The warm La Nina would blow in off the Pacific. The lights of El Segundo and Marina Del Ray sparkled around us. The sound of jet engines on the long runway at LAX called to us like a beer bong calls to a frat boy.
Couples parked in convertibles along the street. People gathered to be by the ocean and watch the planes take off into the vast enigma beyond.
But we were crazier than most and Pershing Drive couldn’t contain our enthusiasm.
The border between the airport and the street was a flimsy chain link fence that extended into the loose sand a few inches.
Think about it. There’s better security for the propane at Walgreens.
All it took was a couple of scoops of sand and you had a hole big enough to push a case of beer through.
And so a Friday night would begin.
Once on the other side of the fence, we ran like crazed soldiers, crouched over, like you see in every war movie.
What we were hiding from I was never sure. It’s not like the runway was patrolled back then. It’s not like the guys in the control tower were looking for humans running through the radar beacons at the edge of the dune.
The year was 1985 and times were more relaxed. This was L.A. and crazy was part of the tapestry of existence.
We were a bunch of college boys with few scruples and lots of time on our hands.
So I remember running through the radar beacons on the sandy hill at the end of the runway. They were orange and spun silently protecting and guiding aircraft above and below.
Can you imagine drinking beer on the runway now-a-days? The TSA would lose their mind. The way they strip search a toddler looking for diaper bombs? If we did this now, it’d be death by firing squad.
So after a hundred yard run, we’d get to a sand dune at the end of the runway and set down. We’d pop a cold frosty and take in the show.
The air was cool and salty. The ocean lapped at our ears, and it was peaceful.
You could see the control tower in the distance, but we were rather isolated. The long runway is far from anything, kind of on the edge of darkness.
We’d sit there telling stories about school and talk sports and ponder when USC football would ever regain prominence again.
And then, every so often, the head lights would signal that something was about to happen.
The lights were faint, perhaps a mile away, but you knew it was coming. At first, you couldn’t tell if it was a big plane or a small plane. Was it a DC 9 or a 747.
Let me tell you right now; we weren’t here for the little jets. We were here for the percussion banging, thunder clapping big boys.
Most of the smaller jets only need a fraction of the runway to get air born. By the time they got to us on the dune, they were a 1/4 mile into the sky. You could hear the engines but it was about as impressive as a squirrel water skiing behind a battery operated boat.
But every so often, we were rewarded for our patience.
Anticipation would increase as the lights grew bigger, the engine sound deeper, more piercing.
That’s when we put our beers down and starting whooping a war cry.
In the distance you could hear thunder rumbling. Suddenly the Pacific Ocean was drowned out by Four Huge engines mounted on a wing so wide it took up the entire run way.
The lights grew brighter and larger and suddenly, you could see the form of the Jumbo.
It was like an elephant meandering down the aisle at church. It was gigantic, so much bigger than anything else.
How could something so massive ever get off the ground?
Will it run into us? we thought many a night.
Before you could answer that question, the plane is racing towards us. You can hear the power and almost feel the thrust increase as the pilot throttles up.
Then the front wheel comes off the ground. It is slow at first, awkward, like a hippopotamus standing on one leg.
But then the speed increases and the air pushes over those mighty wings and the rest of the Heavy leaves the ground. The plane is only a few hundred yards from us now.
It is slow to climb into the sky. It is an illusion, something so big, going so slow, flying.
We are cheering like wild Indians on our perch of craziness. All around us orange radar beacons spin. The lights on top occasionally strobing.
Then in a moment, the 747 is on top of us. It is 100 yards above us. It is a gigantic whale burping exhaust, pushing out a tidal wave of power.
ROARRRRRRR!
The jet sails over us, over the radar towers, over the chain link fence and the couples making out on Pershing Drive. Suddenly the 747 is over the pacific.
The power of the engines is palpable, almost blowing back our hair. The ground rumbles as if an earthquake is swelling in the dune.
We cheer loudly, as if we somehow had a hand in the 747 defying gravity.
We chug beers in celebration.
The feeling is spectacular as this heavy bird heads out over the Pacific, slowly rising to altitudes of unknownfreedom.
Where are they going we muse.
Hawaii? Japan? Indonesia?
We will never know.
Sometimes we can see people in the windows. We wonder if sometimes they can see us.
Can you imagine sitting in a plane and looking out your window and seeing a bunch of college idiots sprawled out in the sand toasting you with cheap beer.
Now-a-days they’d have a military police unit escorting you back to the pokey staring down the business end of an M-16.
But this is 1985 and the world has bigger problems than 4 college boys, a case of beer and an odd way to spend a Friday night.
I wouldn’t recommend tunneling under the fence now. Today is a scary place where everyone is on edge. So much fear, so much to worry about.
But back in the day, it was crazy fun. It was like going to a real life drive in movie where a mechanized tornado rushed through you like a good feeling.
I’m glad security is heightened now, but I’m also glad I have a story to tell that few people can.
All it took was a little beer, a little youthful exuberance, and a whole lot of crazy.™