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In 1996, the Jamaican Defense Force opened fire on a suspected drug smuggler’s plane.
It wasn’t a cartel kingpin. It wasn’t some Havana-bound mule.
It was Jimmy Buffett, Bono, and their families.
Buffett was at the controls of his beloved seaplane, the Hemisphere Dancer, a Grumman HU-16 Albatross. She looked like she’d smuggled things before.
She hadn’t.
They were touching down near Negril for lunch. Just spending a day Island hopping. Guitars, cigars, sunscreen, and kids onboard.
Then: gunfire.
Jamaican authorities thought it was a drug run. Buffett zigged, banked, pulled out. No one was hit. Not even the sandwiches.
Later, the government admitted the mistake. Apologies were issued. Sort of. Bono said it felt like they were in a war zone. Buffett said it was “a bad day for the Jamaican Air Force.”
He wrote a song about it. “Jamaica Mistaica.” Because of course he did.
But here’s the thing:
That kind of day only happens when you’re living close to the edge of the map. When your job isn’t spreadsheets—it’s flight plans, guitars, and latitude.
Most people don’t get mistaken for international smugglers.
Most people don’t live like that.
Buffett did.
And maybe you should too.
—
Where do you belong? Out here, with us.
Safe travels friend.
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