Promises, promises: I want your secret sauce, or at least a sample of what you are smoking. We all felt invincible 50 years ago, but the feeling slowly went away. Now I wake up thinking about an easy day in the sun and a soft morning stool instead of running out raising hell in Bush Alaska, flying single engine piston charter planes in icing conditions, in crates that belonged in a junkyard. Survived 37 years of shaky flying, sailing, diving, big motorcycles between biker bars and lose women. Now Lucky to be alive. Glad you are bulletproof the next 34 years, maybe I should adopt you so it rubs off on me too.