![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Through the bars I could see the blinking wing lights of a small plane, parked on the runway.īarry pulled up to a gate. Just beyond it was an ornate wrought iron fence. It looked residential, vaguely New England-less like an airport facility than a forgotten cottage. We pulled into a parking lot in front of a low wooden building. “That way,” pointed Reed Hastings, my business partner, from the front passenger seat, stretching a finger toward an even darker driveway off the main road. I’d been to the Santa Barbara Airport dozens of times, but I’d never been here. In the distance, a faint glow on the horizon was teasing us that it was close to dawn, but in front of us, the road was almost invisible, dark and shaded by the overhanging oak trees. Our CFO, Barry McCarthy, slowed his BMW to a crawl as he made the turn into Santa Barbara Airport. ![]()
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