The Flight to Barra de la Cruz

Sunset through Abby's cockpit at the Barra de la Cruz dirt strip. We are actually sitting in the hanger just before refueling.



It is mid afternoon by the time we return to El Corazon and I get busy installing the check valve that we pulled off of the parts plane. While I was under that hulk in the jungle, I pulled the hydraulic filters for good measure, just in case we needed an alternate set. That and the other check valves in the vicinity.
I have sobered up completely, the jungle heat and humidity sucking the alcohol out of my system like a straw in a soda shop. Installing the check valve was a two beer affair, quick and refreshing. By the time Jerry had done his preflight, I was ready to go.
Jerry was about as safe as any pilot I had ever known. He had slipped into Abby’s cockpit enough times that she was as familiar as slipping into old bluejeans. But he never took her for granted. He would do a meticulous walk-around every time he was going flying. While he is still kicking the tires and checking the gear wells, I grab flight supplies in the cooler, and check the first aid kit and emergency radio for good measure. I also rifle through the “emergency bag” to make sure we have what we might need if we have to hike out of this God forsaken place.
Some time ago, Jerry put together what he though he might need for survival: Extra rounds for the rifle, flashlights that didn’t need batteries, two full canteens, water purification kit, twenty cans of Mighty Dog with pull-tab tops, a machete, signaling mirror, and a deck of cards. When I first saw the bag, it all made sense except the dog food. Jerry brought up the point that anything else like jerky, nuts, even a box of crackers, would be nibbled away on this trip or that and wouldn’t be there when we really need it. No one would eat the Mighty Dog unless they really had to. Real survival food.

We are wheels up in the late afternoon. The triple terrace jungle looks faded as we bank over it and head northwest toward Barra de la Cruz on the far south coast of Mexico. There is an airstrip that was used by the secret military and CIA in the days of the Contras of Nicaragua. It was nothing more than a cleared dirt strip and an old, dilapidated hanger structure and a fuel tank. It is three hundred or so nautical miles from El Corazon, and a short ride to a few small towns, and a little further to Santa Cruz Huatulco. This is where we will do our business.

After about an hour in the air, and thirty minutes to our landing, Jerry had me take Abby’s controls and he went back to relieve himself. “Nothing funny,” he instructed as he climbed out of the pilot seat and slid by. He made sure he slid the RayBans down his nose and made eye contact. I nodded with a grin and he headed back. He was a little upset with me some time ago when I thought it would be fun to have Abby do a couple of nose dips while he was pissing. I almost tossed him out of the cargo door, so he says. I think he just pissed on himself, but he wanted to add the dramatics of a near death experience to make sure I never did it again. That and the sock to the jaw he delivered got the message across. It wasn’t funny.
I held Abby to her bearing until Jerry slid into his seat and handed me one of two opened beers. “To Mike” he says, and we clink the bottles. It was a tradition with him, to drink the first one to his brother if we were in Abby.
He brings Abby in low, just over the trees now as we leave the thickest part of the jungle behind us and head over some of the coastal villages. Money is finding its way to even the smallest of towns here on the “Mexican Riviera” as the tourism board puts it. Soon the people that have called this home will be forced out to make way for the eventual high-rise tourist hotel resorts. It was only a matter of time.
Jerry turns Abby to a more westerly heading as we follow the ribbon of beach for a while before heading over open water. “Have you checked the life raft lately?”
I look over my shoulder and see the Navy surplus raft strapped to the inside of the fuselage. “Still there.”
“OH SHIT!” Jerry struggles for control as Abby goes nose down for a moment. I spill my beer and almost shit myself before he pulls her level and starts laughing.
“ASSHOLE.” I brush the beer off of my clothing, “Now we are even, except where I sock you in the jaw.”
“No, you almost killed me with your bullshit, I just spilled beer on you with mine.”

Abby’s engines backed off as Jerry set up his landing on the dirt strip. It was dusk and we had just enough light to see the strip was clear and area deserted. She touched down velvety smooth and we took the length of the strip to slow before we spun her around and made our way to the old hanger. There were no doors on the structure, and Jerry just pulled into one end out the other when it was time to leave. Abby echoed like thunder in the hanger before he shut her down. It seemed like she would bring the place down on top of us, but it held together. Once again silence filled the air.
As with any of these desolate landing strips we keep the fuel tank as full as possible. This place was no exception. It was worth the chance of getting ripped off to have it handy. The tank is on wheels and can be towed. It has a hand pump which is a bitch. The other piece of equipment here at this field is an old Ford truck that was left behind while Kennedy was still President.
Jerry climbed down out of the open cargo door and stretched. “Grab the keys to the truck.”
I reach Abby’s equipment box and grab the old distributor and toss it out to him. The cap and wires are in place in the truck. A great anti theft device. Keys don’t mean shit out here.
Jerry lines up the marks and slides it down into the old six banger engine, hand tightens the wing-nut that he substituted for hold down nut, and slaps the cap on. Before you can say “Jack’s your uncle” he has the fuel tank in tow and is over to the left wing handing me up the nozzle. We have her topped off, locked up, and we are on the road to town within the hour.