There Is No Freelandia

Freelandia Air Travel Club took off last fall in the midst of a press blitz that puffed its low fares ($69, Newark-Los Angeles), its organic chic (natural food, a water bed in its yellow DC-8) and its ringing slogan, "Not-For-Profit." Not-For-Real would have been more accurate.

The man behind Freelandia is Ken Moss, 31, a Syracuse University dropout who claimed to have made millions in Wall Street by helping entrepreneurs get financing. After dropping out again--this time to Katmandu --Moss dreamed up a plan that seemed to to be irresistible: for an initial fee of $50, anyone could enlist in a quasi commune called Freelandia and cash in on the cheap air fares that maximum capacity, low overhead and Moss's brains would make possible.

Flashing a beatific smile, the soft-spoken Moss promoted his idea to newsmen. Paeans to Freelandia appeared in the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times and Newsweek. By November, the exposure had attracted 2,000 members. Moss had leased a used DC-8 from National Airlines and, with certification from the Federal Aviation Administration, the club was offering flights across the country, to Honolulu and even to Europe.

Daily Alibis. There were early signs of trouble in Freelandia. Employees grumbled about mismanagement, and 85% of the flights were canceled. Nonetheless, in late November, Moss landed a guest spot on the Johnny Carson show, after which membership jumped to 8,000.

Yet the line continued to slide, and in February, Moss slipped an interesting item into the club newsletter: while Freelandia was nonprofit, it said, a Moss-controlled company called Transmar was not. In fact, Transmar was leasing Freelandia the DC-8 as well as providing management services for a fee. More disgruntled employees complained of having to invent daily alibis for club members who demanded refunds for canceled flights. Aggrieved members could be repaid only when cash came in from sales of tickets for future flights, and the amounts owed piled higher and higher. Though 45 coast-to-coast flights were made, only six flights to Honolulu were completed and only one ever made it to Europe (fare from Los Angeles: $169).

The transatlantic flight, however, had a cast worthy of Nathanael West. Decked out in sheepskin, boas and all the desperately glamorous trappings of the underground, 156 passengers took off to the sound of popping champagne corks. "Being on the first transatlantic hip flight is something to remember," grinned Max Scherr, the penurious editor emeritus of the Berkeley Barb, as he polished off his third glass of free Jacque Bonet champagne.

Amorous couples retired to a lavatory and to the water bed, under the blanket of which various friendly acts--were discreetly performed. "Is everybody mellowed out?" purred Darcy Flynn, Moss's girl friend and business partner.

Moss had arranged to put most of the passengers up at Geneva's staid and very luxe Beau-Rivage, but the hotel's manager, Roland Cirafici, 45, was so shocked by the crowd that he refused to accept Moss's prearranged credit, and police briefly delayed the DC-8 just before it was ready to take off. On board with his wife and their son America, Pop Revolutionary Abbie Hoffman moaned, "If I don't get back to Chicago on time, I'll be in contempt of court again."

In April, Freelandia lost its DC-8. Moss contends that he returned it to the owner because it was a lemon, but others say that it was repossessed. Moss now admits that he lied when he claimed he was not into Freelandia for the money. The FAA is challenging Freelandia's certification as an air club allowed to woo passengers by charging low fares. In the courts, Moss's lawyers so far have battled the FAA to a standoff, and he has managed to lease a Convair 880 to replace the DC-8. Though there have been no Freelandia flights for months, Moss sits in his Hollywood Hills pad and dreams of flying high again.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.