jeans and a warm sweater and started out the back
door barefoot on an un-yet defined adventure.
Ouuch! I muttered under my breath. I felt knives stabbing the
bottom of my feet.
The bark of the huge Madrona tree was the offender. It stood next to our
farmhouse, in the middle of the circle driveway at the head of the gravele
leading up from the public road to our sanctuary. This private drive was
laden with the fallen shards of the beautiful red and green Madrona tree.
This was the source of my pain. The bark was scattered everywhere and
before I remembered how painful they could be underfoot, I had already
endured several assaults on the tender soles of my feet. Not wanting to
risk waking one of the others in the house and therefore being the blame
and cause of all their real or imagined suffering, I retreated back to the
rear porch and slipped safely into my beach zorries. Now the knives that
are shed, like a pre-emptive strike to all who would dare to go walking in
the early morning, were fended off. The beautiful Madrona cannot stop
my mission.
It was the soft cooing sounds drifting mystically from the yonder
trees that next caught my attention. It was coming from over the granite
and moss rock formation just a hundred feet or so to the east. I tried again
to navigate past the gauntlet of noisy crackling of the Madrona bark.
The tree still tried to betray me with its snapping signals to everything
in the neighborhood. The bark underfoot was unfair warning that one of

105

the humanoids was on the move. Still the cooing was there and I was
closing in on its source. I crouched lower and aided by the soft moss now
beneath me I advanced towards the very source of the ghostly noises.
Surprise is a lame description for the rapture I felt as I slowly peered into
the hollowed top of a large fallen and dead Madrona branch and witnessed
two little baby bird heads stretched upward with eyes not yet open from
the newness of their hatching. I could not help myself as I reached ever so
slowly and gently into this precious nest and grasped with the lightest
touch I could measure, the two chicks. I held them both in my cupped
palms for a couple of minutes and even then the miracle was not over.
Both parents of these perfect baby wild doves landed on the wood of the
branch and were not afraid. They cooed. I laid the chicks back carefully
into the nest and just stood there in amazement as the parents of the babies
took turns nestling their bodies onto them and gently cooing. They were
all right with me being inches from their privacy and I also was as all right
with the world at that moment as I could have possibly been.
* * *
Once again the magic called to me. It was in the morning. I was
sitting out on our porch, wrapped in a blanket, contemplating what a kid
could do when the fog had rolled in so thick from the bay that you could
barely see anything.

106

The sun was just rising over the tree line. You could tell because the
fog looked bluish if you looked straight up. Otherwise the world was
white cotton. A shadow passed over head through the blue patch and I
looked quickly to see the big white owl gliding from right to left directly
over me maybe twenty feet up in the air. I heard nothing but the magic
was forcing me to action.
I quickly laced up my sneakers and sprinted as quickly and quietly as
I could down the driveway to the county road that ran for almost a mile
through our property. The gravel road had been recently oiled and there
was a couple of patches that ran down the center that was almost solid
asphalt. If I stayed on that part of the path I made no noise as I jogged
down the street and around the bend that eventually led to the little town
of West Sound. I had gone maybe five or six hundred feet from the
driveway and still the fog was so thick you could barely make out the fir
and cedar trees that were standing tall right up to the edge of the highway.
Then I saw it again. The big owl silently glided across the road to the
North and flew right into a thick cedar tree about ten feet from the side of
the county highway. This time I saw it more clearly but as I watched it
land onto the branches of the evergreen.
A Snowy Owl is a big bird. It is bigger than a chicken. They have the
very best hearing of all animals other than perhaps bats. They can hear the
rustle of a dry blade of grass that gives away the position of a field mouse

107

from a hundred feet away then swoop!, the owl silently glides down to that
exact spot with its talons extended and voila! Dinner.
I stood silent, not even a breath to give away my position. Then I
stalked inch by inch on the silent asphalt. I was right next to the bushy
tree. The trees branches were swaying on the back side about four feet
off of the ground. I spied some rock formations sticking out of the grass
and moss between myself and the tree. Using the silence, the solid footing
provided, I continued moving as slowly and carefully as I could. I
steadily moved closer to the tree and what I thought would be a just an
unusually close look at the owl when it would surely eventually see or
hear me and fly away.
Still the branches bobbed and I was now close enough to see better
inside the tree through the fog. I fought to contain my excitement as I
redefined my sense of stealth and held out my hand straight into the
branch that was covering my face. With the other hand and arm slowly
pushed the cedar bough away from my eyes. There it was, this richest of
all the prizes of those that stalk. The Great White Snowy Owl Is the one
animal in gods repertoire no one can sneak up on. This marvel in satin
feathers was disemboweling a big rat on the branch no more than one foot
in front of my face. I did not breathe. I slowly pulled my hand back from
where it was and redirected it towards my treasure.
Slowly, steadily, slowly and silently my finger extended and I softly
stroked the very back feathers of the great bird. The head of the Great

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White Owl turned before this ten-year-old boy. My caress did not go
unnoticed. With a jump and a tremendous flapping of its wings the Snowy
Owl more tumbled and fell out of the branch than flew but fly away it did.
Once again nature had gifted me and taught me something I would
not lose. That lesson was that greed blinds the senses. I would have never
been able to sneak up on that owl if it was not preoccupied with the
possession of its prize. This lesson would serve me well in my later years.

109

*Buck Fever*

I was twelve the first time I went on a deer hunt. That was the age
when you could buy a deer tag.
Johnny was the guy that worked out at the oil dock in the town of
Orcas. He was about thirty five when I met him riding my bike down to
the grocery store in Orcas to buy some twenty two ammo. He was inside
talking to the clerk as I paid for my bullets.
Most people mind their own business in the country except when you
are not there. Then there is little else to talk about. Johnny was not like
that though. He must have had a bad relationship or worse in his past. He
kept to himself.
It surprised me when he actually recognized me and said a few words.
You are Natalies kid right?
Ya, and you are Johnnie? I asked.
Yup. He replied. With this bangup start to our relationship we hit it
off big time right from the get go and I would go down to the dock where
he worked and watch him fix rope and stuff.

110

One day Johnnie asked me if I had ever been deer hunting. He had a
reputation for taking the biggest buck on the Island every year. I was
intimidated by the question. First of all he already knew that I was too
young, until the coming season, to hunt deer legally.
Tell ya what Sean. Im gonna teach you how to hunt deer this year.
I went home and told mom what Johnnie said and to my surprise she did
not offer any complaint or bargain or hoop to jump through for the
honor of being Johnnies hunting partner.
It was still dark when Johnnie came up the driveway on the first day
of deer season. The air was crisp. It was going to be a cloudless sky just
above freezing when we set out at 5 in the morning for one of Johnnies
secret hunting areas.
I was on a mission most kids on Orcas would give their left nut for.
Deer hunting with the Island champ.
We got out of Johnnies pickup on the South West end of East Sound
far away from the more inhabited parts of the already sparsely populated
island.
Johnnie whispered to me. Sean, do you think you can be totally
silent?
Ya sure Johnnie I said probably too loudly in my excitement.
My mind was racing. Silent??? What did he mean? What if I step
on a twig?? What if he hears me cock and chamber my 303 British
Enfield rifle?

111

Calm down son. You will do just fine. Johnnies words were
reassuring and I followed him up into the woods but not too closely until
he was about two hundred yards into the thicket. He was sitting on an old
log that had fallen across the game trail we were hiking on.
Here is what you are going to do. Johnnie instructed. Hide behind
this tree and I will circle around about a mile or so around this here little
valley and when I get up behind this tree by about a half a mile either you
will hear me shoot or I will have chased something in your direction.
I did exactly as Johnnie ordered and crawled down under the tree and
laid on my back on the ground as Johnnie disappeared into the forest.
It seemed like two lifetimes that I laid there wondering if I had the
right stuff. I had heard stories about how people freak out when they are
faced with shooting their shot, especially their first. Maybe the only one
they will get for the whole year. Then the unlucky wannabe hunter will
have to face a whole year of ridicule for blowing his opportunity to prove
he can pull the trigger with a calmness that reaps venison on the table and
respect from all of the other hunters on the Island. It is sort of a rite of
passage.
Johnnie had led me to the gates of either heaven or hell depending on
how I played my part. I was not going to let him down.
I heard a snap, yes definitely a snap not an accidental twig in the
breeze or a fallen pine cone.

112

I ever so carefully got to my knees in slow motion and pushed the
safety off on my rifle. It was just light enough on that trail to see the
biggest buck I had ever seen stalking slowly towards me. The deer had
not seen nor smelled my presence. It just kept coming. Closer and closer
it advanced.
I raised my rifle and stood up. The eight point buck was no more
than three feet from me. I took careful aim between his eyes and pulled
the trigger.
I was instantly in shock. The deer dropped like a sack of potatoes
and did not ever move again from its own want. I had split its skull
clean into two pieces held together only by its skin.
Johnnie yelled from a couple of hundred yards away Sean! Did
you hit him? Did you get your deer?
I was still somewhat in shock, out of it, but I sucked it up and replied.
Ya Johnnie, this one is dead as a doornail.
We dragged the carcass back to the pickup and onward back to my home.
Johnnie was very proud of me and said so. He couldnt believe how close I let the
deer come before taking my shot. He said he had never heard of such a thing.
Buck Fever? Kid you dont know the meaning of the word.
Strangely, this episode was perhaps the most important lesson of my youth.
As it turned out, I hated the smell and the taste of venison. I had unnecessarily
killed a beautiful creature following all of the socially accepted indicators. From
then on I ignored peer pressure. I never took anything I did not need and I never

113

again would knowingly take a life without a just cause. The deer meat lying in
our freezer for the next two years was my silent teacher in humility.

114

*Tonka Toys*

So one might ask and rightly so, Why would a kid from small town and a
good family would choose to be a pirate and a thief? I guess you could say that
circumstance and piracy chose me.
Back home on Orcas Island, on the farm, the rules were different for us
country boys than for you city people. You did what you were told by your
parents or got kicked out into the streets. As you got older you followed the law
or went to jail. I did what I felt like. If I got kicked out of the house I was
camping. There was no jail on Orcas and the one and only sheriffs representative
was a part time deputy that stayed drunk and safely put twenty miles away in an
Eastsound tavern.
I learned how not to not get caught at the age of ten. It is one of the few
things I could thank my brother James for.
He and Michael and I were exploring near our farm house on the back side
of Turtleback Mountain one summer afternoon. We thought we were following a
logging road back into the woods from the county highway because it was laid

115

with big rock and wound back and forth following the terrain more closely than a
driveway or farm road.
To our surprise we came upon a rock quarry. There was a big dozer, a big
dump truck and a cable excavator, commonly known as a steam shovel. It ran on
a diesel engine as did the cat. The truck was gas.
You can guess for yourself what a pack of crazy country boys did next. Yup,
we started playing with the biggest Tonka Toys in the coolest sandbox you
could imagine. I got all the rigs started up and Jamie drove the truck. Mikey just
sat in the cab of the excavator and made the scoop go up and down. Me, I drove
that bulldozer all over the place, mowing down big trees and making new roads to
nowhere. Now Jamie cant be blamed for what happened, Christ he couldnt even
see over the dashboard. He crashed the truck headfirst into a big cedar tree and
got scared. Mike started yelling that we were all gonna get into big trouble and
go to prison and everything and Jamie was crying. He was seven. Mike was two
years younger than me and just ran off, back down the road, yelling that it was my
fault and he was telling.
Two weeks later a knock on our door confirmed our worst fear. We had
been caught. OK, we were only suspected of running down the battery of the
truck out at the old quarry, and trespassing. This feeble charge came from the lips
of our drunken Island constable.
Mother asked Charlie the Island cop if he wanted to come in off the porch
and have a cup of coffee. Are you fuckin kidding me? I thought. We pull off
the crime of the century, OK, OK, the biggest crime in the last ten years on Orcas

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Island, and this alky is sent out to catch the gang of hoodlums. Next thing you
know HE is the victim getting all the attention for having a horrible hangover.
Son, did you drive the truck and leave the key on? He was looking
straight at me through his bloodshot eyes.
Huh? Are you talking to me Charlie? Man o man Charlie what makes you
think I drove the truck?
Son, there were candy bar wrappers all over the quarry.
Charlie got the look from mother. Thats fascinating, Charlie. She said
in her condescending sing song voice. Is THAT all the proof you have before
you come into MY house and accuse MY children of a crime?
The lesson learned was clear. The bigger the crime the smaller the
consequences. We got yelled at way more the time we got caught swiping a
fishing lure from Templins store last year in East Sound. This formula has been
played out more times than I can count in every facet of society. If you are going
to commit a crime, make it a big one.


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## HUGGY (Feb 24, 2015)

Just a bump for Emily


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## emilynghiem (Feb 24, 2015)

HUGGY said:


> Just a bump for Emily


Hey this is definitely a free flowing narrative with solid direction, and you have a natural storytelling voice. I will DEFINITELY read this all the way through this weekend. One of my buddies has a plane he may have to sell, and this reminds me of him and his flight club.
He wants to produce writing also, so maybe I will invite him here. And we can collaborate
and get going on production and publishing.

What my friends on Worth might say is to change all passive tense to active so the action pulls you in. Especially at the beginning of chapters or it sounds weak and watered down.

Ex:
1. The kidnapped bird was straining my wits  ==> strained my wits

2. took two years of working ==> to work

3. The early dawn light of Rock Springs was creeping into ==> crept into

You have the hardest part down which is writing out the narrative in natural form.

You can always tighten it up from there, which is the easy part I think. 

I wish I could refer you to Alex (one of the authors and jurors on Worth1000 under CelticFrog who is the best at catching passive tense and "shifting POV"). If you look at examples of writing posted there under contests, look for comments by CelticFrog and Mearth64 to see if that applies to your writing style.

I'll catch up with you on this by the weekend. Co0O0oooL!!!


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