Ah, those were the days — when airplane hijackers could still be considered folk heroes. Tomorrow will be the 30th anniversary of the famous D.B. Cooper hijacking. Anybody 45 or over knows what I’m talking about, but those my age probably need a refresher.
Cooper got on a plane from Portland to Seattle and, in between draws on his cigarette, told a flight attendant he had a bomb. (Whether or not he did is questionable; it is certain he had a bunch of scary-looking wires in a briefcase.) He had the pilot land at Seattle, evacuated all the passengers, then had his demands met: $200,000 in used $20s and four parachutes. He then ordered the plane back into the air, headed for Mexico. He told the pilots to fly below 10,000 feet with the flaps partially down to decrease air speed. After about 40 minutes, he jumped out with the cash. That was the last anyone ever heard from D.B. Cooper.
He became something of a cult figure, almost Robin Hoodesque. There were D.B. Cooper sitings all around the country. Tips flooded FBI offices. But no trace of D.B. Cooper was ever found until 1980, when an 8-year-old boy found $5,800 of Cooper’s loot.
The common wisdom has always been that Cooper died from his jump. One of the two parachutes he took down with him was defective and wouldn’t have opened. Jumping out of a 727 at that height and speed would have meant a wind chill of about 70-below. (The temperature that night was -7; there was a nasty storm with freezing rain. Cooper was jumping into a heavily forested area, miles from anywhere, in just a business suit and loafers.)
But last year, a woman in Florida claimed that her husband had told her, on his death bed, that he was D.B. Cooper. (Check out the photos.) Maybe the ol’ rascal survived after all.