I had no preconceived notions or expectations as I rolled into the parking lot at the northern end of Lake Washington. The Seattle sky was a typical mixture of grey confusion, the clouds in various meteorological forms. A small swath of orange glowed in the distant northwest, a feeble reminder that the earth still revolved around the sun.
I glanced toward the docks. The scattered froth of white streaks on the choppy, dark blue water was an indication of the wind's intentions.
I refocused my attention back to the parking lot as I brought the rental car to a stop. My eyes widened. I realized that I was not really on a parking lot at all. I was on an airplane ramp, but not your typical garden-variety airplane ramp. The ramp was populated with organized rows of towering floatplanes perched on their wooden platforms as if they were giant creatures poised to begin pursuit of their prey. Way cool.
The scene begged for a camera. I reached into my bag on the car seat and yanked out my trusty travel Nikon.
So, why was an airline guy cavorting with seaplanes? I had been extended an invitation by 23-year-old Jamie Anderson, who was a chief flight instructor and pilot for Kenmore Air. The company has been in existence since 1946. In an e-mail, Jamie insisted that his employer was every bit an airline, and a fun airline at that. I had traveled to Seattle from our winter home in the Florida Keys to find proof of his claim.
Well ... there's a little more to the story. I was enticed by an offer to train for my seaplane rating. The rating was another square to fill on my dream checklist, so the magazine assignment was even more attractive. Although I've had limited experience flying friends' J-3 Cub on floats off our lake in Connecticut, my knowledge base on this aspect of aviation was thin. I felt a little unprepared, but my young flight instructor had indicated that prior study wouldn't be necessary. I liked this kind of flying already.
Shortly after an exchange of greetings in the main building of Kenmore Air, Jamie and I walked upstairs to the small office that housed the flight instruction staff. Jamie is immediately likeable. He has a casual flair to his disposition and a dry sense of humor with a self-deprecating style. If I had to guess, he inherited these traits from his father -- a retired airline pilot from Alaska Airlines. Not surprisingly, Jamie's father has returned to his roots and is flying for Kenmore Air also.
After completing the standard training paperwork, Jamie and I walked outside where I was introduced to a yellow Super Cub. The first ritual of my seaplane initiation began. I was given a hand pump. The two Wipline floats each had 10 compartments that needed to be free of excess water. With Jamie seemingly enjoying the experience of observing his new student, I went to work. He was not fazed by the fact that I considered aiming the discharge end of the pump toward his deck shoes. I'm sure it had been done before.
With preflight duties complete, a lineman maneuvered a forklift into position and lifted the yellow Cub off the tarmac and over to the launching ramp. After a lesson on dock handling and starting, Jamie and I prepared ourselves to get underway. Although my airline pilot mentality insisted on use of a checklist, it was obvious that certain items would have to be completed by memory. A light airplane in choppy seas and a steady breeze was not going to wait for me to position switches while I read from a laminated card.
Our escape from the dock was completed with careful planning on Jamie's part. We were soon underway. I pushed the starter button and the engine of the 180-horsepower Super Cub came to life. Without prompting, my survival instinct had me maneuvering the airplane via the water rudders.
After a quick run-up and a clearing turn, Jamie explained the takeoff procedure. We were airborne using very little of Lake Washington real estate, thanks to a Super Cub that had probably drunk the same coffee I had that morning.
It took only a moment or two for me to become reacquainted with the airplane. Other than an embellished yaw tendency, the only sense that the Cub wore floats rather than wheels was when I looked out the side windows.
Jamie directed me over the top of Microsoft's complex to nearby Lake Sammamish where we began my training. A few takeoffs and landings later, it was hard to dismantle my grin. Jamie seemed pleased with my performance. Perhaps he maintained low standards. Actually, his relaxed instruction style was making the experience easy.
Approaching the lunch hour, we returned to Lake Washington and the Kenmore Air base. My arrival at the dock was a lesson in momentum and airplane tacking. I wasn't going to enter an accuracy competition any time soon, but no floats were harmed in the process.
Prior to our departure for the local restaurant, I took advantage of the free time to meet with Gregg Munro, president of Kenmore Air. As expected, Gregg's office had the best view. The largest window faced the dock area and the "concourse." The concourse consisted of neatly arranged circular picnic tables on a wooden deck. Each picnic table was assigned a number. The number signified the departure gate. Missing was the maze of TSA security screening belts and magnetometers. Considering all the departure lounges I have transited, I couldn't think of one better.
