Hot fire burning along my inner thigh as blood spattered over the instrument panel of my plane. We had been hit! The plane was smoking. Gas was pouring out from underneath my plane’s wings. The engine was sputtering and I was bleeding. My partner was bleeding from his arm and ankle. Sun was shinning through the floor of the airplane like Swiss cheese. I knew we would soon be drained of all the fuel. It was time to find a landing spot but there was nothing but mountains! How did I get myself into this?
In the early 1980’s, I was chasing the big turtles off the coast of Corn Island, Nicaragua. I met a fellow pilot named Bill Cooper. I had just left my diving equipment at the beach house where I was staying and was strolling down the dirt road into town. The first chap I met was Bill. He was smoking a Cuban and throwing down shots of Tequila while dining on a fresh lobster that a local had pulled from the sea. We began to talk and share food, drink, and conversation.
I soon learned that he was pulling in a lot of extra cash flying C-123’s, C-54’s, and Lockheed 18’s into the interior of Nicaragua to supply the Contra’s arms to help resist the Cuban and Soviet backed Sandinista government. Apparently a company named ACE (Amalgamated Commercial Enterprise) or “Contra-Air” was led by Air Force Major General Richard Secord. The company was backed by WACL (World Anti-Communist League) and U.S. Army Major General John K. Singlaub. The funds were supported by the U.S. National Security Council through a “go-between” guy named Lt. Colonel Ollie North. Nevertheless, I soon found myself flying missions out of Honduras and over the mountains into the jungles of Nicaragua.
Now my diving trip had turned into a covert job earning a living for Contra-Air. I had flown several missions without a hitch and now I was flying for my life trying to find a field to land—ANY FIELD! My fuel, now completely out, I began to glide. I noticed a cleared corn field along the side of a mountain. I began my glide pattern. It had to be perfect. As the plane’s glide path lowered toward the field, I slowed in a slanted path along the side of the mountain and as my wheels touched the top of some corn stalks then crossed over the clearing, I flared—stalled and hit rough, bouncing over some irregular terrain then smashing prop first into the side of the mountain. Nothing but quiet.
When I awoke, Bill was groaning. We were both bleeding. There was a puddle of blood along my inner thigh, seat, and now I could tell there was blood flowing down into my face. My pelvis was in extreme pain. I knew I had broken some bones below my waist. I soon passed out from pain and blood loss. I remember bits and pieces of the painful “journey on the gurney” from the plane to the friendly rebel village of Gualcinci. I was later airlifted to Tegucigalpa for surgery. I later found out that Bill Cooper recovered too but was later shot down and killed in October of 1986. This was definitely one of my most exciting dive trips yet I spent more time in the air than in the ocean! It was BAD ASS!
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