In the good ol' days John liked to drink after a hard day's work. Sometimes he was the last one left and he got up to mischief. One evening in summer he walked to the small airstrip and found a Cessna he could start. He had been in plenty of Cessnas never actually flown one, but, hey, how card hould it be? So he figured out which control controlled the gas and drove it out to the strip. Controlled the gas all the way to maximum rpm, and hey i kin flieeeeeeee! He practised controlling the wings level as he circled around and around the small camp. Was disappointed that there were no horns to honk nor explosives to drop, and was vaguely aware the most planes need fuel to stay up in the air and he didn't really have any idea of how much fuel was avaialble. So he begtan to practise going down. It's easy, you just pull out that gas thingee and the motor goes slower and the plane goes lower. And - hey, who put that hill there? Anyhow, by dint of alcoholic fearlessness and persistence what Stanley Holloway once characterized as "a little bit o' luck" John was able to roll onto the runway at a high rate of speed, cut the engine power, and roll happily to the severe damage of the aircraft, and the relative harmlessness to himself.

Moral? Moral? Like Hell, there's a moral: Ever after his buds at the camp called him "Hi-Jack"!