Chapter 2: First Flight, First Crash

You might be wondering: Was Little Col a pilot?

Not even close.

He’d never sat through a flying lesson, never flashed a pilot’s license, never even flown shotgun with a real pilot.

So how did a kid with zero experience manage to fly a stolen plane?

The answer might surprise you.

To pull this off, Little Col went full-on obsessive for a month straight.

He became a research machine, gobbling up every YouTube tutorial he could find—grainy videos, shaky voices explaining how to start a Cessna 182. He downloaded flight manuals, scribbled notes in a beat-up composition book he’d swiped from school.

He picked the Cessna 182 because it was basically the Ford F-150 of airplanes—solid, forgiving, and everywhere.

He’d read on Reddit and pilot forums that the 182 was perfect for rookies. It was reliable, easy to handle, and forgiving if you messed up—a true “starter pack” for would-be flyers.

He pored over stolen manuals, then spent nights on a cheap flight simulator game he’d rigged up on his old Dell. The joystick was nothing like the real thing, but he learned how to taxi, take off, and land—at least in theory.

His head was crammed with facts, checklists, and random trivia.

He could rattle off the preflight steps, explain what flaps did, and even knew how to tune the radio to the airport’s traffic frequency.

Now, all that knowledge had to become reality.

He took a shaky breath, hands clammy as he started the engine sequence. The world outside was still, but inside the cockpit, every click and beep felt like a gunshot.

Would it work?

He stared at the panel, second-guessing every step. Was he nuts? Was he about to smash a $300,000 plane into the trees?

Even Little Col wasn’t sure he could pull it off.

His stomach churned—half terror, half wild excitement. If he made it, he’d be a legend. If not, he’d be a cautionary tale on the evening news.

This was his first flight—no backup, no second chance.

His hands trembled as he gripped the yoke. He remembered his mom’s old saying: "You never know what you can do until you try."

If he failed, he’d be toast—maybe even a headline.

He pictured it: "Teen Dies in Stolen Plane Crash." The stakes couldn’t be higher, and the risk was all his.

But he was already in too deep—tonight was do or die.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting to steady his nerves. The runway shimmered in the moonlight, calling him forward.

Settling into the seat, Little Col moved through the steps he’d practiced a hundred times, prepping for takeoff.

He flicked switches, spun dials, checked gauges—just like in the simulator. The engine sputtered, then roared, the vibration rattling his teeth and making the seat belt dig into his hip.

Everything looked good—just the throttle left to go.

He hesitated, then shoved it forward, feeling the plane leap ahead. The wheels bounced along the runway, picking up speed as he held his breath.

It all came down to this.

He whispered, "Let’s roll," tightening his grip until his knuckles turned white.

Amazingly, after ten wild minutes, the plane actually lifted off.

The nose pitched up, the ground fell away, and he was airborne—really flying. He let out a crazed laugh, the engine drowning out every sound.

Soaring over the island, Little Col felt like a king.

He looked down at the patchwork of pines, water, and scattered lights, heart pounding with pure joy. He’d done it—he was free.

He figured he’d just loop around the island and land in the field he’d scoped out last week. The sky felt endless.

But then disaster struck.

He glanced at the fuel gauge—and his stomach dropped. The needle was hugging empty. His breath caught, panic setting in.

He’d missed the most basic step—the plane was almost out of gas.

He spat out a curse, pounding the dashboard. "You idiot," he muttered, voice shaky.

He’d skipped the fuel check—rookie mistake, and now it was life or death.

His mind raced, flipping through emergency landing steps. He scanned the ground for a field, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his neck.

With the last fumes gone, he had no choice but to crash-land 450 miles away.

The impact was brutal—metal crunching, the smell of burnt fuel filling the air. The plane was wrecked, but Little Col crawled out, legs shaking, collapsing onto the grass, grateful just to be breathing.