As I start the engine, close the door and steer away from the shore, navigating gingerly around a submerged tree trunk and the last log in the rugged breakwater a few yards away, the butterflies in my stomach advance from a jittery dance of anticipation into something more akin to a whirling dervish frenzy. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. Eighteen years, to be exact. And if I screw it up, there will be no one else on board to save me.
It’s that last part that’s causing the butterflies. For aside from that, the task facing me is at least vaguely straightforward. Taxi out into the main portion of the lake while performing my pre-takeoff checklist and engine run-up, and then turn into the wind, remembering to retract the water rudders just before adding full power. Then all I have to do is execute a safe takeoff, taking care to head quickly toward the edge of the lake as I climb, hugging one of its steep, densely forested mountain slopes until the canyon widens enough for me to turn, then complete the circuit, remembering everything on my pre-landing checklist, and successfully touch down into the wind again … at least five separate times.
