Tapia
The air rushing in through the cargo door is warm and sticky, even at the speed we were going. I step carefully over to the ice chest and pull the two remaining beers from the ice water and make my way up to the cockpit.
“Here you go, Jerry.” I go to hand him a brew, but he waves me off.
“Trim us up.” He says. I know what he means. The cargo is tail loaded and I have to move one or all of the bails forward. Not an easy job.
“Right.” I return to the cargo bay and start tugging the bails that it took two people to move. Five minutes later I can hear Jerry yelling his approval. I return to the cockpit and the co-pilot’s seat. Jerry has already started on his beer, mine is opened and in the cup-holder.
It is nights like this that I forget what I am doing and just enjoy the view. The full moon lights up the triple terrace of jungle beneath us as we fly north about 400 feet above the trees. There is a river that we follow for a while before we follow the east fork to our off load point. We aren’t the end runners. That job will land you in jail. We are more like the UPS of the dirt runways. We are just taking parcels from point A to point B.
Our last stop was the grower, the next will be the distributor that will get it across the border. We have logged most of our hours between Columbia and Central America. Made a few trips into Mexico, but even that is too close to the States. Jerry decided that the closer you move to the States, the more money your cargo was worth, the easier it is to kill you for it. And if you don’t get killed, you will most likely get busted.
Several years ago I met Jerry’s brother Mike in a bar in San Diego. I had been an aircraft mechanic for a major airline for 12 years, and with the Navy as an aircraft mechanic before that. Mike had a job for me. At that time he was flying between San Diego and central Mexico. He needed someone to help him do an annual inspection on his plane. The money was right, so I jumped on board. It was just suppose to be a couple of weeks. That was three years ago.
Mike was shot and killed on a dirt strip north of Mexico city after a drop went bad. It was short, but Mike had no way of knowing. They lit him up after he told them he didn’t know anything about it. Jerry was with him, flying as usual. He watched the whole thing go down and then powered up on his take-off roll. They shot the plane up pretty good, and to see that plane when Jerry brought it home was a testament to his flying ability and balls in general. He landed on one engine, both elevators shot up pretty bad, and a rudder that had nearly been cut in half by a shoulder fired rocket.
I think that Mike’s death is why Jerry doesn’t talk much. He thinks he could have done something, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He would be dead too. Those men are animals.
Ever since that day I have been a flight engineer, co-pilot (only once while Jerry took a piss out of the cargo door), Load Master, and gun toting grenade wearing overseer of cargo pick ups. The beer was my contribution. It is funny how a little thing like popping a beer with a potential enemy brings two sides together.
Thirty minutes later Jerry edges her over and lines up on our last stop. The moon shimmers off of the East Fork of the La Dora river making it look like a ribbon of shimmering silver. We can see the ranch house and the activity around it. You can’t mistake the sound of our arrival. Headlights reach toward our landing strip as the truck rolls to off-load us.
This is Tapia’s place, a good man with a good crew. On many occasions we have stayed the night, partying with his guys, sleeping with their women. Tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights. Jerry wanted to get back to our home base and work on the plane in the morning. That was okay with me. I like sleeping in my own bed. Even the friendliest crew gets plenty wild when they drink tequila. I wasn’t into any wilding tonight. Last time we did an overnight here, a man was shot. It was only in the leg, and was an “accident”, one friend clipping the other during a drunken argument. The fact that they didn’t kill each other is a testament to their friendship.
Jerry touches her down with barely a bump and throttles back. Within a minute we are spinning around at the end of the line and Jerry lines up for our departure. The trucks roll around and the dance begins again. I don’t don the garb for this stop.
When the trucks roll up, Tapia himself steps out. I hop down out of the doorway and he gives me a big bear hug.
“Tima! My friend, it is nice to see you.” He puts both hands on my shoulders after releasing me and looks at me as though I am his growing boy. Tapia is in his sixties, an old rancher/farmer who still has goats and grows corn. It is his brother who is the distributor. He uses Tapia’s place because of the airstrip. He will be here in the morning to load the cargo into his own plane and fly it over the border into Mexico. What he does after that is anyone’s guess. Too dangerous for us.
Tapia motioned to his boys, who came and off loaded the bails. The guns we had just dropped off were part of a deal that Tapia’s brother had made, this part of the cargo being his pay-off. So we would fly out empty. No cash, just a little barter.
“Jerry!” Tapia called with a wave into the darkness of the cockpit. Jerry leaned forward and let Tapia see his smiling face, a rare appearance.
“Hey, Tapia, how is Marietta?” Marietta is Tapia’s wife. His age, but with a youthful giggle and a hell of a cook.
“As wild as ever.” He disappears for a moment and then reappears with a basket. “She has been busy making tamales.” He passes the basket to me, the aroma is heavenly.
“Wow, Tapia, this is fantastic. Thank you, tell Mari thank you.” I hop up into the plane and walk the basket to the cockpit.
Jerry reaches into his flight bag and pulls out a bottle of French wine, “Give him this.
“Hey, Jerry, cool… he’ll love this.”
I walk to the door as the last of the bails is off-loaded. “Jerry got you something.” I hand him the bottle.
“Gracias, Jerry, this will loosen up Mari for a little love this evening. French wine and my naked, glistening body, she will not be able to resist.”
“You will have to hit her over the head with it if that’s your approach.” Jerry called from the cockpit.
Tapia grabs me one last time and gives me a quick hug. “You boys be careful up there.” He steps back and shakes my hand, “Next time we will have a party, okay, you boys stay next time, okay?”
“Next time, Tapia.” I hop up into the plane and Jerry starts his take-off roll. By the time I park my ass in the other seat, we are up and the gear is stowed.
A hard bank to the north once again and we are on our way home. I haul the basket up to my lap and unfold the linen that wrapped the dozen or so home-made tamales.
“Damn, hurry up with those. I’m starving.” Jerry says flatly.
We both sank our teeth into the home-made tamales and breathed a collective sigh. It was the first food we had eaten since morning and the sun had set two hours ago.
“Man, that woman can cook.” I look at Jerry and he nods back his approval.
“Next time we come here we will bring her a nice dress or something.” Jerry says, totally out of character.
“No shit, a dress, huh?”
The tamales are gone within minutes and so are the beers. Jerry turns in his seat, an indication that I will be flying for a moment or two. “Take her for a minute, I gotta piss.”
I hold her steady and Jerry walks to the cargo door. He attaches himself to the safety strap and inches up to the door.
Abigail flies straight and level, kind of like a big Cadillac on the highway. I just keep my eyes on the dim line of the horizon lit by the full moon and hold her there.
Abigail, what kind of name is that for a plane? Actually it was Jerry’s sister-in-law. The plane was named for Mike’s wife, Abby. When Mike took that bullet, Jerry said it would be wrong to change it. So here we were, two thousand feet up, cargo bay that smelled like cannabis and gun oil, all courtesy of Abigail.
Jerry taps me on the shoulder and then climbs back into his seat. “Thanks, man, I had to go since before the last drop.”
“Any time.”
Below us the jungle pauses at our passing. Howler monkeys stopped their chatter at the big cats and other predators to look skyward, even the bugs stop sounding for a moment as Abby’s big twin engines cut through the night air like a passing freight train.
Jerry drops her down to five hundred feet and lowers the gear. “Shit.” He cycles the gear, “Not good.”
“What?” I look at the indicator with him. I see it. Not the first time this has happened. “I’ll pump it down.”
Between our seats is the manual hydraulic pump. A dozen pumps later we get a good indication. Jerry makes a second pass at our airstrip and then lines up.
“I don’t know why it does that. I will check the reservoir and it will be full, might be the indicator contacts. I will look at it when we shut down.”
“Here you go, Jerry.” I go to hand him a brew, but he waves me off.
“Trim us up.” He says. I know what he means. The cargo is tail loaded and I have to move one or all of the bails forward. Not an easy job.
“Right.” I return to the cargo bay and start tugging the bails that it took two people to move. Five minutes later I can hear Jerry yelling his approval. I return to the cockpit and the co-pilot’s seat. Jerry has already started on his beer, mine is opened and in the cup-holder.
It is nights like this that I forget what I am doing and just enjoy the view. The full moon lights up the triple terrace of jungle beneath us as we fly north about 400 feet above the trees. There is a river that we follow for a while before we follow the east fork to our off load point. We aren’t the end runners. That job will land you in jail. We are more like the UPS of the dirt runways. We are just taking parcels from point A to point B.
Our last stop was the grower, the next will be the distributor that will get it across the border. We have logged most of our hours between Columbia and Central America. Made a few trips into Mexico, but even that is too close to the States. Jerry decided that the closer you move to the States, the more money your cargo was worth, the easier it is to kill you for it. And if you don’t get killed, you will most likely get busted.
Several years ago I met Jerry’s brother Mike in a bar in San Diego. I had been an aircraft mechanic for a major airline for 12 years, and with the Navy as an aircraft mechanic before that. Mike had a job for me. At that time he was flying between San Diego and central Mexico. He needed someone to help him do an annual inspection on his plane. The money was right, so I jumped on board. It was just suppose to be a couple of weeks. That was three years ago.
Mike was shot and killed on a dirt strip north of Mexico city after a drop went bad. It was short, but Mike had no way of knowing. They lit him up after he told them he didn’t know anything about it. Jerry was with him, flying as usual. He watched the whole thing go down and then powered up on his take-off roll. They shot the plane up pretty good, and to see that plane when Jerry brought it home was a testament to his flying ability and balls in general. He landed on one engine, both elevators shot up pretty bad, and a rudder that had nearly been cut in half by a shoulder fired rocket.
I think that Mike’s death is why Jerry doesn’t talk much. He thinks he could have done something, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He would be dead too. Those men are animals.
Ever since that day I have been a flight engineer, co-pilot (only once while Jerry took a piss out of the cargo door), Load Master, and gun toting grenade wearing overseer of cargo pick ups. The beer was my contribution. It is funny how a little thing like popping a beer with a potential enemy brings two sides together.
Thirty minutes later Jerry edges her over and lines up on our last stop. The moon shimmers off of the East Fork of the La Dora river making it look like a ribbon of shimmering silver. We can see the ranch house and the activity around it. You can’t mistake the sound of our arrival. Headlights reach toward our landing strip as the truck rolls to off-load us.
This is Tapia’s place, a good man with a good crew. On many occasions we have stayed the night, partying with his guys, sleeping with their women. Tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights. Jerry wanted to get back to our home base and work on the plane in the morning. That was okay with me. I like sleeping in my own bed. Even the friendliest crew gets plenty wild when they drink tequila. I wasn’t into any wilding tonight. Last time we did an overnight here, a man was shot. It was only in the leg, and was an “accident”, one friend clipping the other during a drunken argument. The fact that they didn’t kill each other is a testament to their friendship.
Jerry touches her down with barely a bump and throttles back. Within a minute we are spinning around at the end of the line and Jerry lines up for our departure. The trucks roll around and the dance begins again. I don’t don the garb for this stop.
When the trucks roll up, Tapia himself steps out. I hop down out of the doorway and he gives me a big bear hug.
“Tima! My friend, it is nice to see you.” He puts both hands on my shoulders after releasing me and looks at me as though I am his growing boy. Tapia is in his sixties, an old rancher/farmer who still has goats and grows corn. It is his brother who is the distributor. He uses Tapia’s place because of the airstrip. He will be here in the morning to load the cargo into his own plane and fly it over the border into Mexico. What he does after that is anyone’s guess. Too dangerous for us.
Tapia motioned to his boys, who came and off loaded the bails. The guns we had just dropped off were part of a deal that Tapia’s brother had made, this part of the cargo being his pay-off. So we would fly out empty. No cash, just a little barter.
“Jerry!” Tapia called with a wave into the darkness of the cockpit. Jerry leaned forward and let Tapia see his smiling face, a rare appearance.
“Hey, Tapia, how is Marietta?” Marietta is Tapia’s wife. His age, but with a youthful giggle and a hell of a cook.
“As wild as ever.” He disappears for a moment and then reappears with a basket. “She has been busy making tamales.” He passes the basket to me, the aroma is heavenly.
“Wow, Tapia, this is fantastic. Thank you, tell Mari thank you.” I hop up into the plane and walk the basket to the cockpit.
Jerry reaches into his flight bag and pulls out a bottle of French wine, “Give him this.
“Hey, Jerry, cool… he’ll love this.”
I walk to the door as the last of the bails is off-loaded. “Jerry got you something.” I hand him the bottle.
“Gracias, Jerry, this will loosen up Mari for a little love this evening. French wine and my naked, glistening body, she will not be able to resist.”
“You will have to hit her over the head with it if that’s your approach.” Jerry called from the cockpit.
Tapia grabs me one last time and gives me a quick hug. “You boys be careful up there.” He steps back and shakes my hand, “Next time we will have a party, okay, you boys stay next time, okay?”
“Next time, Tapia.” I hop up into the plane and Jerry starts his take-off roll. By the time I park my ass in the other seat, we are up and the gear is stowed.
A hard bank to the north once again and we are on our way home. I haul the basket up to my lap and unfold the linen that wrapped the dozen or so home-made tamales.
“Damn, hurry up with those. I’m starving.” Jerry says flatly.
We both sank our teeth into the home-made tamales and breathed a collective sigh. It was the first food we had eaten since morning and the sun had set two hours ago.
“Man, that woman can cook.” I look at Jerry and he nods back his approval.
“Next time we come here we will bring her a nice dress or something.” Jerry says, totally out of character.
“No shit, a dress, huh?”
The tamales are gone within minutes and so are the beers. Jerry turns in his seat, an indication that I will be flying for a moment or two. “Take her for a minute, I gotta piss.”
I hold her steady and Jerry walks to the cargo door. He attaches himself to the safety strap and inches up to the door.
Abigail flies straight and level, kind of like a big Cadillac on the highway. I just keep my eyes on the dim line of the horizon lit by the full moon and hold her there.
Abigail, what kind of name is that for a plane? Actually it was Jerry’s sister-in-law. The plane was named for Mike’s wife, Abby. When Mike took that bullet, Jerry said it would be wrong to change it. So here we were, two thousand feet up, cargo bay that smelled like cannabis and gun oil, all courtesy of Abigail.
Jerry taps me on the shoulder and then climbs back into his seat. “Thanks, man, I had to go since before the last drop.”
“Any time.”
Below us the jungle pauses at our passing. Howler monkeys stopped their chatter at the big cats and other predators to look skyward, even the bugs stop sounding for a moment as Abby’s big twin engines cut through the night air like a passing freight train.
Jerry drops her down to five hundred feet and lowers the gear. “Shit.” He cycles the gear, “Not good.”
“What?” I look at the indicator with him. I see it. Not the first time this has happened. “I’ll pump it down.”
Between our seats is the manual hydraulic pump. A dozen pumps later we get a good indication. Jerry makes a second pass at our airstrip and then lines up.
“I don’t know why it does that. I will check the reservoir and it will be full, might be the indicator contacts. I will look at it when we shut down.”
posted by Jake Allen at 1:56 AM
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