(This is a True Story)
As the son of a government contract worker, my father and his family lived in a government compound in American Samoa. Being 16 years old, Dad, (who I will refer to as Michael from now on), was on of the oldest white kids in the compound and in the pecking order, he was top rooster. Michael had two younger brothers and together they ruled the neighborhood.
The summer of ’67 was particularly boring since Michael and his brothers weren’t allowed to get jobs. They had an immense amount of time on their hands and on a small island, such as American Samoa, it didn’t take very long for them to find trouble.
Several other younger teenage males in the compound looked up to Michael and wanted desperately to belong to his “gang”. Michael, however, was very selective with who he hung out with. These other boys weren’t exactly his cut of beef. However, he couldn’t think of an easy way to get rid of these unwanted tag-alongs. So, Dad started the Cooter Patrol Gang and held initiations.
The first thing the new recruits had to do was steal license plates. See, there are only 3 types of licenses in Samoa. Cargo and/or Passenger. It was a cargo plate if it had a capital C at the beginning and a passenger plate if it had a P. It was the Buses that had the treasured CP on it’s plates. Thus, Cooter Patrol. Of course, Michael wasn’t above performing the initiation himself and soon had a Cargo Plate tacked to the makeshift clubhouse in the jungle behind the compound.
A few days later, several more CP plates appeared on the wall of the club house. That was too easy, thought Michael. After much thought, an idea came to mind. An idea so diabolical, that it would surely weed out the weak-willed, yellow-bellied, toad eating scum who thought they were worthy enough to hang out with Michael.
Michael sent out word to all the wannabes to meet him at the Tafuna Airport at midnight.
American Samoa has only one airport. And it’s tiny. If there were initiations for pilots, landing a Boeing 727 in Samoa had to be it. The runway is very short and ends at the edge of a cliff overlooking the thrashing, chaotic ocean that could pulverize a plane in minutes against the jagged edges of the reef below its frothing, white foam.
Michael arrived with his two younger brothers, Jerry and Merle and hid in the jungle alongside the runway. As midnight approached, Michael awaited the arrival of security which was tasked with driving up and down the runway in an old beat up station wagon, clearing away coconut tree fronds, wild pigs, and other debris.
Soon, the other boys arrived and hunkered down in the shrubbery. The expressions on their faces were mixed curiosity and trepidation – as they had no idea what Michael was going to do. Michael had smeared black shoe polish on his face, dressed in black and tucked his fiery red hair under a black stocking cap.
The boys waited in the bushes while the sun melted into the watery horizon, casting a velvety blue cloak over the tropical sky. Security arrived as the boys waited for them to do their runway clean up.
Once security had made its rounds, Michael snuck from the bushes and made for the center of the runway a few yards from the edge of the cliff.
The other boys watched in wonderment as the reality of what Michael was attempting began to dawn on them. This would be the final initiation for the other boys before they could officially join the Cooter Patrol.
Michael lay down on his belly on the tarmac which still held the heat of the summer tropic sun. He quickly realized that if he lay on his belly – he’d be unable to see the approaching airplane. He flipped over to his back and looked toward the horizon where he could just make out the approaching headlights of the 727.
He took in long deep breaths to calm his racing heart and glanced over at the edge of the runaway where his brothers and the other boys waited and watched in mute anticipation. The plane was approaching rapidly and as Michael looked up, he saw to his horror that the plane was not coming in straight and sure as he thought planes did when looking at them land from the side. The plane was veering from side to side as it navigated its landing – forcing Michael to shift his body first one way then the other as he tried to line himself up with the center of the plane between the wheels. He knew that the back two wheels would hit the tarmac first before the center wheel.
But as that plane approached, getting lower and lower, veering from side to side, Michael knew he had made a mortal error in judgment and that this wasn’t the best idea of his short 16 years.
The wheels struck the tarmac, the engines reversed and every cell in his body screamed in terror as the monstrous machine of death thundered over him. The sounds of screeching wheels and the squealing engine pierced his brain and he quickly shoved his fingers into his ears as his body bounced on the blacktop. Having his fingers shoved inside his ears made absolutely no difference to the level of sound which bombarded him. To this day, he claims his fingertips touched each other as he tried to block the sound of death from liquefying his brains.
And then it was over. The plane was a hundred yards up the runway and Michael lay trembling uncontrollably. Jerry and Merle dashed over to him. Michael could see their mouths moving, but his ears did not recognize the sounds they were making. His brain still vibrating, and his heart trying to disentangle itself from his vocal chords, Michael struggled to sit up. His brothers each took an arm and dragged him off the tarmac.
The other boys were aghast. One of them said, “I ain’t risking my life for your stupid club.” The other boys quickly agreed and hurried away before security came back. To this day, Michael is the one and only official member of the “Cooter Patrol”.
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