Pilot Stories & Interviews

The weather was perfect: t-shirt or no shirt warm all day basking in the sun and cool at night with more stars than I think I've ever seen before.

Follow up:

GARY'S TRUCK
Everyone had a great time except for Gary McIntyre who got his truck stuck at NOON on Thursday on the beach. Not just anywhere on the beach mind you, no, Gary's truck sank in goo in front of the shit squeezer plant (the locals refer to it as the "shrimp plant"), up the beach a few miles. I was summoned from the air by the police on the beach who was contacted by one of the the other pilots. Landing in front of the police car, I tried to hit the commandant up for a ride in my airplane...always a good gesture in Mexico but he emphatically declined. Jim Afinowich was standing next to him..."Yeah, Brad, Gary is stuck on the beach and needs you to round up some help"

The trike leaped off the beach and climbed up through the smooth sea level air at 1450 feet per minute. Thirty seconds later I leveled off at 700 feet and brought the rpm's down to cruise speed at 4800 rpm. At this altitude the hundreds of gulls and pelicans standing on one foot no doubt enjoying the sun, a full stomach of fresh fish and the serenity of the beach were rudely awakened and began the mass exodus from the once quiet sand bar. Watching the huge flock of white, grey and brown birds opening a wide swath to escape certain death by a MUCH larger bird distracted me from my mission...

I made my approach over what appeared to be firm sand (prolly the same thing Gary was thinking as he drove down the beach)...down, down, down...the back wheels hit, the front tire (now missing the fender which was broken off en route to Mexico), was spitting wet sand in my face as I rolled to a stop. All of a sudden the nose wheel plunged into the beach and I felt the rear end coming up. "Lucky again" I mused...it didn't look that soft from the air but shit, how can you tell? I unbuckled my lap belt, stepped out and noticed two things: This was NOT ordinary sand and something REALLY smelled like shit.

As I walked closer to the burial site it became apparent that the beach wasactually a disguise. Something just wasn't right. It was just like walkingon a waveless waterbed. Walking near the truck with shoes was futile. Yourfoot would disappear past your ankle, then get stuck and if not tied ontight would be lost in the goo.

Erin, my 15 year old daughter, was excited to make her contribution to the cause. I warned her about what it was everyone was wallowing in but she grabbed a shovel and started digging. By the third shovelful her left leg disappeared into the mire sucking the new Air Jordan tennis shoe off her foot. The same shoe she was distraught over getting a scuff on earlier at the taco stand....

About nine o'clock we were ready for the final pull. I'm amazed El Patron stuck around as long as he did and also at the tenacity exhibited by the younger fisherman who he brought with him. Everyone really worked hard at it and now, after nine hours of mentally and physically challenging efforts we were going to try it one more time.

Mag Light in hand I watched as the goo covered truck slowly walked from it's watery grave and heard the roar of engines and the hoots and hollers of those that worked so hard to get it out disrupting the usually quiet beach atmosphere.

Everyone bailed back to the hotel and took showers with their clothes on and wondered why any exposed skin had an orange tint to it....

THE TRIKE
I had parked my trike before sunset on the beach up close to the hotel. The police re-affirmed this and even Corey told me that the tide was coming in around noon the day before. Having had several cervesa's, a full stomach and a really sore ankle from walking around in the unstable goo, I decided to leave the trike on the beach.

We all went out bar hopping hitting every bar in town (both of them), and returned about 1am. Standing at the rear of the hotel with Dan Schroeder recounting the days events, he decides to relieve several processed Corona's over the hotel break water wall..."HOLY SHIT!!!!" Having smelled, wallowed in, shoveled and yes tasted shit for a good part of the day I didn't want to hear anything more about shit. But my curiosity in Dan's excitement naturally drew me to the wall. Looking down I saw the image that set Dan off: My trike sitting in three feet of salt water. $2000 ballistic parachute submerged along with my instrument cluster, landing gear, brakes, bearings seat and about four feet of my left wing.

Too tired to react, I told Dan I needed to get Corey out of bed to help him get it to shore. It went better than anticipated and within minutes the trike was back on dry ground, dripping water from every cavity it had entered. Three inches deeper and the corrosive salt water would have found it's way into the engine via the front carb....necessitating a teardown.

Curiosity and the need to document the event overcame me the following day so I fired up the trike, camcorder in my jacket and flew up the beach with my daughter. Unseen from the ground yet right next to the beach was pond filled with a pinkish/purple liquid with kinda of a chrome surface to it..I'm scared to think of what it really is...and I don't think I want to find out. I just hope someday I don't have three headed kids...

THE FIREWOOD
Mike and Rhona, a couple that heard about the trip from Laura and Corey also made the event. They opted to camp on the beach. Since the hotel has no bar and closes at 8pm, Mike and Rhonda's camp on the beach was the place to be. Since El Gulfo is pretty much a sand bar with houses on it, not much wood is available for burning and let's face it, what is better than sitting around a campfire at night consuming alcoholic beverages? Key ingredient: Something that burns. An attempt was made during a wood run but the effort only provided some small, quick burning pieces that surely did not match the amount of cervesa's and our ability to party.

Right about then, a noisy car with one headlight and a fast idle pulls up. It started life in Detroit in '89, a beautiful red Pontiac Bonneville which, after several years of salty sea air was reduced to a rusted, smoking, rumbling hulk. Someone had spent a few minutes with torch and sawzall and transformed the luxury unit into a beach El Camino...."Necessitamos Acete Amigo's", the boracho, toothless driver yelled out with a sense of urgency. "What did he say?" someone asked.... "Uh, he needs oil for his motor and he needs it now" I replied. Mike got his flashlight out and Schroeder volunteered a quart... We met in front of the modified beach cruiser as the driver unwound a rusty coat hanger and lifted the hood. Our flashlights illuminated what I've come to recognized as standard issue on the beach in Mexico: no air filter, smoke emitting from several different places as various fluids find their way to the hot exhaust manifold. The smell of burning oil and hydraulic fluid wafted through the air....wires EVERYWHERE. The engine idle was around 1200 rpm which made it hard to communicate as the exhaust had long since succumbed to the corrosiveness of the salty sea air. The engine sputtered and the driver quickly grabbed the distributor and turned it to change the ignition timing by ear, common in these parts. Corey was behind me laughing and I couldn't help but chuckle yet a sadness crept in as I realized this was not a joke but life in real time for these simple fisherman just looking to tip a few Corona's on the beach....same as us. No cap for the oil as the driver dumped both quarts into the thirsty engine. The engine responded as the once empty hydraulic lifters had the oil necessary for proper operation. "Muchas Gracias" was his departing salutation ending with "Buenas Noches" "Uhhhhh, uno moment cabrone" I said, "Yo necessitas mas madera pado feugo por todo noche" My Spanish isn't all that good but sufficient to impress upon the four boracho's that we needed enough firewood to last all night... "No problema senior"....as they headed away in the darkness, the sole headlight the only working bulb on the whole car.

The fire now pretty much hot coals, we reluctantly decide to call it a night as the cold from deep space was kicking in faster than the antifreeze in our stomachs could keep us warm. The idea of firewood was mentioned and my "deal" I made with my amigo's on the beach about an hour earlier. "I guess they stiffed us on the wood...." his sentence cut off midway as the lone headlight appeared on the beach...."Bueno!" I yelled out...."El Boracho's!" (the drunks have returned) As they got closer it was apparent why they were gone so long. The lower half of a tree trunk..oh, a foot and a half in diameter and about eight feel long was jammed into the back of what was once the back seat and trunk. "PERFECTAMENTE" I said. A drunken barrage of gringos (started by me), attempted to cut the tree trunk in half but wound up spiral cutting it much like a honey glazed ham. As I sat back and watched the efforts put forth...the day's events slowly played through my head like a VCR with low batteries....the towing, the air to air footage, the sailboat on the water, the sun and the miles and miles of endless beach swirled through my head....somebody next to me said: "Does it get any better than this?" I pondered the thought as I wiffed up another good hit of campfire smoke and looked up at the diamond studded black sky..."naw....I guess it really doesn't".

Such is the beach in Mexico on a starlit night...

Shudda been there....