MARATHON: Now that I can only sit and conjure memories of the days of yesteryear, an incident in Florida rises as a very poignant one in the back roads of my mind. You see, back in the year 1974, I was an aspiring student pilot. A bit of a hot shot from Brooklyn, NY. I had all the answers for all the problems for all of mankind. I guess you might say I had an attitude, of sorts. Once upon a time, I lived directly in the flight path of Idle wild Airport in near by Sheepshead Bay, in Brooklyn, NY. I coveted a secret dream. As I watched the behemoths flying so low over head that I could almost see the 5 O'clock shadow on the faces of the pilots, I mused that I would someday fly one of them. I knew I could. My street kid mentality was the catalyst that propelled me forward-sometimes to victory, sometimes to disaster and dismay, sometimes to dreams of the future. Consider that nothing was out of my reach in those days of yore. I was a tough kid, a runner-no one could ever beat in a street race-a talker-who could talk his way out of the inside of a block of steel-a schemer-I made up some doozies to get from here to there and finally, humble. Right. Raised in the Italian Catholic tradition, I had a fear of God, cops and kids tougher then I was, in that order. That said, the Marathon thing was destined to happen. I accomplished one of my dreams when I was barely eighteen, recently released from reform school--another story--into the US Army. Directly after basic training, I became a member in excellent standing of an elite group of toughs just like me, from every corner of the good old US of A, known and feared far and wide -- Americas 82nd Army Airborne. A special forces trainee, I was made for the mold-not from it, mind you. Jumping was my passion.

Me and a few other rough shods from Brooklyn were united in our minds and spirits as blood brothers from another time-using real blood, as I recall, to cement our alliance. We jumped together, fought the bad guys together, stockaded together and picked up broads together. In the days of the 82nd, we were invincible and almost inseparable. So much so, that their was rarely a time we weren't together in one adventure or another. Counted among them was bouncing off a bridge abutment at warp speed at three o'clock one morning into the murky, muddy waters of a river in Sumter, NC. Why? We were skunked from a farewell party consisting of an unbalanced amount of Rebels and Yankees that bade us farewell an hour before the incident. But, that's another story. We were shipping out to Korea at the 6:30 revely call the next morning. I woke up ten days later in the base hospital. More story material. PS Fate intervened and we never made it to Korea. We later heard that lots of our buddies would never return. Got the picture? Back to Marathon.

Remember my street kid dream when I swore that, someday I'd "fly one of those big behemoths?" Guess what? I jumped out of them, instead. Well, now here I was in sunny Florida, twenty some odd years later attempting to complete my long cross country-solo- in a plane so small I could have flown around inside one of those "big baby's"--so I could sit for the FAA flight examiner and full-fill my dream of flying. Of course, I was far too smart and sassy to follow all the rules-just some of them. I was about to get a first hand lesson in what we were warned over and over about in ground school -spacial disorientation. Oh, and let's not forget one of the other rules. Never, never ever fly over open water until you've been checked out by a CFI-Certified Flight Instructor. Never.

The flight out of the Executive airport down under the Ft. Lauderdale, Fl International Airport--where I earned my pilots license--TCA-Terminal Control Area below 800Ft.-- was a no brainier for my superior attitude. Although a bit nervous, what with all the "big baby's" from two international airports within a few miles of my flight path strewn about like feathers in a dust storm-not really-toward Marathon, was squeaky, I somehow made it to the airstrip, landing like a Gooney bird on a mission. Taxiing to a full stop just short of the FBO--Fixed base operator--I breathed a sigh of relief and looked for someone to sign my log book to prove I had landed at the intended first leg of three, on my long cross country. The next leg of my flight plan would take me back North just South of the Miami TCA and then a left turn picking up a Westerly heading just South of Homestead to the West coast of Florida, then North once more, to my next point of touchdown where, again, someone would have to sign me off attesting to the fact that I did, in fact, make it to my second destination. One more once- a piece a cake. The wind sock told me the direction of the wind-duh-Southerly. After the run up-checkout-I taxied to the South end of the Marathon strip, cleared inbound traffic on the uni-com channel-no FAA tower in those days-headed for the center line, struggling slightly to nose the 150 into the wind and held both brakes down hard and steady. Hearing no response from possible air traffic in the pattern, I eased the throttle to the firewall, looking for seventy knots on the air speed indicator and lifted off in the direction of the Miami, TCA. Wrong. As I rotated-lifted off- into the CAVU weather-clear air, visibility unlimited, I glanced to my left as I gently rose into the sky. I was momentarily blinded by the sun as it sparkled off the most beautiful azure blue waters I had ever seen. Known as the Florida Straights, they languished just below my wing, beckoning. Reaching for the 5000 feet that Miami approach cleared me to fly at, the site was simply too much for me to bare. Almost instinctively, I succumbed to my street kid mentality and dropped the left wing into the wind, soaring like an eagle seeking those beautiful waters, drawn like a moth to a flame. For a fleeting moment, a flash of ground school regimen crashed into my dumb brain. "Never, ever fly over open water until you've been checked out by a CFI, and have proven, at the very least, to be instrument compliant. Never." To hell with the rules. No problem for Mr. Wonderful.

I aimed high but soon found myself completely mesmerized by a carpet of sparkling diamonds that sprawled before me, in every direction. Convincing myself that I could make it a lot quicker if I simply headed over the water to Florida City and then to the West coast, I rationalized that no one would ever be the wiser. Mindful that it was mandatory to clear any deviation in a flight plan with approach control as a matter of safety, I ignored the rule and let my ego fly the plane. I could always plead ignorance. Easy stuff. That said, let me fill you in on spacial disorientation, first hand. In simple terms, if your in it you won't know about it until your a dead person at the bottom of any sea, ocean or maelstrom you might find yourself in or near--especially if it sits at the doorstep to the--Bermuda Triangle. Period. Oh,--you didn't know? Neither did I, it seems. So much for warnings. Well, anyway, there I was enjoying natures splendor, when out of a clear blue sky, literally from nowhere, a small boat flashed into my line of sight, directly in front of me. I vaguely remember saying to myself-what the hell is a boat doing up here?-I saw people waving their arms, frantically flailing the air. NOTE: A fact of aerodynamics--"-pull back on the yoke and you go up--keep pulling back and--you go down." My mind exploding with the most horrible, confusing images as I tried coping with a boat load of animated people directly ahead in mid air, water lapping at my wings-almost. I suddenly realized that I had somehow lost nearly a mile of altitude in what seemed like only seconds. Was I Mr. Cool or what? Absolutely not. In those fleeting moments before my life was seemingly to end, I was starkly and horrifically introduced to two of natures most ominous mysteries--spacial disorientation and the Bermuda Triangle. What would you have done?