The story is this:

D.B. Cooper is the pinnacle of Americana.

D.B. Cooper is the high point, the place where the tide reached its crescendo.

And the story is this:

A man hijacked an airplane. Demanded money and parachutes. They landed and collected goods, then took off again. Somewhere over Washington state, he lowered the sky platform, a thud was heard, and he disappeared, presumably parachuted away, clinging to his loot, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

He was never seen again.

Yeh, and Bayes theorem says he died that night.

No one ever found the body. And here is the thing that is hard to appreciate from the comfort of an urban metropolis.

The wilds of washington state are vast and impenetrable. You might think it’s a pretty long way from your house down to the local shops but let me tell you that is nothing compared to the distance from one ride in Washington state to the next.

How he turned up here, in this bar, on this particular Thursday, is, I swear, beyond me.

References

• Wikipedia: D. B. Cooper

See also

• best of Wikipedia. TK