#Key West Charter Planes

[blackswaneuroparedux]

The true love that has survived is mine for you and yours for me.

- Vita Sackville-West to Harold Nicolson

The writer Vita Sackville-West always felt she belonged at her lavish ancestral home: Knole, in Kent. She was distraught that as a woman, she couldn't inherit it. When she married the diplomat Harold Nicolson, though, they found another historic place in the weald of Kent: Sissinghurst Castle, a magnificent collection of Tudor buildings and a sprawling farm, all of which had long been neglected.

When Harold Nicolson and Vita Sackville-West first saw Sissinghurst, it was a ruin. The sprawling farm in Kent had been for sale for two years, its moated Tudor buildings were mostly derelict and the garden was a rubbish dump. Their teenage son Nigel told them the property was ‘quite impossible’. Nonetheless, Vita went ahead and bought it in 1930 for £12,000. Built on the site of a medieval manor, it is known as Sissinghurst Castle although there is no castle - the name comes from the 18th century French prisoners of war, held there in cramped, smelly conditions, who sarcastically dubbed it ‘le chateau’.

Vita, Harold and their sons spent their first night at Sissinghurst in one of the estate cottages, eating sardines and soup by candlelight. From these unpromising beginnings, Vita and Harold made Britain’s most revered garden. In the pantheon of British gardens, Sissinghurst is our equivalent of the Mona Lisa. Its extravagant loveliness and atmosphere of dreamy romance, as well as the famously unconventional love affair at the heart of its history, has made this a place which continues to fascinate. Vita and Harold transformed the grounds at Sissinghurst into the spectacular gardens which now attract thousands of visitors every year.

Vita and Harold formed a genuinely loving partnership and a marriage that lasted until Vita's death in 1962. Yet their letters and biographies reveal that both Vita and Harold had numerous same-sex relationships during their life together. On Vita’s part this included some very serious relationships - most famously, those with Violet Trefusis and Virginia Woolf. Their marriage was the foundation of their life together, offering both constancy and freedom for them both to pursue their same-sex desires and at the centre of which was Sissinghurst which was the bedrock of their marriage together.

The aristocratic Vita married Harold in 1913. They were a fashionable and popular couple - she a writer, he a diplomat - but although they were devoted to each other, they were both predominantly homosexual and had numerous affairs during their marriage. Vita, who dressed in pearls, a silk blouse, riding breeches and lace-up leather boots, was especially promiscuous. With Vita, it was not so much a matter of love triangles as love dodecahedrons. Vita pursued anyone who took her fancy at any given moment and several marriages were destroyed as a result.

One of the great dramas of the Nicolsons’ marriage was caused by her infatuation with Violet Trefusis, with whom she ‘eloped’ to France in 1920. Violet’s husband and Harold chartered a small plane and the two men set off together in pursuit of their wives, Harold eventually persuading Vita to return. His love affairs were much more low-key than hers. In one biography, Nigel Nicolson commented that for his father, ‘sex was as incidental, and about as pleasurable, as a quick visit to a picture gallery between trains’.

What bound the couple together, even more than their sons, was their five-acre garden at Sissinghurst. Its creation was more than just an artistic endeavour. The energy and time they poured into it also afforded them the privacy they needed to conceal the nature of their marriage from the world.

Vita and Harold had made their first garden at their house, Long Barn near Sevenoaks, where they lived between 1915 and 1930. This was where they developed their style and made most of their horticultural mistakes; by the time they moved to Sissinghurst, they were confident gardeners and within their first two years Harold and Vita had cleared decades’ worth of weeds and brambles, laid new paths, restored buildings and excavated a lake.

They were very much hands-on gardeners and did most of the work themselves, not least because in the early years they weren’t very well off, living on Harold’s salary and Vita’s earnings as a writer. They agreed on a strict division of labour: Harold worked out the ground plan - still regarded today as a masterpiece of ingenuity and subtlety - but was allowed to plant just two of the garden’s many ‘outdoor rooms’.

Vita ruled supreme when it came to the rest of the planting. Most of the large plants, the shrubs and trees - and her beloved roses - were bought in from nurseries. As the garden filled out she would propagate plants from seeds and cuttings and eventually had grown enough plants to sell to the garden’s paying visitors. Her mantra when it came to planting was ‘cram, cram, cram every chink and cranny’, and she filled the garden until it overflowed with flowers, something which occasionally caused fierce disagreement. In a diary entry for 1946, Harold complains that whereas he wants plants which add shape and perspective, ‘she wishes just to jab in the things which she has left over’. Vita, of course, won the argument. ‘In the end we part, not as friends,’ he records grumpily.

Rather endearingly, though, Vita was keenly aware of the gaps in her knowledge and regretted not being a trained horticulturist. Late in life, when the garden was already internationally famous, she enrolled on one of the Royal Horticultural Society’s training courses, even though she herself was a member of the RHS’s governing council. Roses were Vita’s particular passion. In the post-war period, when neat, shrubby hybrid tea and floribunda roses were all the rage, she championed old-fashioned roses such as the opulent damasks, gallicas and centifolias. As much as their colour and scent, she loved them for their historical associations, writing: ‘To me they recall the brocades of ecclesiastic vestments, the glow of mosaics, the textures of Oriental carpets.’

The roses are still one of the great glories of Sissinghurst.

The most famous area, imitated by countless gardeners across the world, is the magnificent White Garden. It was only planted in 1950, perhaps conceived as a reaction to the years of wartime drabness, the khaki uniforms and blackout curtains. The odd thing is that the White Garden is not really all that white. Vita called it ‘my grey, green and white garden’ and the artfully chosen foliage sets off the white flowers so that, at certain times of day and in the right light, they appear to float in mid-air. The effect is like being in that delicious halfway state between dreaming and waking.

Vita died in 1962. Shortly before her death she wrote to Harold that ‘the true love that has survived is mine for you and yours for me’. After her death, visitors to the garden would sometimes see Harold sitting there, tears streaming down his cheeks as he remembered his wife. He died in 1968, a year after the garden was handed over to the National Trust.

[mariacallous]

The weather has been incredible in Antalya, Turkey lately—as it generally is (albeit hotter than usual; like other Mediterranean cities, it has been experiencing a heat wave).

The ancient city, which was founded in the second century B.C. and features famous sights such as Hadrian’s Gate in addition to its irresistible beaches, is a perennial favorite among tourists. But recently, there has been a veritable stampede of Russians. A remarkable number of Russian passenger jets are also traveling to other Turkish cities and even to the United Arab Emirates, Thailand, Egypt, and the Maldives. What stands out is not just that lots of Russians can afford to travel on foreign holidays—but that they’re doing so on Russian-operated Boeing planes sanctioned by the U.S. government.

Despite the war in Ukraine, Russian charter airline Azur Air’s Boeing 767 with tail number RA-73078 is having a busy summer. Between July 9 and 16, for example, it made 15 trips between Moscow, Novosibirsk, and Kazan on one hand and Antalya and the Egyptian beach resort Hurghada on the other.

Aeroflot’s Boeing 777 with tail number RA-73132, for its part, has been flying between Moscow, Beijing, Istanbul, Bangkok, and the Maldives’ capital, Male. And Aeroflot’s Boeing 777 with tail number RA-73144 has been bringing passengers from Moscow and Novosibirsk to Antalya; Istanbul; Phuket, Thailand; and back again.

Russians are clearly vacationing in attractive destinations in the middle of the war, and getting there on Western-made aircraft; how can that be possible? After all, it was not supposed to be possible. Within days of the invasion, Western governments commanded Western firms leasing aircraft to Russian airlines to remove them from Russia—but before the companies got around to removing most of the planes, the Russian government quickly seized some 400 of them.

Russia subsequently registered some 180 as Russian aircraft, while others are used solely as parts for other planes. The West then tried another course of action to cripple Russia’s aviation sector. The U.S. government, for example, sanctioned dozens of Boeing aircraft belonging to Russian airlines (and a Gulfstream and a Dreamliner belonging to Roman Abramovich)—and forbade other countries from furnishing them with “refueling, maintenance, repair, or the provision of spare parts or services.” On top of that, the United States and the EU have banned Boeing and Airbus from servicing their aircraft belonging to Russian airlines.

The key to the story is what happens to these Boeing aircraft while they’re on the tarmac in Antalya, Phuket, Dubai, and the other foreign airports. It is extremely unlikely they only deliver and pick up tourists. Consider fuel: While aircraft on short-haul flights sometimes don’t refuel between flights, aircraft flying longer journeys have to. The flight time between Novosibirsk and Phuket, for example, is nearly eight hours, which means the plane has to be refueled before leaving Thailand. Between Moscow and Shanghai, it’s closer to nine hours. It would be quite logical for Russian aircraft to receive a bit of maintenance on their foreign stops, too, because other countries (including Turkey) have access to parts Russia no longer does.

Aviation Week reports that “while some Western aircraft spares are still being channeled into Russia through places such as Turkey and Southeast Asia, these inflows have gradually been shut down. Larger components, such as engines and landing gears, have been particularly difficult to get hold of.”

But the refueling on its own violates U.S. sanctions. In January, Turkey’s largest ground handlers—Havas and Turkish Ground Services (TGS)—told Russian airlines that they’d stop refueling Boeing and Airbus aircraft. But, Flightradar24 noted two months later, “Russian airlines are still refueling in Turkey, even if it is not with Havas and TGS.” Indeed, the sanctioned aircraft are still refueling in lots of places, and aviation experts suspect the aircraft receive some TLC there as well, though there’s no proof of it. Aeroflot has said it flies some of its Airbus aircraft to Iran for repairs, but it has been less forthcoming regarding the Boeing planes.

Either way, the sanctioned aircraft keep flying. Azur Air’s Boeing 767 and Aeroflot’s 777s are on the U.S. sanctions list, and so are dozens of other Russian and Belarusian aircraft in the fleets of Azur Air, Aeroflot, AirBridgeCargo, Alrosa, Aviastar-TU, I-Fly, Nordstar, NordWind, Pegas Fly, Aeroflot-owned Pobeda, Red Wings, Royal Flight, S7 Airlines, TransAviaExport, Ural Airlines, Utair, Yamal Airlines, and Belarus’s flag carrier, Belavia. S7 Airlines’ Boeing 737 with tail number RA-73670, for example, spent the week between July 9 and 16 making 22 journeys to and from Irkutsk, Bangkok, Novosibirsk, Beijing, Antalya, Sochi, and Istanbul.

Belavia’s Boeing 737 with tail number EW-456PA shuttled between Minsk and Antalya, Hurghada, and Dubai. (Special thanks to my research assistant, Katherine Camberg, and my former research assistant, Gavin D’Souza, who are doing extraordinary work investigating the flights.)

Turkey, though, is the absolute top destination. This year, some 7 million Russians are expected to visit Turkey, up from 5.5 million last year, the Turkish daily Hürriyet Daily News reported in April. Assuming they are not going on multiple trips, that’s almost 5 percent of all Russians. An estimated 1,150 to 1,200 flights will take place each week, with 750 handled by Russian airlines and the rest by Turkish ones, an official with the Russian Union of Travel Industry told Hürriyet. Camberg and D’Souza have documented more than 400 flights between Russia and Turkey in the past week. The Russian aviation industry’s slow death, which has been foretold by analysts over the past months, isn’t happening.

One might conclude that the U.S. government should just tell those other countries’ governments, including that of NATO member Turkey, to fall in line and do their part for the rules-based international order. Globalization, though, has created a world where ordinary people want to fly to sunny countries for their holidays—and a world where many non-Western nations have gained the economic heft to withstand U.S. pressure. The U.S. government can certainly keep reminding Ankara, Bangkok, Cairo, and even Male that refueling sanctioned Boeing aircraft violates U.S. rules, but these capitals can simply choose to ignore such reminders.

When I last checked on Belavia’s EW-456PA, it had just brought a load of passengers back from Hurghada. Aeroflot’s 777 with tail number RA-73132 was on its way from Moscow to Beijing. And Aeroflot’s 777 with tail number RA-73135 was completing a string of flights that had taken it from Moscow to Guangzhou to Moscow to Bangkok to Moscow to Bangkok (again) and back to Moscow.

But in a way, the sanctions are working. Because Western insurers (who insure most of the world’s reputable businesses) will no longer insure Russian airlines or Belavia, Aeroflot is now insured by two Russian companies. And cannibalization of seized aircraft notwithstanding, it will be difficult for Russia’s airlines to maintain their fleet without proper access to spare parts. That may be why Aeroflot placed a massive order of 339 new planes last September—and they will be made by Russia’s United Aircraft Corporation. The first deliveries are planned for this year. Astonishingly, the order far exceeds Aeroflot’s current fleet of 183, Aviation International News reports.

Deglobalization is accelerating, even in aviation. The question is whether Aeroflot will receive its new aircraft before the current ones become too rickety for flights to Turkey—not to mention Thailand.

For decades, Aeroflot’s safety record was the subject of morbid jokes, and justifiably so. “Safety belts are installed on all planes that fly international routes, but are not on all planes used for domestic routes. Emergency exits (if they exist) on Soviet aircraft are not marked, neither are any inertia flashlights mounted in the cabins nor any exit to-ground slides for emergency egress. No life vests or belts are carried on over-water flights,” the Journal of Air Law and Commerce reported in 1964.

After the Cold War, the Russian carrier transformed its safety standards. Unless the Russian-made aircraft arrive soon, Aeroflot seems doomed to return to its Soviet past.

[tylerhill]

If a year spent driving a town car in Las Vegas teaches Cameron anything, it’s that everybody is looking for an outlet—even Tyler Hill. Growing up gay in Key West isolated him from his peers, and while Vegas is a whole new world—vibrant and alive in a way the Keys could never be—he finds that he’s removed from it, existing between the doors of a limousine. That is until the fateful weekend when Kyle charters a plane and brings his best boys to Vegas to celebrate Joey and Angel's college graduation.

Tasked with driving the guys around for their debaucherous evenings, Cameron listens to the stunners spill their secrets about sex and desire, while a series of scorching vignettes bring you along for the ride. Lust, devotion, and love are on the line as Cameron navigates his way through the city of sin.

[luxebeat]

Treasures abound at Florida’s Dry Tortugas National Park

Treasures abound at Florida’s Dry Tortugas National Park

The seaplane kissed the water as we landed at Dry Tortugas National Park, one of our country’s most inaccessible national parks. It had been a smooth flight from Key West, where we had departed a mere thirty-five minutes ago, and the sights en route were incredible. Opting for the seaplane to Dry Tortugas was a no brainer for me, as the only other means of getting there is the ferry, which…

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

That's My Wife - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x airline pilot!reader

Summary: 3.2k words. Rooster and his coworkers drew the short stick and ended up on a commercial civilian flight across the country for specialty flight training in Key West. A certain someone makes the flight and travel woes well worth the trouble for Bradley.

Warnings: none really, just tons of fluff! maybe some cursing & frequent usage of she/her pronouns for the reader

a/n: hi!! i posted a little snippet/preview of this fic last night and def did not expect it to get as much attention as it did. i'm so happy that so many of you were just as excited as me to see the finished product! i hope y'all enjoy it! <3

master list

An advanced specialty flight training at the Naval Air Station in Key West had the best aviators in the U.S. military flocking to the vibrant Florida island. This, of course, included Top Gun’s best graduates.

Rooster, Phoenix, and Hangman all had impressive reputations before the Uranium Plant mission led by Maverick. After that mission? They were nothing short of living legends in the Navy. So, naturally, they were among the pilots being sent out for the rigorous training.

The Navy couldn’t rationalize sending a private charter plane or wasting the fuel needed to transport just a few pilots to a base thousands of miles away, so the three aviators were sent on a commercial flight. Phoenix, Hangman, and Rooster got to experience the joys of civilian travel–long security lines through TSA, insufferably stressed-out travelers, and the overwhelming urge to get wasted at the bar conveniently located near their gate.

Hangman joked that if Rooster weren’t in uniform and instead wearing his typical Hawaiian shirts and jorts, he would’ve fit right in with the other passengers. Phoenix, who gave in and treated herself to a glass of wine, snorted before adding that Rooster was uptight enough then to blend in seamlessly.

Bradley would never admit it, but they were probably right. His one consolation was the smile his boarding pass brought to his face. The airline they were traveling with was familiar to Rooster to say the least.

The three aviators received priority boarding as active-duty military personnel. They sat at the very front of the cabin and Phoenix took the opportunity to people-watch as the rest of the passengers boarded. Hangman busied himself with looking into which Key West nightclubs and bars he could hit up after training while Rooster sent a quick text.

2:37 p.m.  Hey, baby. Just boarded the flight to Key West. I’ll talk to you when we land 😘 – Brad

2:38 p.m.  Have a safe flight, babe 😉💗 – y/n

Rooster chuckled at y/n’s use of a winking emoji before he turned his phone off and slipped it into his pocket. The flight attendants moved down the center aisle to begin their safety demonstration. Rooster was certain he’d sat through the same speech a thousand times, so he got comfortable and closed his eyes to take a nap.

A crackling from the plane’s speakers preceded what Rooster anticipated to be another relatively boring announcement.

“Good afternoon and welcome aboard, everyone. This is your Captain speaking,” an upbeat feminine voice floated through the aircraft’s speakers. Bradley’s eyes shot open wide and he sat up straight at the sound. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“No way…” he whispered to himself with a surprised smile.

Phoenix and Hangman shared a side-eye glance once they noticed the sudden change in Rooster’s demeanor. The man previously looked bored out of his mind and now he was hanging on to every word of the announcement. A wide grin spread across Rooster’s face while the pilot continued her introduction. As they taxied toward the runway, Hangman’s curiosity got the better of him.

“What is it, Bradshaw?” Jake asked with a raised brow. The bastard couldn’t help but be nosy. Phoenix softly elbowed Hangman in the ribs, but she certainly wasn’t tuning the conversation out. Rooster confidently squared his shoulders and turned to look at them.

“That’s my wife,” Rooster stated proudly, referring to the captain’s voice with a grin.

Hangman’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head and Phoenix leaned back with an impressed smile. Rooster’s fellow aviators knew he was married; hell, he wore his wedding ring like a badge of honor. He was quick to reject the frequent flirting he received and would simply raise his left ring finger whenever he was asked out at The Hard Deck–the man was nothing if not loyal. But Rooster was never the type to speak about his personal life at work, much less mention that his wife is also a pilot.

In fact, the only person Rooster worked with that knew anything about y/n was Maverick. Bradley introduced them to each other a few months after they started dating. The younger Navy man knew by the end of their second date that y/n was it for him. It took y/n a little longer to come to the same conclusion, but once she did she never looked back.

Actually, it was Maverick that helped y/n realize just how head-over-heels in love she was with Bradley. He brought y/n to meet his stand-in father figure at Mav’s hanger. In the middle of y/n and Maverick geeking out about all the memorabilia displayed in the hanger and trading flight stories, Rooster ran out to silence his Ford Bronco’s ancient and overly-sensitive car alarm. Pete took the opportunity to let y/n know just how whipped his godson was. “I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time, y/n. He’s bailed on our dinner plans at least three times in the past month just to get a chance to see you when you’re in the area.” Maverick smiled and clasped y/n’s shoulder. “You’re good for him. I hope he’s good for you too.”

And the rest was history. Just after their one year anniversary, Bradley got down on one knee in the middle of a crowded airport after they spent three full weeks apart. y/n flung herself into Bradley’s arms, foregoing the ring entirely and pressed her lips against his before she said “yes, yes, a thousand times yes.” Maverick was one of the few people at their wedding. It was small and intimate–just how y/n and Rooster liked it. Their relationship wasn’t a secret by any means, but they preferred things to be private.

Rooster returned from his trip down memory lane as y/n reached the end of her airline spiel. Her simultaneous light-hearted bubbly tone and professional manner had Bradley sporting a sweet smile.

“Before we take off, there’s an additional announcement I’d like to make.” Rooster perked up. y/n was going off-script. “A little birdie told me that some very special Navy aviators are on board with us today,” y/n’s voice came through the speakers, pride seeping into her tone.

Phoenix and Hangman exchanged amused smirks before staring right at Rooster. In a different scenario, the sudden attention focused on him might’ve made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t care less right now. His wife, whom he hadn’t seen in over a week, was just steps away and he would be able to hold her in his arms again soon.

“Thank you for your service, lady and gents,” y/n finished sincerely. A polite applause filled the aircraft, bringing appreciative smiles to the aviators’ faces. Rooster wasn’t surprised that y/n somehow found out they were on her flight; he knew better than anyone that she was particularly skilled at getting what she wanted, evidently including private passenger information.

With their busy schedules and unpredictable jobs, y/n and Rooster would sometimes go weeks without seeing each other. y/n was gaining seniority in her airline, so she was able to pick and choose her flights sometimes–all of which she strategically planned to be able to visit her husband. When they were on opposite sides of the country, or even the world, it was harder to align their schedules for just a phone call. 

A few nights ago, they had synced-up free time and they didn’t waste a minute. Despite the time zone differences, they talked on the phone for hours. Bradley told y/n about his upcoming week of specialty training at the Naval Air Station in Key West. Since there was no pressing mission or deployment, the Navy was opting to send Rooster and his coworkers on a commercial flight rather than coordinate Navy transport. y/n hummed and checked her schedule while they talked. Lo and behold, she would be piloting a flight from San Diego to Key West later that week. Specifically, Rooster’s flight.

y/n didn’t let on anything about their upcoming flight during the phone call, she wanted it to be a surprise. If there was anything being a commercial passenger pilot taught her, it was how to make sure no one suspected anything was wrong while she spoke into her headset mic. Once, she had to make an announcement to casually address turbulence despite her internal panic while she discreetly manually redistributed fuel between engines when the automatic fuel system failed on a cross-country flight.

The very next morning following Rooster and y/n’s phone call, she pulled a few strings at work and was able to glance at the passenger details for the upcoming direct SAN to EYW flight.

Seat 1D: Lt. Bradley Bradshaw

Seat 1E: Lt. Natasha Trace

Seat 1F: Lt. Jake Seresin

If any policies or procedures were violated in the process of y/n finding the answer to her burning question, no one batted an eye. After all, she was quite possibly the most beloved pilot in her airline. So, that’s how she found out exactly which of Rooster’s coworkers would be accompanying him.

As the plane sped down the runway, quickly gaining enough momentum for take-off, Bradley and y/n both fiddled with their wedding rings. It was a habit they’d developed independently, ironically enough.

y/n’s ascent into the air was smooth as always. Even the most nervous passengers appreciated the light-as-a-feather feeling settling over them as y/n gently reached cruising altitude. Rooster was no stranger to his wife’s expert precision and careful handling of her aircrafts. Phoenix and Hangman were thoroughly impressed by y/n’s skill and ease.

Once the fasten seatbelt lights were turned off, the flight attendants made their way down the center aisle of the plane with snack and beverage carts. Hangman didn’t hesitate to order a double shot of whiskey, earning him an incredulous look from both Rooster and Phoenix. ”What happens on this flight, stays on this flight,” he muttered, ignoring the sting in his throat after downing a third of the glass in one go. Phoenix shrugged and ordered herself another glass of wine. Rooster rolled his eyes at both of their antics. Before he could place his own order, the flight attendant addressed him directly.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw? Captain Bradshaw has requested to see you in the cockpit.” Rooster stood up without hesitation, a wide smile on his face. Hangman’s jaw dropped, a small huff escaping his mouth and Phoenix swatted his chest. Before making the short trek to the cockpit, he bought a bag of gummy worms from the snack cart. 

He gently rapped his knuckles against the door before slipping inside and shutting the door behind him. y/n didn’t hear Bradley enter the cockpit over her headset, but she instantly recognized his warm cologne. She whipped around and smiled wide at him, taking her co-pilot by surprise. The co-pilot offered to take over and y/n gladly accepted the offer.

y/n typically didn’t haphazardly hop out of her seat while piloting a massive plane with over 200 passengers, but for Bradley, she’d make an exception. She all but threw herself into his arms, sending them both stumbling back a few steps. Rooster gently pulled y/n’s headset off, careful not to mess up her neatly styled hair, before capturing her lips in a searing kiss. y/n’s co-pilot pretended not to notice, but the embarrassed blush spreading across his cheeks gave him away. When y/n pulled away to catch her breath, Bradley pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“How’d you know we’d be on your flight?” he asked, brushing some hair away from his wife’s face.

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” y/n teased with a wink. Rooster was no stranger to y/n’s scheming, but it typically worked out to his advantage so he could live without knowing the details.

She all but did a happy dance at 34,000 feet in the air when Bradley pulled out the pack of gummy worms he hid in his pocket. y/n had admitted on more than one occasion she often got the munchies on longer flights with only stale peanuts to hold her over. She leaned against her husband’s chest and tore into the package of sugary goodness, offering a few gummy worms to her co-pilot in exchange for him swearing to secrecy.

The plane shuddered from a brief pocket of turbulence–one that y/n would’ve handled better, Rooster thought. Bradley braced himself against the wall and pulled y/n against his body to keep her from falling.

“Do you remember the first time we were in the cockpit of a plane together?” Rooster asked with a reminiscent smile. That first experience was undoubtedly more harrowing then the current one. y/n chuckled at the memory.

“I could never forget it, honey,” y/n smiled back, pressing a kiss to his cheek before offering him a gummy worm. The couple stood comfortable in silence for a few minutes, arms wrapped around each other. With the amount of time they spent apart, every moment they got together was precious. Even if they were simply holding each other in the cramped cockpit of an airplane.

y/n’s attention was pulled away from Bradley when a warning light lit up on the dashboard, accompanied by a shrill beeping. Her co-pilot turned back to her, silently signaling that she was needed back in the pilot seat. With a heavy sigh, she untangled herself from Bradley’s arms and pressed a final peck to his lips with a promised “I’ll see you later, baby.”

Rooster watched his wife climb in her well-deserved pilot seat and slip her headset back on. She switched back to her professional demeanor with an impressive ease as she worked to remedy the dash’s highlighted issue.

He wordlessly slipped out of the cockpit and back to his seat. Hangman, who was on the brink of tipsy after his strong whiskey, lost all sense of discretion as Rooster sat back down in his seat.

“Bradshaw, you sly dog. Was the Missus excited to see you?” Hangman poked, focusing on the lipstick print adorning Rooster’s cheek. Phoenix passed Rooster a napkin with a grin of her own. Bradley rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile.

With just an hour left in the flight, y/n handed all the controls over to her co-pilot so she could stretch her legs. Lucky for her, her husband was seated just outside of the cockpit. Whoever booked the seats for the aviators knew what they were doing; Bradley Bradshaw was too tall for his own good, something y/n reminded him of frequently. Ironically enough, she never brought up that teasing point when she needed help reaching something around the house or when they went grocery shopping. The point is, being seated at the very front of the cabin gave Bradley sufficient room for his long legs.

y/n slipped out of the cockpit as inconspicuously as possible. She learned from past experience that passengers tended to freak out when they saw pilots, well, not piloting in the cockpit while the plane was airborne. y/n smiled softly as she took in the sight of her husband quietly snoring with his head leaned back against the chair and mouth wide open. She thought about taking a photo, but she was nearly positive Jake Seresin already had based on the devious grin on his face.

Phoenix noticed movement in the front of the cabin, her eyes eventually landing on a woman in a formal pilot uniform. Her face looked familiar. Phoenix was sure she’d seen her somewhere before. With a final squint, she realized the woman a few strides away was the same woman in all of Rooster’s locker polaroids. Mrs. Bradshaw in the flesh.

y/n offered a friendly smile to Phoenix, who seemed to have figured out who she was. Hangman was still focused on the picture he intended to eventually use for blackmail. Phoenix gently shook Rooster’s shoulder, stirring him from his nap. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before his eyes settled on his wife.

“Good morning, Brad,” y/n cooed and reached out to grab his hand. He quickly checked his watch before pulling y/n in and kissing the back of her hand.

“Hi, baby,” he greeted with a glint in his eye. y/n chuckled, she knew he was holding himself back from calling her a smart ass while she was on the job. Hangman watched the interaction in awe. Not only did Bradshaw have a skilled pilot wife, but she was also gorgeous and witty? Jake briefly thought about asking Rooster for dating pointers.

The sleepy fog clouding Rooster’s brain cleared when he had three expectant sets of eyes on him, waiting for him to make introductions. He introduced Natasha and Jake first, citing their names and call signs, even though y/n already knew both from the stories her husband told.

“Phoenix, Hangman, this is Captain y/n Bradshaw, my wife,” Rooster finished with a warm smile. Man, he was whipped.

“Outranked by your wife, huh, Bradshaw?” Hangman jabbed harmlessly. The whiskey wore off a while ago, but Jake was always eager for an opportunity to poke fun at Rooster.

“Mmm, I outrank you as well, Lieutenant,” y/n smiled sweetly, responding without missing a beat. Phoenix chuckled and held out her hand to high-five y/n for her quick comeback. Jake was certain he heard Rooster mutter “that’s my girl,” as he looked up at his wife with a grin.

Rooster’s coworkers made small talk with y/n as she pulled her leg up behind her in a subtle stretch, using her husband’s hand to keep steady before switching sides and repeating the motion. In just the span of the few minutes y/n spent talking to Hangman and Phoenix, all of Bradley’s stories involving them made so much sense. When there was a brief lull in conversation, y/n checked her wristwatch, her eyes widening when she realized she’d been out for longer than expected.

“It was really nice to meet you guys, but I gotta get back in there,” y/n said apologetically. Hangman and Phoenix nodded in understanding, they were more than familiar with the painstaking pillar of time in aviation. Bradley gently squeezed y/n’s hand before she left, still trying to shake his nap-induced daze.

y/n turned on her heel just before reaching the cockpit door to face Bradley again.

“Are you free tonight?” y/n asked hopefully. The week-long training wasn’t scheduled to start until the following day, but she knew it wasn’t unlikely that the Navy would have Rooster busy in his spare time beforehand. His wife’s soft voice and wishful eyes were more than enough to have Bradley’s heart melting. Hell, he’d hand in his resignation as soon as the plane landed if it meant he could spend some time with y/n.

“For you? Always, baby,” Bradley smiled and winked at y/n. The captain grinned and slipped back into the cockpit, looking forward to being back on the ground with her husband.

a/n: did anyone notice the Top Gun (1986) reference 👀? anyways, i hope u liked it! pls lmk what you think, i love reading ur comments & reblogs! :)

also!! i have a bit of a prequel for how rooster & pilot!reader met in the works. i'll finish it up & post it if anyone is interested :)

[magictiki]

Sunset on the water in Key West. Drew this one on the plane flight home based on a picture I took on a boat charter. Turned out pretty great… I did add the pirate ship, though. Seemed appropriate. 😜

[paralleljulieverse]

It’s been a while between posts here at the Parallel Julieverse, but we have finally managed to clear a bit of time from work, life, and other such annoyances to get back to what really matters: all things Julie!  And in this post we highlight an interesting tidbit of trivia from late-1950 when Julie was appearing in Red Riding Hood at the Theatre Royal Nottingham, the subject of a recent 70th anniversary tribute post.

Although she had only just turned 15 when she was cast as the eponymous lead in Red Riding Hood, Julie Andrews was already an established juvenile star of considerable note. Her debut star-making turn as a 12-year-old child prodigy in Starlight Roof in 1947/48 garnered widespread media attention and it catapulted the young singer into a whirlwind period of touring performances, radio programmes, West End pantomimes, and even early television appearances. Julie’s subsequent casting as the resident singer in the hit BBC radio series, Educating Archie, augmented her fame further, bringing her voice into the sitting rooms of Britain on a weekly basis and making her a household name. 

With this growing renown came equally expanded opportunities for cross-promotional marketing such as celebrity endorsements and advertising. A particular variant of celebrity promotion popular in the era was the staged 'star visit’ or what today might be termed ‘celebrity event marketing’ (Segrave 2005). Here the star would be invited to appear at a particular event or special occasion as a way of boosting public and media interest, while serving in return as a form of value-adding PR for the star and his/her professional ventures. 

Julie was involved in several such ‘star visits’ during the three month run of Red Riding Hood. During rehearsals in mid-December 1950, she was invited as a VIP guest and honorary judge at the Annual Dance for Booth and Son, a major British apparel manufacturing company (‘Ilkeston’, 1). Around the same time, she paid a special visit to the Nazareth House for Children in Nottingham (‘Night’, 2), as well as the Borough Green Air Training Corps Cadets Open Night where “[p]art of the evening’s entertainment had to be cancelled in order to allow the enthusiastic younger generation to get her autograph” (‘Julie stopped’,  3). 

One of the more fascinating such events -- and the one that we profile here -- was a courtesy visit to famed music impresario, Lawrence Wright. Today, Wright is little remembered, save by a handful of theatre history enthusiasts, but he was a major figure in the British entertainment industry of the early twentieth century (Wright 1988). Popularly dubbed the ‘Daddy of Tin Pan Alley’ and the ‘Monarch of Melody’, Wright started as a music composer in his hometown of Leicester where, under the pseudonym of Horatio Nicholls, he penned a string of popular songs such as “Down by the Stream", “Blue Eyes”, “Toy Drum Major”, and “Among My Souvenirs” (‘Alley’s Daddy’, 3). 

Wright’s greatest success, however, came as a sheet music publisher and entertainment entrepreneur. In 1910, he chanced upon a catchy tune written by a local Leicester street singer called “Don’t Go Down the Mine, Daddy”. He promptly purchased the rights to the song and published it as part of his embryonic music company. A week after the song went on sale, there was a tragic mining disaster in Whitehaven in which 147 men and boys lost their lives. Recognising a potential marketing angle, Wright had a snipe printed across the top of the sheet music declaring that “Half the profits from the first ten thousand sold will go to the relief fund for the Whitehaven pit disaster” (Wright, 4). The song became a national sensation, selling over a million copies, and making Wright a small fortune. With the proceeds, he moved to London and set up shop as the ‘Lawrence Wright Music Company’ in Denmark Street, establishing what would become the city’s ‘Tin Pan Alley’.

Under the slogan, ‘You Can’t Go Wrong with the Wright Song’, Wright became the single biggest music publisher in the UK with an eventual catalogue of over 5000 songs which he leased to major theatre producers and singing artists of the day. In an era when many homes had a piano and singalongs in the parlour were a popular social pastime, Wright also sold his sheet music direct to the public through a nationwide chain of ‘Lawrence Wright Music Shops’. Ever the canny entrepreneur, Wright diversified his business holdings with a host of affiliate ventures. In 1926, he founded The Melody Maker, the first British periodical devoted to popular music, which remained in continuous publication right into the early-2000s. He launched a popular series of self-paced musical tutorials which taught a generation of young Britons how to play everything from the piano to the banjo. Wright also moved into theatre producing, mounting an annual summer revue, On With the Show at the North Pier Pavilion in Blackpool, which ran for 32 years and served as a showcase for many of the nation’s biggest variety acts (Wright 1988). 

One of Wright’s more legendary professional pursuits was in the area of entertainment publicity. An inveterate showman, he would do anything to advertise his latest song or business venture, often falling foul of the authorities with some of his more colourful efforts. To promote his 1927 song, “Me and Jane in a Plane”, he chartered a bi-plane to fly at low altitude around the Blackpool Tower, while Jack Hylton and his Band played the song on board and dropped advertising leaflets to the startled crowds below. He offered £1000 to anyone who could disprove the title of another Wright song, “I’ve Never Seen a Straight Banana”, with the result that Denmark Street was awash with truckloads of fruit sent in by eager contestants. And what better way to launch a tune called “Sahara” than to dress a bevy of beautiful blondes as Arabian princesses and ride them on camels around Piccadilly Circus (Wright, 11; ‘King’, 7).

Less extravagant, but no less important to his business success, was Wright’s promotional use of stars. Across his fifty year career, Wright forged key professional relationships with many leading musical artists of the day. He even married a star: variety singer and comedienne, Betsy Warren, in 1933, though their union ended in divorce after only a few years. More enduring were his collaborations with the scores of stars who sang his songs and appeared in his shows. In 1960 to mark his 50th year in show business, Melody Maker published a special golden anniversary tribute to Wright that was brimming with congratulatory greetings from a cavalcade of stars old and new: everyone from George Formby, Jack Payne, and Billy Cotton to Harry Secombe, Connie Francis, and Frankie Vaughan (Wright, 18).

It was in this context that 15-year-old Julie Andrews found herself paying a promotional ‘star visit’ to Lawrence Wright in late 1950. The precise circumstances surrounding the visit are unknown. The young singer had an existing professional relationship of sorts with Wright, having included several of his songs in her concert repertoire such as “The Dream of Olwen” and “I Heard a Robin Singing”. Indeed, an article in the trade press from this time makes mention of Julie in relation to a newly published Wright number, “The Song of the Tritsch Tratsch” which she had started to perform in some of her concerts and, she was quoted as saying, it “always gets a grand reception” (‘Song Notes’, 4). Another likely influence behind the visit was Tom Arnold, the producer of Red Riding Hood. Arnold was a close business associate of Wright’s and one suspects he may have been instrumental in engineering the visit as a way of promoting his panto. Either way, at some point in November/December 1950, Julie dutifully trotted off to Wright’s office where, with photographers conveniently on hand, the young “panto starlet” was received by the impresario and what press reports termed a chorus of “his stars”.

It is this “chorus of stars” that makes the visit especially interesting from a theatre history perspective. While the names of the five female stars assembled to greet Julie may not ring many bells today, they were all celebrated theatrical luminaries of their day:

Carole Lynne (1918-2008): A glamorous actress and singer of the 1940s, Lynne starred in a string of big West End musicals including Black Velvet (1939), Old Chelsea (1943) opposite Richard Tauber, and a revival of Jill Darling (1945). She also appeared in a number of wartime comedy films such as Ghost Train (1941) and Asking For Trouble (1942) with Max Miller. In 1946, Lynne married famed theatre impresario, Lord Bernard Delfont -- the brother of Sir Lew Grade who would play a major role in Julie’s career -- and, after retiring from the stage in the early 50s, she became  a prominent society hostess and patron to many theatre charities (’Carole Lynne’, 62).

Dorothy Ward (1890-1987): A noted beauty of the Edwardian stage, Ward rose to prominence in West End operettas such as The Dairymaids (1906) and Tom Jones (1907). She achieved her greatest fame, however, as a dashing pantomime Principal Boy, appearing in over 40 pantos across her 50 year career. In many of these shows, she played opposite her husband, Shaun Glenville, a noted panto Dame, and few Christmases passed without the pair “on the same stage, he in skirts and she in tights” ( ‘Obituary: Miss Dorothy Ward’, 14).

Marie Burke (1894-1988): A singer of remarkable versatility, Burke originally trained for an operatic career but found her niche in the lighter fields of operetta and musical theatre. She made a high profile debut as Isolde in Charles Cochran’s controversial 1919 production of Afgar, after which she spent several years touring in the United States and Australia. Burke had her greatest stage success playing the part of Julie in the premiere London production of Show Boat (1928). Thereafter, she headlined several major operettas including the London premiere of Waltzes from Vienna (1931-32) and its Broadway transfer as The Great Waltz (1934), and Don Juan de Mañara (1937) at Covent Garden. Burke had an equally successful screen career, appearing in over 70 films and TV programmes from the teens till the 1970s (‘Obituary: Marie Burke’, 12).

Patricia Burke (1917-2003) : The daughter of Marie, Patricia Burke was born in the proverbial trunk while her mother and father, tenor Tom Burke, were on a concert tour in Milan. Inevitably, she took to the boards herself as a teen, singing and dancing her way to fame in a string of West End musical successes of the 1930s -- with more than a few Julie connections. She made her professional debut in the 1933 premiere of Cole Porter’s Nymph Errant starring Gertrude Lawrence and later appeared alongside Beatrice Lillie in Happy Returns (1938). One of her greatest West End successes was as the female lead in The Lisbon Story (1943), a show which introduced the popular standard, “Pedro, the Fisherman” which Julie would later record. Following the war, Burke made an unexpected move into 'legit’ theatre, playing the female lead opposite Trevor Howard in a well received 1946 Old Vic production of The Taming of the Shrew, followed with a number of other equally high profile performances in classics such as As You Like It (1948), Jonson’s The Alchemist (1948) and Shaw’s Saint Joan (1948). Burke never forgot her popular roots, though, and she continued to alternate dramatic roles with musicals and pantos, as well as appearances in film and TV programmes (‘Patricia Burke’, p. 44). 

Marjorie Browne (1910-1990): Another popular performer of the mid-century, Browne started her career in the mid-twenties as one of producer Charles Cochran’s ‘Young Lady’ beauties, scoring a major success in his revue One Damn Thing After Another (1927). Browne went on to perform widely in hit West End shows such as On Your Toes (1937) and Chu Chin Chow (1940), as well as touring productions of Rose Marie (1942-3), Hit the Deck (1944) and Good Night Vienna (1946). She also appeared in a number of British film musicals of the 30s and 40s including Lassie from Lancashire (1938), Laugh It Off (1940) co-starring Tommy Trinder, and I Didn’t Do It (1945) with George Formby. 

It was, thus, quite the illustrious welcoming committee on hand to receive our young Julie. And, as much as the visit was a factitious PR event staged for the cameras by the ever-wily Lawrence Wright, there is still something deeply moving about its symbolic enactment of a generational passing of the theatrical torch. As representatives of the outgoing old guard, the five grand stars stand at the rear, poised with the confidence of a lifetime’s experience, charging their glasses in warm salute to the rising star of the next generation. That the women are bedecked with the emblematic accoutrements of mid-century celebrity -- furs, coiffure, champagne -- while, in the foreground, an adolescent Julie -- perched rather awkwardly on the corner of the desk, lanky legs akimbo -- is garbed in a homey juvenile ensemble of woollen coat, tartan skirt, ankle socks and Mary Janes -- cradling that perennial icon of cosy British domesticity, a cup of tea -- only adds to the symbolic poignancy.

By 1950, the tide was also starting to ebb for Lawrence Wright. Musical tastes were changing and audiences were fast moving on from the fireplace singalongs and end-of-pier entertainments with which he had built his career. A few short years later, he would stage his final summer revue in Blackpool in 1956, going into semi-retirement before passing in 1964 at age 76. His voluminous catalogue of songs, however, would endure. Prized as a valuable commercial property, the Lawrence Wright catalogue has been owned, at various times, by the Beatles and Michael Jackson, before being bought up by the Universal Music group (Horn, 595). 

As a final Julie connection, years after her 1950 ‘star visit’ to the great man himself, Julie would once again sing a Lawrence Wright song when, as Gertrude Lawrence in the 1968 musical biopic, STAR!, she performed the classic WW1 music hall number, “Burlington Bertie from Bow”. Wright had purchased the rights to "Burlington Bertie” when it was first written in 1914 and it would remain a valuable possession of his corporate trunk. Even though “Burlington Bertie” was not in fact a song ever performed by Gertrude Lawrence, it perfectly captured the flavour of Edwardian music hall and provided an ideal showcase for Julie’s combined vocal and comic talents. The song was also something of a personal favourite for Julie. She had recorded the song previously for her 1962 album of music hall standards, and had even shared the stage in the late-40s with the original “Burlington Bertie” herself, the legendary Ella Shields (Andrews, 116). Julie’s performance of “Burlington Bertie” in STAR! would prove a highlight of that otherwise troubled film and she would continue to perform the number in concert well into the 1980s, proving indeed that “you can’t go wrong with a Wright song”!

Sources:

‘Alley’s Daddy Dead’, 1964. The Stage and Television Today, 21 March: 3.

Andrews, Julie. 2019. Home Work: A memoir of my Hollywood years. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.

D.G. 1964. ‘The King is Dead. Long Live the King!’, The Illustrated Chronicle. 22 May: 7.

Heyes, Joy 1991. ‘Obituary: Marjorie Browne.’ The Stage and Television Today, 21 February: 30.

Horn, David 2004.  ‘Lawrence Wright Music Company’ in J. Shepherd et al, eds. Continuum Encyclopedia of Popular Music of the World : Media, industry, society. London: Continuum, pp. 594-95.

 ‘Ilkeston Firm’s Event’, 1950. The Nottingham Evening Post. 16 December: 1.

‘Julie stopped the show at cadet’s open night.’ 1950. The Chronicle and Advertiser. 15 December: 3.

“Night of their Lives: Children at panto. dress rehearsal’, 1950. The Nottingham Evening Post. 23 December: 2.

’Carole Lynne: Glamorous actress and musical theatre star who as Lady delfont became one of London’s leading theatrical hostesses’ 2008. The Times, 22 January: p. 62.

‘Obituary: Marie Burke’ 1988. The Times, 23 March: p.12

‘Obituary: Miss Dorothy Ward’ 1987. The Times, 22 January: p. 14.

‘Patricia Burke: Thirties musical star who proved her range with Shakespearean roles, but retained a love of pantomime.’ 2003, The Times, 27 November: p. 44. 

Segrave, Kerry, 2005. Endorsements in Advertising: A social history. Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland.

‘Song Notes’ 1950. The Stage. 16 November, p. 4.

Wright, Lawrette, 1988. Lawrence Wright: Souvenirs for a century. Chards: Matthews Wright Press.

Copyright © Brett Farmer 2021

[nationalparkposters]

Visiting Dry Tortugas National Park

Visiting Dry Tortugas National Park: Some 70 miles west of Key West Florida, in the Gulf of Mexico, lies one of North America's most inaccessible national parks. Renowned for pirate legends, shipwrecks, and sheer unspoiled beauty, Dry Tortugas National Park harbors unrivaled coral reefs and marine life, an annual birding spectacle, and majestic Fort Jefferson, the largest masonry stronghold in the Western Hemisphere. Getting There Accessible only by boat or seaplane, just 60,000 visitors make it to Dry Tortugas National Park each year. Compare that to the more than 330 million people who visited America's national parks last year. But it's really no surprise when you consider what's involved just getting there. The jumping off point is Key West, Florida, and from there, you can choose between an all-day boat ride, and half- or full-day seaplane trips, assuming you don't have your own vessel. Pre-Flight When I visited Dry Tortugas National Park, I opted for the seaplane flight and checked in at the Key West Seaplane Adventures office at 7:30 for an 8:00 am flight. Even though it was late March, the sun was just rising, and filtered by wisps of pink and orange clouds. When the remaining nine passengers arrived, we received our briefing, were introduced to our pilot, and then walked out on to the tarmac together to board the DHC-3 DeHavilland Turbine Otter Amphibian. The plane can carry 10 passengers plus the pilot…and when the co-pilot seat was offered up, I literally jumped at the opportunity! Our pilot has been flying to and from Dry Tortugas for years. He would make five trips to and from Dry Tortugas that day…and after dropping us off, his early morning return flight to Key West would be a solo one. Ready for Takeoff Once we had our seat belts fastened, and perhaps more importantly, our headphones on, the pilot began to narrate our early morning adventure as we taxied out on to the runway. I fired up my video camera…and before I knew it we were airborne heading due east into the morning sun, and just as quickly banking south, then west for a bird's eye view of Key West. It was only then that I had the exhilarating realization I would be setting down in a place I'd only been able to conjure in my imagination — turquoise waters, green sea turtles, bright coral, frigate birds, shipwrecks, and a coastal fortress some 170 years old. The co-pilot's seat offered the perfect view of Key West, its hotels, Duvall Street and Mallory Square, which quickly faded from view. The pilot pumped some music into our headphones…though I wasn't quite sure what to make of his first selection: Tom Petty's “Free Fallin'”! Flying at at 130 knots, we were quickly over an area called the “Flats,” a body of shallow water just 3–5 feet deep extending almost 20 miles to the west. Flying at just 500 feet above the water, these shallows are teeming with Loggerhead turtles and you could clearly see dozens of them swimming about as we cruised overhead. 25 miles out, we flew directly over Marquesas Islands, a coral atoll…and then over an area called the “Quicksands.” Here the water is 30 feet deep with a sea bed of constantly shifting sand dunes. This is where treasure hunter Mel Fisher found the Spanish Galleons Antocha and Margarita — and more than a half a billion dollars of gold and silver strewn across an eight mile area. They continue to work the site, and even today, there are regular finds of huge Spanish Emeralds. But it wasn't long from my vantage point in the cockpit before I could begin to make out Fort Jefferson on Garden Key, and further west, the lighthouse on Loggerhead Key. Fort Jefferson, a massive but unfinished coastal fortress, is the largest brick masonry structure in the Americas. Composed of over 16 million bricks, the building covers 16 acres. Florida was acquired from Spain (1819–1821) by the United States, which considered the 75 mile stretch connecting the Gulf Coast and Atlantic Ocean important to protect, since anyone who occupied the area could seize control of the trade routes along the Gulf Coast. Construction of Fort Jefferson began on Garden Key in 1847, and although more than $250,000 had been spent by 1860, the fort was never finished. As the largest 19th century American masonry coastal fort, it also served as a remote prison facility during the Civil War. The most famous inmate was Dr. Samuel Mudd, who set the leg of John Wilkes Booth following the assassination of President Lincoln. Mudd was convicted of conspiracy and was imprisoned on the Dry Tortugas from 1865 to 1869. The fort continued to serve as a military prison until 1874. Almost There… Our pilot banked the De Havilland to the right, providing a spectacular view of the islands and Fort Jefferson, heading the seaplane into the wind for the smoothest landing I've ever experienced — on land or sea — gently skimming the surface, and we glided effortlessly across the turquoise waters and headed towards shore. One more roar of the engines, a quick turn, and we were up on the beach ready to disembark. We arrived about 8:30 AM…and aside from the 10 passengers on board, a half dozen campers at one end of the Garden Key, and a few National Park Service employees, we had the island to ourselves. As I watched the seaplane take off, heading back to Key West, it struck me just how isolated we were in this remote ocean wilderness. I imagined the islands didn't look much different to Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de León, credited for discovering the islands in 1531. He named them Las Tortugas, or “The Turtles,” as the islands and surrounding waters were aswarm with loggerhead , hawksbill, leatherback, and green turtles. For nearly three hundred years, pirates raided not only passing ships, but relied on turtles for meat and eggs and also pilfered the nests of roosting sooty and noddy terns. Nautical charts began to show that The Tortugas were dry — due to the lack of fresh water — and eventually the islands were renamed as The Dry Tortugas. Taking advantage of the early morning light, I headed inside the fort, making my way up the spiral staircase, and stepped out of the old Garden Key lighthouse built in 1825. The lighthouse is no longer in use, since the “new” 167 foot tall lighthouse on Loggerhead Key, completed in 1858, continues to flash its beacon to mariners, warning of the shallow waters. The view from atop of Fort Jefferson provided a spectacular 360 degree panorama. And besides the few spits of land that make up the park, there was nothing but sky and sea in every direction. About the Park Dry Tortugas National Park, situated at the farthest end of the Florida Keys, is closer to Cuba than to the American mainland. A cluster of seven islands, composed mostly of sand and coral reefs, just 93 of the park's 64,000 acres are above water. The three easternmost keys are simply spits of white coral sand, while 49-acre Loggerhead Key, three miles out, marks the western edge of the island chain. The park's sandy keys are in a constant state of flux — shaped by tides and currents, weather and climate. In fact, four islands completely disappeared between 1875 and 1935, a testament to the fragility of the ecosystem. The Dry Tortugas are recognized for their near-pristine natural resources including seagrass beds, fisheries, and sea turtle and bird nesting habitat. The surrounding coral reefs make up the third-largest barrier reef system outside of Australia and Belize. President Franklin D. Roosevelt established Fort Jefferson National Monument under the Antiquities Act on January 4, 1935. It was expanded to it's current size in 1983, when the monument was re-designated by an act of Congress as Dry Tortugas National Park on October 26, 1992. Its charter: to protect the island and marine environment, to preserve Fort Jefferson and submerged cultural resources such as shipwrecks. Just 100 yards or so from Fort Jefferson is Bush Key. Home to a diverse collection of birds that frequent the islands, it features a mix of mangrove, sea oats, bay cedar, sea grape and prickly pear cactus, reflecting the original character of the islands. A great wildlife spectacle occurs each year between February and September, when as many as 100,000 sooty terns travel from the Caribbean Sea and west-central Atlantic Ocean to nest on the islands of the Dry Tortugas. Brown noddies, roseate terns, double-crested cormorants, brown pelicans and the Magnificent frigatebird, with its 7-foot wingspan, breed here as well. Although Bush Key was closed to visitors when I visited, hundreds, if not thousands of birds filled the skies and the sounds of their screeches and calls filled the otherwise tranquil surroundings. There is no water, food, bathing facilities, supplies, or public lodging (other than camping on Garden Key) in the park. All visitors, campers, and boaters are required to pack out whatever they pack in, so the National Park Service created a wi-fi hotspot — only at the dock — where you can scan a QR code and download a variety of PDFs to your phone or tablet. It's an idea that's bound to catch on with so many mobile devices, reducing the need to print (and throw away) paper brochures. Inside Fort Jefferson, a small visitor's center has a few exhibits and shows a short video. I stepped across the entranceway, and found an equally small office that houses the National Park Service employees who maintain and manage the park. Some of the best snorkeling in North America Although I was only on the half-day seaplane trip, I still had enough time for a quick swim and snorkel on the west side of Garden Key. In the late 1800s, the US Navy built piers and coaling warehouses for refueling, but strong storms destroyed them, leaving only their underpinnings. These pilings, and the deeper water of the dredged channel, now offer an excellent opportunity to see larger fish like tarpon, grouper, barracuda…as well as the occasional shark. Multi-colored sea fans swayed in the gentle current. Colorful reef fish — with their vivid and boldly patterned reds, yellows, greens and blues — were camouflaged amongst the bright coral and sea grasses. Today, turtle populations have diminished, but you may still be able to see green, loggerhead, hawksbill, and leatherback sea turtles. As I walked back to the changing rooms at the dock, the seaplane for my return flight was just landing and I realized my time at Dry Tortugas was coming to an end. If I ever have a chance to get back, I would definitely opt for the full day trip. A week later, after returning home to Colorado and was shoveling snow off of the driveway, a small plane passed overhead and I suddenly thought of my flight to Dry Tortugas : the bright sun, the crystal clear waters, the abundant life — above and below the water's surface — a surreal landscape so captivating, so remote, that even having seen it with my own eyes, I still somehow could barely imagine it. About the Author Rob Decker is a photographer and graphic artist who is currently on a quest to photograph and create iconic WPA-style posters for all 61 National Parks. Rob visited his first national park at age five and began photographing them at age seven on a 10,000 cross-country trip with his family. He would spend the next decade working on his own, building a wet darkroom with his grandfather in the garage and serving as head photographer for the high school yearbook. But Rob's professional training really started at age 19, when he had the rare opportunity to study under Ansel Adams in Yosemite National Park during the summer of 1979, less than five years before Mr. Adams passed away. Since then, he has visited and photographed 50 of the national parks in the US, including those in Alaska, Hawaii, and the Virgin Islands. Click here to see the current collection of posters. https://national-park-posters.com/blogs/national-park-posters/visiting-dry-tortugas-national-park?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=Sendible&utm_campaign=RSS

[randomvarious]

Waylon Jennings - “Amanda” The Heart of the Country Song released in 1974. Compilation released in 2000. Country / Outlaw Country

All apologies to Gram Parsons — who played great, straight country wrapped in a dope-smoking hippie cloak — but should one wish to find the embodiment of the always amorphous term that is country-rock, Waylon Jennings is it. He was weaned on Ernest Tubb and Elvis Presley, he was buddies with Buddy, and he became the face of Seventies country by skillfully folding rock & roll elements into a literate rootsy mix. It’s simply impossible to imagine southern rock, from Allman to Van Zant, and fringe country from Steve Earle to Uncle Tupelo without Waylon Jennings.

Those words, written by Andrew Dansby in a 2002 Rolling Stone obituary, outline the indelible mark that had been left by Waylon Jennings over his incredible 50-plus year career. Born in west Texas in a family of amateur musicians, Jennings became a local radio DJ at the mere age of twelve. For years, he struggled as a record spinner, sometimes busting out his guitar on air. But he was a known entity in the area, and one day, started a professional relationship with the budding rock and roll superstar Buddy Holly. Holly produced Jennings’ first records, and in turn, Jennings became Holly’s bassist.

But, as you might know, that relationship didn’t last very long. Holly was part of a traveling music revue of sorts that was on tour in the dead of a good ol’ midwestern winter. Along with him were Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, Dion and the Belmonts, and Holly’s band, including Jennings. Whoever was responsible for booking and arranging the tour did a remarkably awful job of planning it out. The buses that were used to travel suffered breakdowns, including the heating system. One of the band members caught frostbite and a flu started to go around. Holly, who could not stand another waking moment on the road, decided to take to the sky instead and chartered a plane to get to the next tour stop. But the plane wasn’t big enough to fit everyone. Jennings was arranged to fly on the plane with Holly, but The Big Bopper, who had caught that flu and who felt physically uncomfortable riding the bus due to his size, convinced Jennings otherwise. Once Holly had found out that Jennings wouldn’t be flying with him, Holly joked to Jennings, “Well, I hope your ol’ bus freezes up!” To which Jennings replied, “Well, I hope your ol’ plane crashes!” And around 90 minutes later, Holly’s plane crashed. On board with him were Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, and the plane’s ill-equipped pilot. There were no survivors.

This, of course, affected Jennings deeply. Not only did he lose a great friend, but it could have been him on that plane. Throughout most of the rest of his life, he would struggle with substance abuse and addiction. It wasn’t the sole reason for these issues, but it was a big one. The circumstances of the crash, the realization of how everything that one works towards can disappear in an instant, and his last conversation with Holly weighed heavily and permanently on his mind.

Jennings left his radio job and moved to Arizona, where his solo career slowly began to blossom. He earned a residency at a popular club, which led to a signing at A&M Records in Los Angeles. A&M wanted him to be more of a folk artist than a country one, and so, when he got the chance, he moved to Nashville and signed with RCA. But this didn’t fit him either. Nashville was too preoccupied with crass commercialism and churning out hits. They were very strict and operated like a well-oiled machine. They had no inkling to try anything new and implored Jennings to use their seasoned session musicians instead of his own band. Jennings resented all these constraints and artifice and decided to push on, pioneering a new movement for the 70s: outlaw country.

Outlaw country looked to take country music back to its roots. It was thinking man’s country. It had less polish than the glitzy Nashville studio sound and felt more authentic. It wasn’t afraid to take chances, and its stars were all marketed as renegades. They were rebels with deep thoughts and complex emotions. Outlaw country gave country music a much-needed human element and it sold millions of records. And Jennings was its centerpiece.

By the time he released The Ramblin’ Man in 1974, Jennings had racked up commercial accolades, but he hadn’t peaked yet. And while this album predated his peak years, it definitely laid the groundwork for them. Closing out the album was a cover of Don Williams’ “Amanda,” a minor country hit that had that squeaky-clean Nashville sheen. Jennings didn’t change any of the lyrics of the song, but listening to it, you’d think it fit him to a tee.

With his deep and smooth, yet rugged, country tone, Jennings sings about Amanda, a woman he loves, but knows he isn’t right for. He feels she’s entitled to much better as he’s just a man who’s been doing the same thing since he was a kid, and hasn’t matured into what she deserves. It’s a heartfelt and sad admission. All this success has left him with riches, but it’s also left him deeply flawed and feeling inadequate.

One line in the chorus strikes as bitterly poignant:

Fate should have made you a gentleman’s wife

The key word here is “fate”. This line suggests that Jennings feels that he’s upset the natural order of things. He doesn’t fit in with how events should play out. He’s in the way and he’s been a nuisance all his life. The idea of him being with Amanda strikes him as being an act of selfishness.

And one has to think that his conception of himself in relation to fate has to include that plane crash, which forever altered his own life. Again, he thinks his existence has upset the natural order of things. Had he been on that plane with Buddy Holly, he would have perished, and Amanda would’ve probably ended up being the wife of a perfectly fine gentleman. The way Jennings is viewing himself in this song is both sobering and really heartbreaking. Don Williams’ version had the same lyrics, but Jennings’ performance of it gives it whole other dimensions.

And the production is spectacular, too. I can’t find a credit for backing vocals, but to me, as far as the music goes, that rising, and then soaring, angelic female vocal that contrasts with Jennings’ depth, really puts this one over the top. Add to the fact, how layered it is, as Jennings wanders on his Telecaster, providing a bouncily thick twang, as the acoustic rhythm guitar underneath provides the strumming legwork to make it stand. 

It would take four and a half years for Jennings to release “Amanda” as a single, and it would become one of country’s biggest hits in 1979, being included on a Jennings greatest hits album. But that version was overdubbed, and, in my view, doesn’t have the same raw and intimate authenticity as the 1974 version. They’re both fine tunes, but Jennings’ original recording is the superior version.

One of Waylon Jennings’ greatest hits that predates the pinnacle of his career. A painful and profoundly touching song.

[lake-lyn]

ET’s exclusive excerpt of The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan (1/2)

Chapter 1

There is no food here

Meg ate all the Swedish fish

Please get off my hearse

I believe in returning dead bodies.

It seems like a simple courtesy, doesn’t it? A warrior dies, you should do what you can to get their body back to their people for funerary rites. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I am over four thousand years old. But I find it rude not to properly dispose of corpses.

Achilles during the Trojan War, for instance. Total pig. He chariot-dragged the body of the Trojan champion Hector around the walls of the city for days. Finally I convinced Zeus to pressure the big bully into returning Hector’s body to his parents so he could have a decent burial. I mean, come on. Have a little respect for the people you slaughter.

Then there was Oliver Cromwell’s corpse. I wasn’t a fan of the man, but please. First, the English bury him with honors. Then they decide they hate him, so they dig him up and “execute” his body. Then his head falls off the pike where it’s been impaled for decades and gets passed around from collector to collector for almost three centuries like a disgusting souvenir snow globe. Finally, in 1960, I whispered in the ears of some influential people, Enough, already. I am the god Apollo, and I order you to bury that thing. You’re grossing me out.

When it came to Jason Grace, my fallen friend and half bropppther, I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. I would personally escort his coffin to Camp Jupiter and see him off with full honors.

That turned out to be a good call. What with the ghouls attacking us and everything.

Sunset turned San Francisco Bay into a cauldron of molten copper as our private plane landed at Oakland Airport. I say our private plane. The chartered trip was actually a parting gift from our friend Piper McLean and her movie star father. (Everyone should have at least one friend with a movie star parent.)

Waiting for us beside the runway was another surprise the McLeans must have arranged: a gleaming black hearse. Meg McCaffrey and I stretched our legs on the tarmac while the ground crew somberly removed Jason’s coffin from the Cessna’s storage bay. The polished mahogany box seemed to glow in the evening light. Its brass fixtures glinted red. I hated how beautiful it was. Death shouldn’t be beautiful.

The crew loaded it into the hearse, then transferred our luggage to the backseat. We didn’t have much: Meg’s back- pack and mine (courtesy of Marco’s Military Madness), my bow and quiver and ukulele, and a couple of sketchbooks and a poster-board diorama we’d inherited from Jason.

I signed some paperwork, accepted the flight crew’s condolences, then shook hands with a nice undertaker who handed me the keys to the hearse and walked away.

I stared at the keys, then at Meg McCaffrey, who was chewing the head off a Swedish fish. The plane had been stocked with half a dozen tins of the squishy red candy. Not anymore. Meg had single-handedly brought the Swedish sh ecosystem to the brink of collapse.

“I’m supposed to drive?” I wondered. “Is this a rental hearse?”

Meg shrugged. During our flight, she’d insisted on sprawling on the Cessna’s sofa, so her dark pageboy haircut was flattened against the side of her head. One rhinestone-studded point of her cat-eye glasses poked through her hair like a disco shark n.

The rest of her out t was equally disreputable: floppy red high-tops, threadbare yellow leggings, and the well-loved knee-length green frock she’d gotten from Percy Jackson’s mother. By well-loved, I mean the frock had been through so many battles, washed and mended so many times, it looked less like a piece of clothing and more like a deflated hot-air balloon. Around Meg’s waist was the pièce de résistance: her multi-pocketed gardening belt, because children of Demeter never leave home without one.

“I don’t have a driver’s license,” she said, as if I needed a reminder that my life was presently being controlled by a twelve-year-old. “I call shotgun.”

“Calling shotgun” didn’t seem appropriate for a hearse. Nevertheless, Meg skipped to the passenger’s side and climbed in. I got behind the wheel. Soon we were out of the airport and cruising north on I-880 in our rented black grief-mobile.

Ah, the Bay Area . . . I’d spent some happy times here. The vast misshapen geographic bowl was jam-packed with interesting people and places. I loved the green-and-golden hills, the fog-swept coastline, the glowing lacework of bridges and the crazy zigzag of neighborhoods shouldered up against one another like subway passengers at rush hour.

Back in the 1950s, I played with Dizzy Gillespie at Bop City in the Fillmore. During the Summer of Love, I hosted an impromptu jam session in Golden Gate Park with the Grateful Dead. (Lovely bunch of guys, but did they really need those fteen-minute-long solos?) In the 1980s, I hung out in Oakland with Stan Burrell—otherwise known as MC Hammer—as he pioneered pop rap. I can’t claim credit for Stan’s music, but I did advise him on his fashion choices. Those gold lamé parachute pants? My idea. You’re welcome, fashionistas.

Most of the Bay Area brought back good memories. But as I drove, I couldn’t help glancing to the northwest—toward Marin County and the dark peak of Mount Tamalpais. We gods knew the place as Mount Othrys, seat of the Titans. Even though our ancient enemies had been cast down, their palace destroyed, I could still feel the evil pull of the place—like a magnet trying to extract the iron from my now-mortal blood.

I did my best to shake the feeling. We had other problems to deal with. Besides, we were going to Camp Jupiter—friendly territory on this side of the bay. I had Meg for backup. I was driving a hearse. What could possibly go wrong?

The Nimitz Freeway snaked through the East Bay flatlands, past warehouses and docklands, strip malls and rows of dilapidated bungalows. To our right rose downtown Oakland, its small cluster of high-rises facing off against its cooler neighbor San Francisco across the Bay as if to proclaim We are Oakland! We exist, too!

Meg reclined in her seat, propped her red high-tops up on the dashboard, and cracked open her window.

“I like this place,” she decided.

“We just got here,” I said. “What is it you like? The abandoned warehouses? That sign for Bo’s Chicken ’N’ Waffles?”

“Nature.”

“Concrete counts as nature?”

“There’s trees, too. Plants flowering. Moisture in the air. The eucalyptus smells good. It’s not like . . .”

She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Our time in Southern California had been marked by scorching temperatures, extreme drought, and raging wild res—all thanks to the magical Burning Maze controlled by Caligula and his hate-crazed sorceress bestie, Medea. The Bay Area wasn’t experiencing any of those problems. Not at the moment, anyway.

We’d killed Medea. We’d extinguished the Burning Maze. We’d freed the Erythraean Sibyl and brought relief to the mortals and withering nature spirits of Southern California.

But Caligula was still very much alive. He and his co- emperors in the Triumvirate were still intent on controlling all means of prophecy, taking over the world, and writing the future in their own sadistic image. Right now, Caligula’s fleet of evil luxury yachts was making its way toward San Francisco to attack Camp Jupiter. I could only imagine what sort of hellish destruction the emperor would rain down on Oakland and Bo’s Chicken ’N’ Waffles.

Even if we somehow managed to defeat the Triumvirate, there was still that greatest Oracle, Delphi, under the control of my old nemesis Python. How I could defeat him in my present form as a sixteen-year-old weakling, I had no idea.

But, hey. Except for that, everything was fine. The eucalyptus smelled nice.

Traf c slowed at the I-580 interchange. Apparently, California drivers didn’t follow that custom of yielding to hearses out of respect. Perhaps they gured at least one of our passengers was already dead, so we weren’t in a hurry.

Meg toyed with her window controls, raising and lower- ing the glass. Reeee. Reeee. Reeee.

“You know how to get to Camp Jupiter?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“ ’Cause you said that about Camp Half-Blood.”

“We got there! Eventually.”

“Frozen and half-dead.”

“Look, the entrance to camp is right over there.” I waved vaguely at the Oakland Hills. “There’s a secret passage in the Caldecott Tunnel or something.”

“Or something?”

“Well, I haven’t actually ever driven to Camp Jupiter,” I admitted. “Usually I descend from the heavens in my glorious sun chariot. But I know the Caldecott Tunnel is the main entrance. There’s probably a sign. Perhaps a Demigods Only lane.”

Meg peered at me over the top of her glasses. “You’re the dumbest god ever.” She raised her window with a final Reeee. SHLOOMP!—a sound that reminded me uncomfortably of a guillotine blade.

We turned west onto Highway 24. The congestion eased as the hills loomed closer. The elevated lanes soared past neighborhoods of winding streets and tall conifers, white stucco houses clinging to the sides of grassy ravines.

A road sign promised CALDECOTT TUNNEL ENTRANCE, 2 MI. That should have comforted me. Soon, we’d pass through the borders of Camp Jupiter into a heavily guarded, magically camouflaged valley where an entire Roman legion could shield me from my worries, at least for a while.

Why, then, were the hairs on the back of my neck quivering like sea worms?

Something was wrong. It dawned on me that the uneas- iness I’d felt since we landed might not be the distant threat of Caligula, or the old Titan base on Mount Tamalpais, but something more immediate . . . something malevolent, and getting closer.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Through the back window’s gauzy curtains, I saw nothing but traffic. But then, in the polished surface of Jason’s coffin lid, I caught the reflection of movement from a dark shape outside—as if a human-size object had just own past the side of the hearse.

“Oh. Meg?” I tried to keep my voice even. “Do you see anything unusual behind us?”

“Unusual like what?”

THUMP.

The hearse lurched as if we’d been hitched to a trailer full of scrap metal. Above my head, two foot-shaped impressions appeared in the upholstered ceiling.

“Something just landed on the roof,” Meg deduced.

“Thank you, Sherlock McCaffrey! Can you get it off?”

“Me? How?”

That was an annoyingly fair question. Meg could turn the rings on her middle fingers into wicked gold swords, but if she summoned them in close quarters, like the interior of the hearse, she a) wouldn’t have room to wield them, and b) might end up impaling me and/or herself.

CREAK. CREAK. The footprint impressions deepened as the thing adjusted its weight like a surfer on a board. It must have been immensely heavy to sink into the metal roof.

A whimper bubbled in my throat. My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I yearned for my bow and quiver in the backseat, but I couldn’t have used them. DWSPW, driving while shooting projectile weapons, is a big no-no, kids.

“Maybe you can open the window,” I said to Meg. “Lean out and tell it to go away.”

“Um, no.” (Gods, she was stubborn.) “What if you try to shake it off?”

Before I could explain that this was a terrible idea while traveling fifty miles an hour on a highway, I heard a sound like a pop-top aluminum can opening—the crisp pneumatic hiss of air through metal. A claw punctured the ceiling—a grimy white talon the size of a drill bit. Then another. And another. And another, until the upholstery was studded with ten pointy white spikes—just the right number for two very large hands.

“Meg?” I yelped. “Could you—?”

I don’t know how I might have finished that sentence. Protect me? Kill that thing? Check in the back to see if I have any spare undies?

I was rudely interrupted by the creature ripping open our roof like we were a birthday present.

Staring down at me through the ragged hole was a withered, ghoulish humanoid, its blue-black hide glistening like the skin of a house y, its eyes filmy white orbs, its bared teeth dripping saliva. Around its torso uttered a loincloth of greasy black feathers. The smell coming off it was more putrid than any dumpster—and believe me, I’d fallen into a few.

“FOOD!” it howled.

“Kill it!” I yelled at Meg.

“Swerve!” she countered.

One of the many annoying things about being incarcerated in my puny mortal body: I was Meg McCaffrey’s servant. I was bound to obey her direct commands. So when she yelled “swerve,” I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The hearse handled beautifully. It careened across three lanes of traffic, barreled straight through the guardrail, and plummeted into the canyon below.

[igottheissue]

This Time Around 3

A strange woman Bucky is sure he knows but can’t fully recognize, picks him up after the fall of SHIELD. She claims to be friends with Steve and that she is here to help him. He can’t help but keep wondering where he knows her from; it’s definitely not through Steve Rogers. Can she help him be the man he wants to be or will the all too familiar struggles of being a super human overcome him?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X OC Rowan O’Connor Word Count:4,154 Rating: M Masterlist Chapter 2 Chapter 4

Taglist: @xmarveled @spidey-the-killer-queen

Rowan and Bucky had stayed one more night in the cozy Chicago apartment. Not much conversation filled the studio flat. Some awkward mumbles from Bucky asking Rowan how to work the shower was about it.

The next morning, they headed out the back door of the three story building. Bucky had his shoulder length brown hair mostly hidden under a Family Business Brewing Co. baseball cap, with the remainder of it sticking out the back in a small bun. He had shaved his face, giving him more of a five o’clock shadow rather than a bordering-on-homeless look. 

Rowan was dressed in green leggings and a pink tank top; a black oversized beanie covering up her auburn hair. She opted out of hiking boots, unlike Bucky, and sported a pair of comfortable running shoes instead. To any passersby, they looked like a young couple heading out to go camping for the weekend.

Rowan pressed a four digit code into a blue garage door and ushered Bucky inside. She grabbed a set of keys off a hook by the door. Bucky’s eyes scanned the low clearance ceiling, wondering which vehicle Rowan would choose. Bucky raised his eyebrows a bit at the car that Rowan led him to.

“Don’t judge me, I know its cliché. It’s not my normal choice but it’s the only one that has fuel in it right now. We don’t have time to stop for any until we get out of the city. I’m pretty sure by now Nat will have figured out which home I was talking about last night.” Rowan filled the back seat up with the few duffel bags she had carried downstairs, along with some empty ones. 

She had planned to find a clothing store on the outskirts of the city for Bucky. The raglan shirt and jeans she had given him were a bit too small. Luckily the boots were on the perfect side of snug for him.

Bucky wasn’t sure how, the information must have been hidden in a part of his mind from working for HYDRA, but he recognized the car. A blue Camaro. An older style with some rust. Had he driven one while on a mission?

“Where’d you get this?” His eyes wandered over the black leather interior as Rowan fished a cell phone out of a purple duffle bag and crushed it in her palm before letting the pieces fall to the ground.

“Souvenir from a mission.” Nothing more was said as Rowan and Bucky fastened their seatbelts and pulled out of the garage. Bucky stayed silent as Rowan shifted gears and slowly pulled out of the garage into the bumbling suburb streets. By the sun, he figured they were heading west.

-TTA-

“Got her.” Steve’s head snapped up, blue eyes following Natasha’s voice over to a group of large screens decorating the south wall of the room. They currently showed different angles of a back alleys and brick buildings. The location at the bottom right of the screen read “BUCKTOWN”. 

A small neighborhood hugging the Kennedy Expressway in Chicago. Steve’s eyes roamed the different camera angles when finally, they landed on two figures walking casually to a garage down a narrow alleyway off of West Webster Avenue.

To anyone else, the couple appeared casually dressed, like they were running errands or going on a trip somewhere, if the duffel bags were any indication. The woman was tall, nearly six foot it looked like, even in running shoes. She had a black, oversized beanie covering her hair. 

The man was over six foot, wearing a baseball hat with brown hair sticking out the back. His stride was large and his stature was rigid. His head never moved much, but to trained eyes, one could tell he was skillfully scanning the area.

“Are you sure Nat? I’m not going to be running around on a wild goose chase every time we see a couple and the guy has long brown hair. The man bun thing is in now you know. We can’t even see their faces right now. And that woman’s hair could be any color. Hell we can’t even see it under the beanie she has on.” Nat blew a warm breathe of air out her nose in slight annoyance, or maybe it was scolding, Steve couldn’t really tell most of the time, but he knew an explanation of why she was right was on its way.

“When Rowan was in the Sector she was on a mission to eradicate a biochemical warfare research facility in Chechnya. The building exploded and her right leg was crushed at the knee. They almost had to replace it with an enhanced prosthetic. 

“It healed most of the way. If you know what to look for you can see that her right leg from the knee down swings out just a few degrees wider than her left leg as she puts her foot down, almost like she’s bow-legged.” Natasha rewound the footage of the couple walking from a brick apartment building to a garage a few meters down the gravel alley. Steve looked closely this time. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing in frustration.

“She lied. God dammit why did she lie to us Natasha?”

“Language Capsicle. Princess Leia probably has a reason to keep your BFF to herself.” Tony strolled in casually, bag of blueberries in his hand. He popped one in and looked at a smaller computer screen sitting on the desk nearest to him. It had a small blinking red light on it, text zipping quickly across the screen.

“You know she hates when you call her that. And Tony is right Steve, like I told you earlier, there’s probably a legitimate reason for her not coming in with him.”

“No reason is good enough for him not to come back! Don’t you get that? He’s been gone for years and he needs someone he knows and trusts! I can help him through this; I know I can. I owe him that much.”

“You sure about that Cap? Because it seems like you wanting to find him has more to do with your inner demons than you think. You don’t owe him anything; what happened to him wasn’t your fault. He’s a soldier, he knew the risks when he signed up. ”

“He didn’t sign-“

“Not the point I’m trying to make here Steve.” Tony closed his eyes for a long moment before putting the blueberries on the computer desk and walking up to stand next to Steve and Natasha. His posture was no longer casual, but a bit pinched at the shoulders.

“After Afghanistan, hell even after New York, I had a lot of problems. You guys know how hard it was for me to be around everyone. Sometimes it takes being around a stranger, someone who’s been through what you have but doesn’t really know too much about you personally to really be able to get to the bottom of the issue and work it out. I know that’s what helped me, going to the Vet meetings at the church.” And talking with Rowan till all hours of the night at the top of Stark Tower. Though Tony left that part out. Rowan was adamant she “wanted to keep her badass black soul reputation fresh.”

Natasha kept reading the computer screens, typing fervently trying to get a better angle on the suspected Bucky and Rowan. She understood where Tony was coming from, and figured he might be able to get it through the super soldiers thick head about why Bucky might not come running home.  Steve looked down at his boots guiltily. Tony grabbed his blueberries and started for the door.

“And you both know how much I hate going to church. Oh and better get a glimpse of them while you can. JARVIS shows that the scrambler Rowan has on her car is about to finish calibrating.” Tony turned, posture casual once again, and walked out the metal framed door. Natasha slammed her fist on the desk as all the camera angles turned to black screens. Steve fell into a chair and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars.

-TTA-

“How do you know we’re out of sight? We’re still pretty close to the city. There’s camera’s everywhere.” Bucky tried to remain casual in the passenger seat as Rowan struggled to find a parking spot outside of a Kohl’s on the southwest side of Chicago. It was busy for a Monday morning but Bucky needed new clothes and she’d rather get everything before they start their road trip than have to stop halfway through.

“All of my vehicles are equipped with Stark scrambling technology. Tony is aware but he won’t let Nat and Steve know about it. We had a little chat last night.” Bucky pursed his lips and gave a short nod as Rowan parked and turned off the car.

As they walked into Kohl’s, Rowan clicked a button on her key fob to lock the Camaro. As Bucky heard the car beep to signal its lock, all the store lights went out for a few seconds before turning back on. Bucky looked around cautiously as the employees mumbled about the systems rebooting.

“There’s a scrambler in my key fob too. Stark really likes me.” Rowan had a cheeky grin on her face as she grabbed a cart and strolled to the men’s section, grabbing Bucky’s arm along the way.

About an hour later they had checked out and were on I-80 heading west. Old school rock drifted quietly out of the speakers. It wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable silence, but Bucky hated it. He found himself wanting to speak. About something, anything. He didn’t really care.

“So, uh Rowan, where exactly are we headed?” He kept his gaze shifted out the window, watching the gargantuan white windmills as their propellers gently lulled through the air, creating energy for who knows how many homes out here.

“Faith, South Dakota. After we load up on supplies we’ll head out to the Cheyenne River Reservation. I figure we camp out there for a couple weeks then head up to Vancouver. I’ve got a safe house up there no one knows about. We can grab my other passports and have some made for you. Then Juneau to a charter plane that will take us to St. Lawrence Island and last but not least I’ve got a friend who owes me a favor. He said he can get us as far west as Japan. 

“We’ll have to figure out the rest of the plan from there. It’s the third of April. I figure by the end of this month we should be touching down in Japan. That should be enough time for them to already do a big sweep overseas.” Bucky was impressed by how in depth Rowan had already planned their travel. He still had a few concerns though.

“Won’t they be searching everywhere until they find us? If Steve is still the same as I remember, he won’t stop.”

“You’re right Mr. Barnes, Steve isn’t gonna stop, and as much as Nat loves me I doubt she’ll actively try to stop him from finding us. Tony is pretty complacent for me to work with so if I need him to throw them off our trail I’ll call him. But it’ll be fun to see how long that’ll take.”

“Why are we camping out in South Dakota for half the month? Why don’t we just get out now while we have them scrambled?” Bucky figured she was going to answer the same way his own thought process was heading, but he just wanted to see how aligned their thinking was. 

His brain was still itching every time he tried to think too hard about how familiar Rowan was. He was getting better at ignoring the alarm going off in his head when he saw her face, though he still wasn’t confident that was the best thing to do.

“Barnes, seriously? I know you know why I’m doing this. Is this some sort of trust test? Wouldn’t it be more entertaining to do some trust fall exercises instead? I promise I won’t drop you.” The teasing in her voice deepened her accent. 

It was a pleasant sound Bucky decided; not like some of the other women’s voices he recalled from his time in HYDRA. The thicker accent and her playful banter lightened his mood. Rowan eyed him. From this view she could see the edges of his eyes crinkling up ever so slightly; a tell-tale sign that he was about to let out a smile.

“Letting you drive is enough trust testing I can handle for any twenty four hour period.” Bucky rubbed his chin with his flesh hand. The crinkles moved from his eyes to his forehead.

“Hey! I’m an excellent driver.” Rowan took her eyes completely off the road when Bucky didn’t have a response. She had been trying to come off as less edgy than she was accused of being in the past. Sometimes she got too into the mission on hand. 

She kept reminding herself this wasn’t technically a mission or a job. She was helping someone. When her emerald eyes met the downcast face of Bucky she turned off the radio. He was glaring at his left hand, rubbing his fingers from his right hand over the silver palm.

“I can’t tell if I can really feel anything with it, or if it’s just my brain playing tricks on me since I know what my other hand is doing.” Rowan could hear the disparity in the man’s voice. She hopped over a couple lanes to catch the visitor’s stop just in time, narrowly missing getting clipped by a semi. Bucky sat rigid in his seat.

“Come on, out we go.” The tall woman held Bucky’s door open expectantly waiting for him to emerge. She grabbed his flesh hand and led him down the dirt path into a small cluster of trees, hitting her key fob as they went. She slowed as they passed the cluster of young birch trees and turned, grabbing Bucky’s left hand.

“Close your eyes. Go on, we haven’t got all day you spoon.” Bucky raised a thick eyebrow at the odd insult before closing his eyes slowly.

“Take a deep breath. There you go. Just relax.” She released his right hand from hers and it dropped softly to his side. She only held his left hand. It was a weird sensation. He could feel her hand, the warmth. 

It was a little sticky with sweat. He grasped it and ran his thumb over her palm; softly at first, then a bit harder. He could almost feel the creases in her hands. He felt where the ridges from the plates caught on Rowan’s callouses running along her palm and fingers, hard from years of action, like his remaining flesh hand.

She took his arm and led him to a patch of day lilies. He outstretched his hand carefully. He could feel how delicate they were. He lightly brushed his hand through the patch of flowers and the edges of his eyes creased in an almost smile at the feather light sensation. They were cool to the touch. He was sure he could tell they were supposed to be velvety smooth. But again, he just wasn’t quite convinced.

“See, you can feel. It’s not your mind playing tricks on you. I reviewed all your files. They connected your nerves to different parts of the arm. It’s pretty much your own, just a different color... And material I suppose, but that’s all semantics. Personally I think you pull off silver over gold any day.” Bucky looked up at Rowan’s teasing voice. 

Her eyes were bright in the mid-morning sun. Her auburn hair fell over the right side of her face, she brushed it back and outstretched her hand to Bucky’s own. He took it with his left, the urge to try to feel everything with it stronger now. Rowan pulled Bucky up swiftly from his kneeling position and let go as he brushed dirt off his knees.

They walked silently back through the small wooded patch in a content silence. Rowan was staring ahead, in deep thought it seemed. Bucky wondered what she could be thinking about. Did she still not know if going all over the world with him until he regained his memories was the best idea? If she didn’t, he couldn’t argue with her. He didn’t even think it was a good idea. He was still on the fence about it himself. 

She seemed like she had good intentions, and she claimed to be a friend of Steve’s. Something he wasn’t entirely sure of, Steve and Rowan didn’t seem compatible. Steve was a straight-laced guy. Rowan seemed a little… off the deep end on some matters. But people changed. Last time he remembers interacting with Steve he was a bit edgier.

Bucky shook his head. He was starting to get a headache from all this thinking. He closed his eyes briefly as he walked, the warmth radiating off Rowan half guiding him through the small trees. He heard birds chirping, Rowan’s leggings making a soft swooshing sound as her thighs brushed against each other as she took otherwise silent steps next to him; a little further off he could hear the droning of the cars and trucks zooming down the interstate. 

How simple their lives must be compared to his. He wondered how that would feel; worrying about mundane things like how much it would be to fix the car, what to make for supper, how much the next doctor’s office trip would run him. He also heard a low male voice coming from their twelve o’clock. It seemed Rowan caught it a few moments after him.

Rowan looked towards Bucky, semi-alarm running along her features. There was no way any cameras pinged their location. No way would she or Bucky not have noticed someone following them. 

And while she was sure every agent of SHIELD, HYDRA, FBI, CIA, or any other flavor of government agency had been alerted to Bucky’s status, she doubted they’d have people actively driving cross country looking for them. The only person besides herself and Bucky who knew about the Camaro was Tony Stark. He’d helped her rebuild the engine a few years ago on a slow weekend.

Bucky rounded the corner first, putting himself in front of Rowan. Instinct he supposed, though he didn’t think it was from his Winter Soldier days. Rowan poked her head around Bucky’s shoulder, not having to reach much at all, already being almost his height already. They saw two men walking around the Camaro, trying to nonchalantly peek inside. 

Bucky assumed the black Jeep Cherokee idling in park next to the Camaro was what they pulled in on. The two men, who looked to be in their late twenties, wore dark hoodies, with beanies pulled tight over their heads. One had a handgun tucked into the back waistband on his jeans and the other had one on the side of his right hip, tucked into a holster, hoodie doing a poor job of concealing it.

Bucky rolled his shoulders and grabbed for the glock he had secured under the waistband of his pants. Gripping the gun with his right hand, the gears of his left arm whirred lowly as it calibrated, something he figured happened when he told his arm to flex when he was preparing for a fight. 

Rowan laid a firm hand on his forearm, effectively stopping him from charging the two men. She put a slender finger to her lips before she motioned for them to keep listening and watch them. Bucky took a deep breath and let it out quietly through his lips. He tried to stop the shaking throughout his hands.

“You sure it’s just been sitting here? No one has been here?”

“No dude, this chick and her boyfriend headed out to the woods like twenty minutes ago. Probably just fuckin’ around. Let’s get it and go before they come back.” The guy turned towards the woods, keeping an eye out for anyone walking back. Rowan and Bucky ducked behind the thick brush by the opening of the trail.

“Shit, okay let’s hurry then.” Rowan and Bucky exchanged a relieved look. Weight seemed to be lifted from both their shoulders as they realized the two men were merely low life car-jackers. No special agents from either side of the law coming to get them, yet at least. 

The day was young. Rowan pulled her fob out of the small pocket from the inside waistband of her leggings and hit a button. A loud, shrill alarm went off. Both men threw their hands over their ears and turned around quickly. Rowan stopped Bucky from coming out of the woods.

“Your face is all over social media and the news. I can handle these guys. I won’t even need your gun.” She winked his way then stepped out, conveying the posture of a scared woman. The men grabbed their guns when they noticed Rowan all alone. She didn’t even give them a chance to put their fingers on the trigger before she pressed the fourth button on the key fob. 

One Bucky hadn’t seen her press yet. A light blue surge of energy exploded from the undercarriage of the Camaro, knocking both men to their feet. Rowan turned slightly and motioned for Bucky to come forward. As he drew nearer he made the assumption that both men were unconscious.

Producing two sets of handcuffs from a hidden compartment in the truck, Rowan tossed a set to Bucky. He followed Rowan’s actions and pulled the man into the back seat of the Jeep. He cuffed one arm before looping the short metal chain through the ‘oh shit’ handle and securing the man’s other arm. Rowan produced a cell phone from somewhere Bucky didn’t want to focus too hard on and dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Hey Tobey. Yeah I got a couple of guys out your way who were trying to car jack me. No not the Impala. It’s still safely tucked away in New York. My Camaro. Yeah that one. No I’m not getting his autograph for you. I just need to make sure the cops get them but I don’t have time to wipe my prints and such. I’ll take care of everything else for you. Great! Thanks Tobes. Yeah I’ll get with you soon. Bye.” Rowan hung up and tucked the phone away. 

Bucky stood with his back to the Jeep, facing the woods. He was still trying to subdue the shaking in his hands. He almost jumped when Rowan sidled up beside him. She kept her gaze forward.

“Ya know if I didn’t know any better I’d say we need to get your blood sugar up some. My hands get shaky when I don’t eat often enough. There’s a McDonald’s at the next exit. Sound good?” Bucky knew his blood pressure wasn’t low, and he knew Rowan knew that too. But he still appreciated the gesture.

“Yeah, sounds good to me.” Truth was, he was itching for a fight. His body was shaking slightly, his head on fire. It was almost as if he could physically feel the painful urge to end those men’s lives. 

He was ashamed of himself. He wasn’t on the battle field, this wasn’t a professionally trained operative coming to kill him. This was an every-day petty crime event. Childs play compared to some of the things he was used to being around.

He took a small step towards the Camaro before he staggered a bit, a dull throb encasing his head. A dim memory made its way to the forefront of his brain. A little brown-haired boy, with a smaller brown-haired girl next to him, sat in a well-lit living room. Bucky felt himself stretch and pop his neck as he kept his eyes on the children. They were playing checkers.

“Haide, soldat, nu avem toata noaptea. Acesta este jocul copiilor. Finalizati-le.” The harsh Romanian voice cut through the earpiece, like gravel sliding across glass it ended the silence that had been surrounding him. He lifted his sniper rifle, eye piece easing into place a few inches away from his alert blue eyes.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of that memory, and moved to open the car door as a white hot pain travelled from behind his eyes down his spine. Lighting up every nerve ending as if they were being electrocuted individually. He opened his eyes wide and frantically searched for Rowan over the top of the blue car.

“Rowan, I… something’s wr-“ He tried to finish his sentence but everything went black.

[keywestlou]

A SPORTS DAY YESTERDAY

A SPORTS DAY YESTERDAY - https://keywestlou.com/a-sports-day-yesterday/Great football and golf yesterday! Could not have been better! Syracuse football last night. The Orange won their fourth consecutive game. Beat Virginia 22-20. The game did not turn out as I expected. The Vegas line was 10.5 points. Syracuse was winning 16-0 at half time. That is when I fell asleep. I was not aware that Virginia came back big time in the second half and only lost by 2 points. I found out this morning when I woke up Syracuse won with a field goal with a minute to play. Nevertheless, a victory is a victory. Congratulations, Syracuse! Then there was golf. Two tournaments. First, the Presidents Cup. The USA is up 8-2 after 2 days. Was expected. However the Internationals went down fighting yesterday. Most of the matches close. Tight. The Pure Insurance Tournament later in the day at Pebble Beach. Caught a part of the tournament early this morning. Pebble Beach is golf heaven. I was fortunate to have played there several times. Beautiful! Tough does not describe it. Fun, however. I felt honored each time I played the course. I was the worse golfer in the world. Shot around 135. Shot on average 165 at Pebble Beach. Don't laugh. I took up the game late in life. Took one lesson. Enjoyed the beauty of a course, the comradeship and the 19th hole. This hurricane thing is bothering me. First it was called Hermine. Now a different one called Ian. Making me nervous. Cone wide so not sure if it will hit or how close. Advised it will hit as a 3 if it does. No fun. It is get out of Dodge time. Started getting ready yesterday. Not doing well. Wrote Jean Thornton. Room at the inn for me in Birmingham? Lots of room. No one there. Jean and Joe on a Mississippi trip till October 4. Jean terrific! Offered to have a key left at the house. I don't want to do that. Ergo still searching for somewhere to escape if I must. Got the car ready. Changed the oil. New windshield wipers. Checked air in tires. I noticed Key West gas stations were crowded. No lines in the streets yet. Next, however. Ordered hurricane food to be delivered this morning. Edibles that can be kept and eaten without cooking or refrigeration. Lots of water. In case I opt to stay home and get stuck. Steve Thompson and buddies enjoyed life in the 1970's. Those were the days. Steve wrote about what he described as a trip on Air Margaritaville. Jimmy had a concert in Tampa one night. So a bunch of the Chart Room gang chartered a flight. In the 70's you could smoke on the plane. Something about this smoke did not smell the same. Suddenly the stewardess said, "Ok, you guys knock it off. The pilots are laughing and smelling the pot!" Spirit is off the rocks and on a flatbed. All to Guy's relief, I'm sure. Families are not what they used to be. More and more are dysfunctional. Especially from the children's end. Adult children are cutting their parents off with more frequency. The technical description is "emotional cutoff." No contact. The problem works in reverse also. Some parents initiate the cutoff. A 2020 study revealed 1 in 4 Americans are "estranged" from their families. Amounts to about 70 million in the U.S. Margaret Thatcher was a tough British Prime Minister. Effective. Considered one of the best British Prime Ministers in modern times. Gender could have had something to do with it. She is recalled having said: "If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman." My "hurricane groceries" just delivered. Jaqueline is my delivery person. She said Publix was packed, people were stripping the shelves quickly. I hope Ian misses the Keys. Hurricanes are no fun. I'm not in the mood for another Irma. Enjoy your day!      

[2ptonpt]

This Time Around Ch. 3

A strange woman Bucky is sure he knows but can't fully recognize, picks him up after the fall of SHIELD. She claims to be friends with Steve and that she is here to help him. He can't help but keep wondering where he knows her from; it's definitely not through Steve Rogers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/ OC(Rowan O'Connor)

Word Count: 4,154

Rating: M

Masterlist

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Rowan and Bucky had stayed one more night in the cozy Chicago apartment. Not much conversation filled the studio flat. Some awkward mumbles from Bucky asking Rowan how to work the shower was about it.

The next morning, they headed out the back door of the three story building. Bucky had his shoulder length brown hair mostly hidden under a Family Business Brewing Co. baseball cap, with the remainder of it sticking out the back in a small bun. He had shaved his face, giving him more of a five o’clock shadow rather than a bordering-on-homeless look. Rowan was dressed in green leggings and a pink tank top; a black oversized beanie covering up her auburn hair. She opted out of hiking boots, unlike Bucky, and sported a pair of comfortable running shoes instead. To any passersby, they looked like a young couple heading out to go camping for the weekend.

Rowan pressed a four digit code into a blue garage door and ushered Bucky inside. She grabbed a set of keys off a hook by the door. Bucky’s eyes scanned the low clearance ceiling, wondering which vehicle Rowan would choose. Bucky raised his eyebrows a bit at the car that Rowan led him to.

“Don’t judge me, I know its cliché. It’s not my normal choice but it’s the only one that has fuel in it right now. We don’t have time to stop for any until we get out of the city. I’m pretty sure by now Nat will have figured out which home I was talking about last night.” Rowan filled the back seat up with the few duffel bags she had carried downstairs, along with some empty ones. She had planned to find a clothing store on the outskirts of the city for Bucky. The raglan shirt and jeans she had given him were a bit too small. Luckily the boots were on the perfect side of snug for him.

Bucky wasn’t sure how, the information must have been hidden in a part of his mind from working for HYDRA, but he recognized the car. A blue Camaro. An older style with some rust. Had he driven one while on a mission?

“Where’d you get this?” His eyes wandered over the black leather interior as Rowan fished a cell phone out of a purple duffle bag and crushed it in her palm before letting the pieces fall to the ground.

“Souvenir from a mission.” Nothing more was said as Rowan and Bucky fastened their seatbelts and pulled out of the garage. Bucky stayed silent as Rowan shifted gears and slowly pulled out of the garage into the bumbling suburb streets. By the sun, he figured they were heading west.

-TTA-

“Got her.” Steve’s head snapped up, blue eyes following Natasha’s voice over to a group of large screens decorating the south wall of the room. They currently showed different angles of a back alleys and brick buildings. The location at the bottom right of the screen read “BUCKTOWN”. A small neighborhood hugging the Kennedy Expressway in Chicago. Steve’s eyes roamed the different camera angles when finally, they landed on two figures walking casually to a garage down a narrow alleyway off of West Webster Avenue.

To anyone else, the couple appeared casually dressed, like they were running errands or going on a trip somewhere, if the duffel bags were any indication. The woman was tall, nearly six foot it looked like, even in running shoes. She had a black, oversized beanie covering her hair. The man was over six foot, wearing a baseball hat with brown hair sticking out the back. His stride was large and his stature was rigid. His head never moved much, but to trained eyes, one could tell he was skillfully scanning the area.

“Are you sure Nat? I’m not going to be running around on a wild goose chase every time we see a couple and the guy has long brown hair. The man bun thing is in now you know. We can’t even see their faces right now. And that woman’s hair could be any color. Hell we can’t even see it under the beanie she has on.” Nat blew a warm breathe of air out her nose in slight annoyance, or maybe it was scolding, Steve couldn’t really tell most of the time, but he knew an explanation of why she was right was on its way.

“When Rowan was in the Sector she was on a mission to eradicate a biochemical warfare research facility in Chechnya. The building exploded and her right leg was crushed at the knee. They almost had to replace it with an enhanced prosthetic. It healed most of the way. If you know what to look for you can see that her right leg from the knee down swings out just a few degrees wider than her left leg as she puts her foot down, almost like she’s bow-legged.” Natasha rewound the footage of the couple walking from a brick apartment building to a garage a few meters down the gravel alley. Steve looked closely this time. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing in frustration.

“She lied. God dammit why did she lie to us Natasha?”

“Language Capsicle. Princess Leia probably has a reason to keep your BFF to herself.” Tony strolled in casually, bag of blueberries in his hand. He popped one in and looked at a smaller computer screen sitting on the desk nearest to him. It had a small blinking red light on it, text zipping quickly across the screen.

“You know she hates when you call her that. And Tony is right Steve, like I told you earlier, there’s probably a legitimate reason for her not coming in with him.”

“No reason is good enough for him not to come back! Don’t you get that? He’s been gone for years and he needs someone he knows and trusts! I can help him through this; I know I can. I owe him that much.”

“You sure about that Cap? Because it seems like you wanting to find him has more to do with your inner demons than you think. You don’t owe him anything; what happened to him wasn’t your fault. He’s a soldier, he knew the risks when he signed up. ”

“He didn’t sign-“

“Not the point I’m trying to make here Steve.” Tony closed his eyes for a long moment before putting the blueberries on the computer desk and walking up to stand next to Steve and Natasha. His posture was no longer casual, but a bit pinched at the shoulders.

“After Afghanistan, hell even after New York, I had a lot of problems. You guys know how hard it was for me to be around everyone. Sometimes it takes being around a stranger, someone who’s been through what you have but doesn’t really know too much about you personally to really be able to get to the bottom of the issue and work it out. I know that’s what helped me, going to the Vet meetings at the church.” And talking with Rowan till all hours of the night at the top of Stark Tower. Though Tony left that part out. Rowan was adamant she “wanted to keep her badass black soul reputation fresh.”

Natasha kept reading the computer screens, typing fervently trying to get a better angle on the suspected Bucky and Rowan. She understood where Tony was coming from, and figured he might be able to get it through the super soldiers thick head about why Bucky might not come running home.  Steve looked down at his boots guiltily. Tony grabbed his blueberries and started for the door.

"And you both know how much I hate going to church. Oh and better get a glimpse of them while you can. JARVIS shows that the scrambler Rowan has on her car is about to finish calibrating.” Tony turned, posture casual once again, and walked out the metal framed door. Natasha slammed her fist on the desk as all the camera angles turned to black screens. Steve fell into a chair and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars.

-TTA-

“How do you know we’re out of sight? We’re still pretty close to the city. There’s camera’s everywhere.” Bucky tried to remain casual in the passenger seat as Rowan struggled to find a parking spot outside of a Kohl’s on the southwest side of Chicago. It was busy for a Monday morning but Bucky needed new clothes and she’d rather get everything before they start their road trip than have to stop halfway through.

“All of my vehicles are equipped with Stark scrambling technology. Tony is aware but he won’t let Nat and Steve know about it. We had a little chat last night.” Bucky pursed his lips and gave a short nod as Rowan parked and turned off the car.

As they walked into Kohl’s, Rowan clicked a button on her key fob to lock the Camaro. As Bucky heard the car beep to signal its lock, all the store lights went out for a few seconds before turning back on. Bucky looked around cautiously as the employees mumbled about the systems rebooting.

“There’s a scrambler in my key fob too. Stark really likes me.” Rowan had a cheeky grin on her face as she grabbed a cart and strolled to the men’s section, grabbing Bucky’s arm along the way.

About an hour later they had checked out and were on I-80 heading west. Old school rock drifted quietly out of the speakers. It wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable silence, but Bucky hated it. He found himself wanting to speak. About something, anything. He didn’t really care.

“So, uh Rowan, where exactly are we headed?” He kept his gaze shifted out the window, watching the gargantuan white windmills as their propellers gently lulled through the air, creating energy for who knows how many homes out here.

“Faith, South Dakota. After we load up on supplies we’ll head out to the Cheyenne River Reservation. I figure we camp out there for a couple weeks then head up to Vancouver. I’ve got a safe house up there no one knows about. We can grab my other passports and have some made for you. Then Juneau to a charter plane that will take us to St. Lawrence Island and last but not least I’ve got a friend who owes me a favor. He said he can get us as far west as Japan. We’ll have to figure out the rest of the plan from there. It’s the third of April. I figure by the end of this month we should be touching down in Japan. That should be enough time for them to already do a big sweep overseas.” Bucky was impressed by how in depth Rowan had already planned their travel. He still had a few concerns though.

“Won’t they be searching everywhere until they find us? If Steve is still the same as I remember, he won’t stop.”

“You’re right Mr. Barnes, Steve isn’t gonna stop, and as much as Nat loves me I doubt she’ll actively try to stop him from finding us. Tony is pretty complacent for me to work with so if I need him to throw them off our trail I’ll call him. But it’ll be fun to see how long that’ll take.”

“Why are we camping out in South Dakota for half the month? Why don’t we just get out now while we have them scrambled?” Bucky figured she was going to answer the same way his own thought process was heading, but he just wanted to see how aligned their thinking was. His brain was still itching every time he tried to think too hard about how familiar Rowan was. He was getting better at ignoring the alarm going off in his head when he saw her face, though he still wasn’t confident that was the best thing to do.

“Barnes, seriously? I know you know why I’m doing this. Is this some sort of trust test? Wouldn’t it be more entertaining to do some trust fall exercises instead? I promise I won’t drop you.” The teasing in her voice deepened her accent. It was a pleasant sound Bucky decided; not like some of the other women’s voices he recalled from his time in HYDRA. The thicker accent and her playful banter lightened his mood. Rowan eyed him. From this view she could see the edges of his eyes crinkling up ever so slightly; a tell-tale sign that he was about to let out a smile.

“Letting you drive is enough trust testing I can handle for any twenty four hour period.” Bucky rubbed his chin with his flesh hand. The crinkles moved from his eyes to his forehead.

“Hey! I’m an excellent driver.” Rowan took her eyes completely off the road when Bucky didn’t have a response. She had been trying to come off as less edgy than she was accused of being in the past. Sometimes she got too into the mission on hand. She kept reminding herself this wasn’t technically a mission or a job. She was helping someone. When her emerald eyes met the downcast face of Bucky she turned off the radio. He was glaring at his left hand, rubbing his fingers from his right hand over the silver palm.

“I can’t tell if I can really feel anything with it, or if it’s just my brain playing tricks on me since I know what my other hand is doing.” Rowan could hear the disparity in the man’s voice. She hopped over a couple lanes to catch the visitor’s stop just in time, narrowly missing getting clipped by a semi. Bucky sat rigid in his seat.

“Come on, out we go.” The tall woman held Bucky’s door open expectantly waiting for him to emerge. She grabbed his flesh hand and led him down the dirt path into a small cluster of trees, hitting her key fob as they went. She slowed as they passed the cluster of young birch trees and turned, grabbing Bucky’s left hand.

“Close your eyes. Go on, we haven’t got all day you spoon.” Bucky raised a thick eyebrow at the odd insult before closing his eyes slowly.

“Take a deep breath. There you go. Just relax.” She released his right hand from hers and it dropped softly to his side. She only held his left hand. It was a weird sensation. He could feel her hand, the warmth. It was a little sticky with sweat. He grasped it and ran his thumb over her palm; softly at first, then a bit harder. He could almost feel the creases in her hands. He felt where the ridges from the plates caught on Rowan’s callouses running along her palm and fingers, hard from years of action, like his remaining flesh hand.

She took his arm and led him to a patch of day lilies. He outstretched his hand carefully. He could feel how delicate they were. He lightly brushed his hand through the patch of flowers and the edges of his eyes creased in an almost smile at the feather light sensation. They were cool to the touch. He was sure he could tell they were supposed to be velvety smooth. But again, he just wasn’t quite convinced.

“See, you can feel. It’s not your mind playing tricks on you. I reviewed all your files. They connected your nerves to different parts of the arm. It’s pretty much your own, just a different color... And material I suppose, but that’s all semantics. Personally I think you pull off silver over gold any day.” Bucky looked up at Rowan’s teasing voice. Her eyes were bright in the mid-morning sun. Her auburn hair fell over the right side of her face, she brushed it back and outstretched her hand to Bucky’s own. He took it with his left, the urge to try to feel everything with it stronger now. Rowan pulled Bucky up swiftly from his kneeling position and let go as he brushed dirt off his knees.

They walked silently back through the small wooded patch in a content silence. Rowan was staring ahead, in deep thought it seemed. Bucky wondered what she could be thinking about. Did she still not know if going all over the world with him until he regained his memories was the best idea? If she didn’t, he couldn’t argue with her. He didn’t even think it was a good idea. He was still on the fence about it himself. She seemed like she had good intentions, and she claimed to be a friend of Steve’s. Something he wasn’t entirely sure of, Steve and Rowan didn’t seem compatible. Steve was a straight-laced guy. Rowan seemed a little… off the deep end on some matters. But people changed. Last time he remembers interacting with Steve he was a bit edgier.

Bucky shook his head. He was starting to get a headache from all this thinking. He closed his eyes briefly as he walked, the warmth radiating off Rowan half guiding him through the small trees. He heard birds chirping, Rowan’s leggings making a soft swooshing sound as her thighs brushed against each other as she took otherwise silent steps next to him; a little further off he could hear the droning of the cars and trucks zooming down the interstate. How simple their lives must be compared to his. He wondered how that would feel; worrying about mundane things like how much it would be to fix the car, what to make for supper, how much the next doctor’s office trip would run him. He also heard a low male voice coming from their twelve o’clock. It seemed Rowan caught it a few moments after him.

Rowan looked towards Bucky, semi-alarm running along her features. There was no way any cameras pinged their location. No way would she or Bucky not have noticed someone following them. And while she was sure every agent of SHIELD, HYDRA, FBI, CIA, or any other flavor of government agency had been alerted to Bucky’s status, she doubted they’d have people actively driving cross country looking for them. The only person besides herself and Bucky who knew about the Camaro was Tony Stark. He’d helped her rebuild the engine a few years ago on a slow weekend.

Bucky rounded the corner first, putting himself in front of Rowan. Instinct he supposed, though he didn’t think it was from his Winter Soldier days. Rowan poked her head around Bucky’s shoulder, not having to reach much at all, already being almost his height already. They saw two men walking around the Camaro, trying to nonchalantly peek inside. Bucky assumed the black Jeep Cherokee idling in park next to the Camaro was what they pulled in on. The two men, who looked to be in their late twenties, wore dark hoodies, with beanies pulled tight over their heads. One had a handgun tucked into the back waistband on his jeans and the other had one on the side of his right hip, tucked into a holster, hoodie doing a poor job of concealing it.

Bucky rolled his shoulders and grabbed for the glock he had secured under the waistband of his pants. Gripping the gun with his right hand, the gears of his left arm whirred lowly as it calibrated, something he figured happened when he told his arm to flex when he was preparing for a fight. Rowan laid a firm hand on his forearm, effectively stopping him from charging the two men. She put a slender finger to her lips before she motioned for them to keep listening and watch them. Bucky took a deep breath and let it out quietly through his lips. He tried to stop the shaking throughout his hands.

“You sure it’s just been sitting here? No one has been here?”

“No dude, this chick and her boyfriend headed out to the woods like twenty minutes ago. Probably just fuckin’ around. Let’s get it and go before they come back.” The guy turned towards the woods, keeping an eye out for anyone walking back. Rowan and Bucky ducked behind the thick brush by the opening of the trail.

“Shit, okay let’s hurry then.” Rowan and Bucky exchanged a relieved look. Weight seemed to be lifted from both their shoulders as they realized the two men were merely low life car-jackers. No special agents from either side of the law coming to get them, yet at least. The day was young. Rowan pulled her fob out of the small pocket from the inside waistband of her leggings and hit a button. A loud, shrill alarm went off. Both men threw their hands over their ears and turned around quickly. Rowan stopped Bucky from coming out of the woods.

“Your face is all over social media and the news. I can handle these guys. I won’t even need your gun.” She winked his way then stepped out, conveying the posture of a scared woman. The men grabbed their guns when they noticed Rowan all alone. She didn’t even give them a chance to put their fingers on the trigger before she pressed the fourth button on the key fob. One Bucky hadn’t seen her press yet. A light blue surge of energy exploded from the undercarriage of the Camaro, knocking both men to their feet. Rowan turned slightly and motioned for Bucky to come forward. As he drew nearer he made the assumption that both men were unconscious.

Producing two sets of handcuffs from a hidden compartment in the truck, Rowan tossed a set to Bucky. He followed Rowan’s actions and pulled the man into the back seat of the Jeep. He cuffed one arm before looping the short metal chain through the ‘oh shit’ handle and securing the man’s other arm. Rowan produced a cell phone from somewhere Bucky didn’t want to focus too hard on and dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Hey Tobey. Yeah I got a couple of guys out your way who were trying to car jack me. No not the Impala. It’s still safely tucked away in New York. My Camaro. Yeah that one. No I’m not getting his autograph for you. I just need to make sure the cops get them but I don’t have time to wipe my prints and such. I’ll take care of everything else for you. Great! Thanks Tobes. Yeah I’ll get with you soon. Bye.” Rowan hung up and tucked the phone away. Bucky stood with his back to the Jeep, facing the woods. He was still trying to subdue the shaking in his hands. He almost jumped when Rowan sidled up beside him. She kept her gaze forward.

“Ya know if I didn’t know any better I’d say we need to get your blood sugar up some. My hands get shaky when I don’t eat often enough. There’s a McDonald’s at the next exit. Sound good?” Bucky knew his blood pressure wasn’t low, and he knew Rowan knew that too. But he still appreciated the gesture.

“Yeah, sounds good to me.” Truth was, he was itching for a fight. His body was shaking slightly, his head on fire. It was almost as if he could physically feel the painful urge to end those men’s lives. He was ashamed of himself. He wasn’t on the battle field, this wasn’t a professionally trained operative coming to kill him. This was an every-day petty crime event. Childs play compared to some of the things he was used to being around.

He took a small step towards the Camaro before he staggered a bit, a dull throb encasing his head. A dim memory made its way to the forefront of his brain. A little brown-haired boy, with a smaller brown-haired girl next to him, sat in a well-lit living room. Bucky felt himself stretch and pop his neck as he kept his eyes on the children. They were playing checkers.

“Haide, soldat, nu avem toata noaptea. Acesta este jocul copiilor. Finalizati-le.” The harsh Romanian voice cut through the earpiece, like gravel sliding across glass it ended the silence that had been surrounding him. He lifted his sniper rifle, eye piece easing into place a few inches away from his alert blue eyes.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of that memory, and moved to open the car door as a white hot pain travelled from behind his eyes down his spine. Lighting up every nerve ending as if they were being electrocuted individually. He opened his eyes wide and frantically searched for Rowan over the top of the blue car.

“Rowan, I… something’s wr-“ He tried to finish his sentence but everything went black.

[whatisonthemoon]

Moon & the Tri-Border Area of South America

This post was written by Ed Coffman in 2021

Pictured: Japanese “National Messiahs” with Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han (The Heavenly True Parents 天地父母님 ) on September 23, 1999. 

A From speeches given by Sun Myung Moon in 1996 we can surmise that there was good reason for U.S. Troops to protect Moon's land holdings in the Tri-Border Area of South America.

Here's a recent post from HWDYKYM on the topic:

https://howwelldoyouknowyourmoon.tumblr.com/post/662138244176183296/us-troops-protected-sun-myung-moons-south

The Tri-Border Area of South America has a reputation of being one of the most corrupted regions of the world. Illicit drug & firearms trafficking abounds, along with a myriad of other illegal activities. The use of small planes & boats accessing remote airstrips and docks,Moon & the Tri-Border Area of South Americasouth

Keep that mind as you read the following quotes of Sun Myung Moon, where he talks about his activities in the Tri-Border Area.

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"After Father leaves this country on January 5, he plans to research the ocean front in South American countries, such as Argentina, Uruguay and others.

Father has now achieved his goal and is sitting on the top of the world and he knows that many important people want to meet him. Therefore, Father is retreating to the extreme countryside in South America and hiding himself...

Father has completed his work in other areas; that is why he is cultivating this oceanic enterprise in many ways. But if Father were to go into details about his future plans today you would all go crazy. Therefore, Father won't reveal these things now. Even if Father tells you what is going to take place this year and next year it is difficult for you to believe. If Father were to explain things that may happen in twenty years from now you wouldn't believe it.

This kind of practice of life causes every kind of people to like Father. Not only Unification Church members. Fishermen, miners, farmers, even thieves like Father.

Those thieves could sit down with Father and after listening to him speak, get up and leave without stealing anything.

In South America Father saw places where it took a bulldozer one week to create a natural landing strip. These small planes are able to land on the grass or even sand...in the near future we will have many small airports...

Soon we will witness the small airplane era. Small airplanes are not so expensive actually. In each country the most beautiful and scenic areas are in the remote countryside. Therefore if we were to build small landing strips in such locations and have our own privately owned resorts then people will come and visit. We are living in such a time when we don't have to own these airplanes. We can charter small planes and use as many as we want.

The time is coming soon when there will be dozens of cruise size love boats and dozens of small submarines and helicopters...When you have a number of boats you can share the boats to also travel wherever you want to go. The route can be decided by yourself from north to south or east to west. This will also include hunting expeditions. For hunting purposes we can create animal farms of even tigers, wolves and lions. We can raise them and ship them to wherever we are going to do hunting. It is just a matter of shipping them from one place to another."

https://www.tparents.org/Moon-Talks/SunMyungMoon96/960102.htm

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"Father is studying the River Paraguay which runs centrally through South America. It is like the lifeline of the South American continent. Father wants to discover the key points along this river where we can establish our foundation. For the development of farms and ranches in South America, they all need this river which has abundant resources. This river will play a key role in the world because the South American continent will provide the unpolluted natural resources to the world eventually.

Four hundred boats are being built and there are plans to build small landing strips where small planes can land and take off without any restriction.

All along the River Paraguay, which is 3,200 kilometers in length...Do you now understand why Father is focusing on South American projects?...the bank of a river is the best way to make plans and to think about the future of humanity. Traveling around the world as a fisherman is the best way to avoid misunderstanding or suspicions from different nations, because if such countries become suspicious of Father's coming and going it will cause difficulties...Father only carries fishing poles with him and so he is not considered a threat.

Once you go to a place and get to know three local fishermen, then you will learn through them everything about that particular region within a short period of time.

When Father was young he dealt with gamblers and fighters."

https://www.tparents.org/Moon-Talks/SunMyungMoon96/SM960503.htm

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I strongly encourage readers to check out the following U.S. Government document detailing the corruption found in the Tri-Border Area:

https://www.loc.gov/rr/frd/pdf-files/TerrOrgCrime_TBA.pdf

I'm glad I was able to find Sun Myung Moon, in his own words, giving us a pretty clear indication of what was most likely taking place on his land holdings in South America.

Ed Coffman

[newstfionline]

Monday, August 30, 2021

Thousands rally for voting rights, D.C. statehood in Washington (Washington Post) Thousands of people marched on Saturday to mark the 58th anniversary of the historic March on Washington and voice their support for expanding and protecting access to the ballot. The crowd cheered, sang and danced in the streets on the way to the National Mall while calling on Congress to pass an extensive voting rights measure and eliminate the filibuster if necessary to do so. The marchers, though fewer than in years past, also demanded D.C. statehood and an end to police brutality.

Hurricane Ida blasts ashore in Louisiana (AP) Hurricane Ida blasted ashore along the Louisiana coast on Sunday, with the eye of one of the most powerful storms ever to hit the U.S. arriving near the barrier island of Grand Isle. The powerful Category 4 storm made landfall on the same date Hurricane Katrina ravaged Louisiana and Mississippi 16 years earlier, about 40 miles (64 kilometers) west of where Category 3 Katrina first struck land. Ida rapidly intensified overnight as it moved through some of the warmest ocean water in the world in the northern Gulf of Mexico, its top winds grew by 45 mph (72 kph) to 150 mph (230 kph) in five hours, making it the fifth strongest hurricane to make landfall in the United States based on wind speed. It knocked out power to all of New Orleans and inundated coastal Louisiana communities on a deadly path through the Gulf Coast that was still unfolding and promised more destruction.

Older Americans who cannot afford dental care may get help (NYT) Democrats are maneuvering to add dental benefits to Medicare for the first time in its history, a proposal that is part of the large budget bill moving through Congress. The impact would be enormous: Nearly half of Americans 65 and over didn’t visit a dentist in the past year, and nearly one in five have lost all their natural teeth. But first, lawmakers must overcome resistance from a key group: dentists themselves, who want the dental benefits to be offered only to poorer patients and face a potential hit to their income.

US airlifts food, tents to quake-ravaged southern Haiti (AP) U.S. military aircraft are now flying food, tarps and other material into southern Haiti amid a shift in the international relief effort to focus on helping people in the areas hardest hit by the recent earthquake to make it through hurricane season. Aircraft flying out of the capital, Port-au-Prince, arrived throughout the day Saturday in the mostly rural, mountainous southern peninsula that was the epicenter of the Aug. 14 earthquake. In Jeremie, people waved and cheered as a Marine Corps unit from North Carolina descended in a tilt-rotor Osprey with pallets of rice, tarps and other supplies. Most of the material, however, wasn’t destined for Jeremie. It was for distribution to remote mountain communities where landslides destroyed homes and the small plots of the many subsistence farmers in the area, said Patrick Tiné of Haiti Bible Mission, one of several groups coordinating the delivery of aid. “They lost their gardens, they lost their animals,” Tiné said as he took a break from helping unload boxes of rice. “The mountains slid down and they lost everything.”

Museum chief is only candidate for Estonia’s presidency (AP) Estonia is gearing up for an unusual presidential election in parliament. There will be only one candidate in Monday’s vote, a situation unprecedented since the Baltic nation regained its independence 30 years ago. President Kersti Kaljulaid’s five-year term expires on Oct. 10, and lawmakers in the 101-seat Riigikogu parliament must elect a new head of state to replace her in the largely ceremonial post. As no further candidates registered by the late Saturday deadline, the director of the Estonian National Museum, Alar Karis, will be the sole contender. Karis, a former state auditor, is the only one who has managed to get support from the required minimum of 21 lawmakers. Holding a vote with only one candidate has flummoxed the country, and several politicians have called for a complete overhaul of Estonia’s complex presidential election system. Some Estonians have even suggested that the small European nation, where the prime minister holds most political power, should abolish the head of state post altogether. Jaak Joeruut, a former defense minister and diplomat, said in a recent opinion piece that “elections with one candidate belong to the Soviet era. It is unethical, but, strangely enough, legal.”

Croatia thrilled at summer season success despite COVID-19 (AP) Beaches along Croatia’s Adriatic Sea coastline are swarming with people. Guided tours are fully booked, restaurants are packed and sailboats were chartered well in advance. Summer tourism has exceeded even the most optimistic expectations in Croatia this year. Once fearful that the coronavirus pandemic would discourage people from traveling, Croatia’s tourism industry was caught by surprise. “It’s much better—it’s almost like 2020 never happened,” said Josip Crncevic, a tour guide in Dubrovnik, a southern city known for its Old Town and nightlife that is Croatia’s most popular destination. The Balkan country experienced four years of war in the 1990s, but before the pandemic had become a top vacation spot for European and American visitors who appreciated its small towns and scores of islands offering natural beauty, local seafood and recreation in comparatively uncrowded settings.

Biden: Another attack likely, pledges more strikes on IS (AP) President Joe Biden has vowed to keep up airstrikes against the Islamic extremist group whose suicide bombing at the Kabul airport killed scores of Afghans and 13 American service members. He warned another attack was “highly likely” and the State Department called the threat “specific” and “credible.” The Pentagon said the remaining contingent of U.S. forces at the airport, now numbering fewer than 4,000, had begun their final withdrawal ahead of Biden’s deadline for ending the evacuation on Tuesday. “This strike was not the last,” Biden said in a statement. “We will continue to hunt down any person involved in that heinous attack and make them pay.” He paid tribute to the “bravery and selflessness” of the American troops executing the hurried airlift of tens of thousands from Kabul airport, including the 13 U.S. service members who were killed in Thursday’s suicide bombing at an airport gate. (Reuters, later) American forces launched a drone strike in Kabul on Sunday that killed a suicide car bomber suspected of preparing to attack the airport, U.S. officials said. One U.S. official said Sunday’s strike was carried out by an unmanned aircraft and that secondary explosions following the strike north of the airport showed the vehicle had been carrying a “substantial amount of explosive material.”

Instagram star helped rescue dozens from Afghanistan (AP) Dozens of desperate Afghans who had been trying to flee the Taliban before Tuesday’s deadline for the U.S. withdrawal from Kabul made it to safety with help from an unexpected place: Instagram influencer Quentin Quarantino. Quarantino is the alter ego of 25-year-old Tommy Marcus of New York City, previously best-known for his liberal memes and his jokes about opponents of COVID-19 vaccinations. Along with his followers, Quarantino raised $7 million within days on GoFundMe to launch rescue missions into Afghanistan to evacuate as many people as possible, many of whom said they had been threatened by the Taliban. On Wednesday, their mission “Operation Flyaway” helped ferry 51 people from Afghanistan to Uganda on a privately chartered plane financed by the GoFundMe campaign. More than 121,000 people had donated to the campaign after Marcus made an appeal to his 832,000 followers, making it one of the largest humanitarian fundraisers in GoFundMe’s history. Those who were evacuated, Marcus said, were women, children, humanitarians and others “who’ve been fighting for the greater good in Afghanistan for a long time,” as well as their families.

Israel bombs Hamas sites in Gaza over fire balloons—military (Reuters) Israeli aircraft struck Hamas sites in Gaza early on Sunday in response to incendiary balloons launched from the Palestinian enclave, the military said, as a recent rise in cross-border violence tests a fragile truce that ended fierce fighting in May. Sanctioned by Hamas, the Islamist armed group that rules Gaza, Palestinian groups said on Saturday they were resuming protests at the Israel-Gaza border, aimed at pressing Israel to ease restrictions on the enclave. The Israeli military said hundreds of Palestinians gathered along the frontier during the night, hurling explosives and burning tyres. The military said its troops responded with “riot dispersal means” and Gaza medics said at least six Palestinians were hurt, one seriously. A few hours later, Israeli pre-dawn air strikes targeted a Hamas weapons manufacturing complex and a tunnel it said was used by militants, after incendiary balloons were sent across the border.