Growing up, my Thanksgivings were always spent together with my cousins, Aunts and Uncles on my Dad's side. One year, we all decided to gather at my family's beach cabin in Newport, Oregon. It was Wednesday, November 24th, 1971.
Thanksgiving morning we stumbled out of our bunk beds and found our parents sitting at the table, staring at our only link to the outside world ... a transistor radio. The whole world was abuzz with the news of a man, later known as D.B. Cooper, who hijacked a Northwest Orient 727 on its flight from Portland, Oregon to Seattle.
We all found ourselves captivated with the thought of someone demanding $200,000 and 4 civilian parachutes in exchange for the safe release of the passengers once they landed in Seattle. The airline cooperated, the passengers were released, and D.B. Cooper's demands were met.
We were told that D.B. Cooper jumped from that plane somewhere over Southwest Washington and a manhunt was in progress. We stayed glued to that radio for two days, playing board games and cards, waiting to hear more about this man getting away with the loot ... or not.
In that day and age, $200,000 was a LOT of money. Gas was less than two bits per gallon, so $200,000 might as well have been four million. D.B. Cooper was never found. And every year when Thanksgiving rolls around, I always remember that day as if it just happened ... 39 years ago. D.B. Cooper ... where are you?
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