If he was, it's a safe bet that he'd greet you at the door, buy you a beer, and launch into a tale of the "good old days" in Florida....when baseball was King for six weeks every Spring, and waters off Oldsmar teemed with shrimp, crab and grouper.

You see, Jack Willie was weened on pro baseball, sea planes and boats. The last in a long line of ace "treetop fliers," Jack's granddad ran rum from Havana to Tampa & his dad smuggled guns to Banana Republicans. Granddad spent each Spring with a "babe" they called Ruth & pop later did doubles with a "feller" named Bob.

Jack Willie, meanwhile, went along for the ride, landing airboats in seaports before there were airports, living a lifestyle that-later-a balladeer named Buffett would sing reggae-tinged songs about.

Jack whiffed young Fidel with his forkball in Cuba, fished the Florida Straits with an old man named Ernest, and amassed a small fortune flying just under the radar, bringing cash crops from Kingston to the Florida Keys.

When the Feds finally wised-up and turned-up the heat, Jack Willie cooled his heels on the coast of Honduras, hidding-out under huts that he'd hewn with his hands. When the Oldsmar expatriate finally headed for home, his Chris Craft somehow vanished in the Tampa Triangle.............