Chapter 1: Midnight Heist on Orcas Island

November 2008, Orcas Island, Washington State, USA.

Seventeen-year-old Colton Harris-Moore—known to his friends as Little Col—was restless for something epic, something that would finally make him feel alive:

Jack a plane. No joke—he was really going to do it.

After weeks of staking out the airport and memorizing every guard’s routine, tonight was the night he’d risk it all.

The hour was late, and Little Col crept through the shadows at Orcas Island Airport. The chill in the air bit through his jeans, and the mist from the bay clung to his skin. The distant clanging of ferry bells and the scent of saltwater mixed with pine needles grounded him in the Pacific Northwest. Every step made his heart hammer louder. He ducked behind a row of hangars, listening for the rumble of the old Ford security truck or maybe the sharp bark of a black Lab on patrol. But all he heard was the wind whispering through the evergreens and the faint call of a night owl.

Under the pale moon, Little Col spotted his prize—a Cessna 182, gleaming white like a ghost on the tarmac.

The plane’s body shimmered in the moonlight, its blue-and-white stripes almost glowing. Little Col, wearing his battered Mariners cap and a thrift-store bomber jacket, ran his gloved fingers over the Cessna’s side, tracing the logo like he was greeting an old friend.

The target was set, but reality hit: How does anyone actually jack a plane?

He crouched beside the nose wheel, adrenaline flooding his veins. A nervous grin flickered across his face. This wasn’t just popping a car door with a screwdriver—this was the kind of stunt only legends pulled off. He felt his pulse in his ears, his breath coming out in quick bursts, but the wildness of it made him want it even more.

It turned out, it wasn’t rocket science.

The locks were a joke, and the airport’s security was straight out of a sitcom. Little Col had read tales online—pilots leaving keys under seat cushions, or hanging them on a nail in the unlocked office by the vending machine.

Little Col had always been quick on his feet and even quicker in his head. He figured he’d improvise if needed.

He’d learned from movies and real-life hustlers that if you acted like you belonged, nobody looked twice. Tonight, he rocked an old bomber jacket and a faded Seahawks cap, blending in with weekend pilots who dropped by for pancakes at the local diner.

Once he was sure nobody was watching, he pulled out the rope from his backpack and dragged the plane out, wheels squeaking quietly as he moved it onto the runway.

The Cessna’s wheels chirped softly on the pavement, and Little Col paused mid-pull, wiping cold sweat from his brow and glancing back for any sign of headlights or a shout. But the airport was dead silent—just him, the plane, and the endless dark sky.

Moving fast, he pried open the cabin door and slid into the pilot’s seat, nerves jangling.

The cracked leather was icy against his legs, and the air inside smelled of old upholstery and faint traces of fuel. He brushed his hands across the dashboard, feeling every switch and dial, his pulse pounding as he imagined the freedom of the skies.

Everything came together, almost like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

It felt almost suspiciously easy. He snorted a laugh, half expecting a movie director to yell “Cut!” He could already see tomorrow’s headline in The Seattle Times: “Teen Outsmarts Orcas Security—Again.”

But this wasn’t just a prank—the stakes were real, and the risks were massive.

He knew what was on the line. Federal charges, years behind bars, maybe even getting called a terrorist. But the rush made every risk taste sweeter. The danger was the whole point.

Little Col would soon use these tricks to steal three planes in a row, always vanishing before anyone could catch him.

He kept score in his head—every successful heist was another win, another story to tell someday. It was like playing Grand Theft Auto, but for real, and he was winning.

So, after pulling off the plane theft, what came next?

He sat in the cockpit, hands shaking with adrenaline, staring at the runway stretching into the fog. He felt like he could go anywhere—maybe even disappear forever.

Most people would have ditched the plane for quick cash.

Pawn it, vanish, hide out. That’s what the movies would show. But Little Col wasn’t after the money.

But Little Col didn’t care about the cash.

He was addicted to the rush—the feeling that he could do what nobody else dared.

He didn’t just want to steal planes—he wanted to fly them himself.

He craved the blast of takeoff, the roar of the engine, the world dropping away. For Little Col, the crime was just the ticket to something much bigger.