The question, uttered friend to friend in a rattly single-engine
seaplane, was about the only thing that could cover every possibility
of what they were about to do.
The pilot of the plane is the one who asked. His name is Eke
pronounced like his initials E.K. Who knows how he got the name.
Eke didn‟t. He just talked shit about it, made up stories to
compensate for the odd name. My parents drank heavily when they
named me that, he told people. His parents, though, didn‟t drink. Eke
did. Or at least he used to. But that‟s a long story and part of it has to
do with him being here flying with his childhood friend, Bill, over the
Patuca River next to the Sierra de Agatta mountain range deep in the
Central American country of Honduras.
Honduras. It wasn‟t like their homeland, back in Massachusetts. It
wasn‟t Massachusetts, sweet home Massachusetts. No. This was
different, very different. This was actually Honduras. Look. There it is.
They looked. Yes, Honduras.
They‟d dreamt of it for years. And now they were flying.