Good morning, everyone. Today, I have two stories to share. One is about an adventurous moment from my younger days, and the other is a tale from the 1930s involving my parents and grandparents.
Let me start with my own adventure. I was a young pilot, in my 20s, flying a small twin-engine Piper Aztec from Barbados back to the United States. Now, this was no small feat—a long flight over vast stretches of water in a tiny airplane. While I was in Barbados, I had the chance to tour the Cockspur rum distillery. They had several barrels of exquisite 25-year-old rum, and, impulsively, I asked if I could buy a barrel. To my surprise, they agreed!
So there I was, a scruffy 26-year-old with a shaggy beard, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, flying in the Caribbean around 1989, right in the height of the drug trade, with a barrel of 25-year-old rum strapped down in the back seat of my little plane.
My journey included a refueling stop in Puerto Rico. As soon as I landed, I encountered a US customs agent who was determined to catch me for something—he just didn’t know what. With all the authority of a traffic cop, he sized me up and zeroed in on the barrel of rum. “How many fifths are in that barrel?” he asked.
For some reason, I decided to be a wise guy and answered, “Five!" Because I’m good at math. This, of course, led to a three-hour interrogation where they tore apart my airplane, growing more frustrated as they failed to find anything illegal. Finally, they gave up and let me go. I had to put the plane back together, reload everything, and get on my way—essentially, getting the hell out of town.
My original plan was to stop for fuel in Nassau, but that would mean clearing US customs again when I reached Florida. To avoid this, I climbed as high as my little plane could go, leaned the fuel back to use as little as possible, and flew directly to Fort Lauderdale. I arrived on fumes, but I didn't have to clear customs again!
Now, for the second story, which is about my grandparents in the early 1930s. They lived up in the panhandle of Florida, in a dry county. They were churchgoing folks who didn’t drink, but times were tough, and they discovered they could get a much higher price for their corn in liquid form rather than on the cob. So, the whole family made mash and sold it.
One late night, they loaded up the truck with glass gallon jugs of liquor and, with the whole family aboard, set out to make a delivery. My father was about four years old at the time and his brother about 6. As they rounded a corner near the delivery site, they saw a vehicle ahead pull to the side of the road, hide behind a stand of trees, and switch off its lights.
In a panic, the family started throwing the gallon jugs out of the back of the truck as fast as they could. When they reached the other vehicle, they were relieved to find they had no contraband left on board. As it turned out, the vehicle was the guy they were supposed to meet!
Realizing their mistake, they backtracked up the road, picking up the jugs of liquor out of the ditch along the wooded clay road. Amazingly, not a single jug had broken!
And that’s how my family managed to navigate their way through some wild and adventurous times.
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