"Okay, push her forward. That's it, a little more forward pressure." I do as instructed. The runway appears to be coming up at an alarming rate, filling the windshield inches from my eyes. Since this is a takeoff, shouldn't the runway be disappearing? I feel as if I'm nosing her over onto the frantically oscillating pavement. The centerline looks like a corkscrew ribbon; at least when it passes into view from right to left and then from left to right. It is not the runway that is wavy, it is me. As our excursions magnify and my rudder work is exactly timed to make things worse, Scott drawls, "Well, Dick, let's get her airborne." With that he hauls back on the wheel and we barely clear the runway lights, climbing at 100 feet per minute, at least 50 degrees to the left of the runway heading. "Good job," says Scott ("aw, shucks") Edwards. You could buy a DC-3 from this guy.