shoot out at clearwater bay

what airline pilots do in their spare time best seat in the house ican’t remember when i saw my first Seabee...but it was love at first sight. i was an avid angler, enthralled by the freedom to roam, but i seldom fished remote lakes until a happy opportunity with Cheechako, Gerry Norberg, presented me with the opportunity to be half owner of an amphibious Republic Seabee,

Seabees at rest—known to some as the "Flying Brick."

There were a few Air Canada pilots in Winnipeg circa 1984, most of whom were former bush pilots, who owned floatplanes. They just could not shed their love/hate relationship with float flying that they’d cut their aviation teeth on in the flying business. included, were a couple of floatplane sprogs. One of them, a wannabee bush pilot like me, owned a cottage at Clearwater Bay on the Lake of the Woods near Kenora, Ontario. in a group think tank at the Airport Hotel in Winnipeg it was agreed that a small flotilla of float planes would gather at the cottage, camp overnight, then fly en mass to Pistol Lake, accessible only on floats. We’d fish all day followed by a second camp-out, at the lake

Once at the cottage our gang setup tents, had some adult beverages and settled down for the night. it was alleged that later that night one of the pilots under canvas attempted to chop down the cottage owner’s door to get in. it was also alleged that the owner, on the inside, was brandishing a 22 calbre rifle. Lots of yelling both in and out and finally cooler heads prevailed with no shots fired. Anyway, a 22 would not have penetrated that heavy wooden door.

Next morning the motley flock of floatplanes headed north. After a full day fishing and water sports it was inevitable that a campfire for a weenie roast would result. What better way to spend an evening exchanging exaggerated exploits of piloting skills around a campfire while sipping a beer. inevitably someone suggested the performance of an indigenous fire dance complete with whoops and yells. No animals were killed or injured in the performance only the dancer’s shoes were burnt. How do you explain that to your wife?

Next morning after copious cups of camp coffee, everyone packed up to leave. Gerry and i, just like in the airline, took turns being the PF, (pilot Flying) and PNF,( pilot not flying). Today, it was my turn to be PF and being beached nose-in the reverse pitch allowed us to back out and be the first off. The narrow lake was oriented North- South and with a strong south wind blowing we’d have no trouble getting off even with the Seabee’s notorious lack of performance...or so i thought. We taxied to the far side of the lake and i turned into wind.

Gerry said:

“Jim i think we should let her drift back a little” i drifted back fifty feet. ”is that far enough Gerry?” i asked.

Being a sprog i graciously differed to Gerry’s bush rat expertise”.

“No” Gerry said. “Let her go back some more.” i... as he did, knew the unbreakable rule... never turn down-wind at low level in any airplane...it’s a suicide move. But i had to, so i did. Meanwhile on the beach, the hustle and bustle of everyone starting up their planes and yelling obscenities and insults at each other suddenly went quiet as we started our take off. As i started my turn, i’m told, everyone on the beach held their breath anticipating the worst...but i’m here to tell the story so we made it. Again, no animals or people were harmed except perhaps the achey heads suffered by some of the fisher folk. No airplanes best seat in the house were dented and the only damage was to the soles of the dancer’s footwear although a certain Cessna 185 went home with spruce boughs in its spreader bars. We headed for my cottage on Sandy Lake and pulled up at my little dock. My wife met us and as the Seabee gently bumped the dock Gerry threw open the bow door and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Weeks later, Gerry did a beautiful wheels- up landing in a ploughed field after the gear failed to extend...not even scrapping the paint off the hull.

Now i drifted back till our tail was almost on the rocky north shore. “okay”, He Said, “ that should do it”. Lets go.

We’d both noted the hill on our nose at the end of the lake. After what seemed like forever we finally got on the Seabee’s little step....we broke water and the hill loomed very large ahead. i didn’t think we’d make it over the top, and imagining the subsidence downwind from the hill, i started a shallow turn to the left towards the campsite.

Suddenly, Gerry was screaming,” Jesus Jim don’t turn...for Christ sake don’t turn”.