Stan Hayes

Howdy, your dedicated, onetime, would-be Commie-killer, at your service. Quit college, mothballed my precious Snap-On tools, bade the affable motorcycle dealer, my erstwhile employer, a fond farewell, and took off for Pensacola to cast my lot with Naval Aviation. Saw a nice chunk of the world with the Navy's Hurricane Hunters and the Military Air Transport Service. Never zapped a Commie, but sniffed strong spoor during the Cuban Crisis and in the ever-fragrant Congo.

After that, the pesky last year of college, graduate school, a shot of corporate strife in
New York, and a Big Apple bailout about half an hour before my liver morphed into a bookend. Now my battered skidlid sits at the edge of the Chattahoochee, where I indulge the tendency to overrev my vintage Honda VFR, sail now and then, shoot a rapid or two and generally operate at the limit of public tolerance.


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