I settled into my seat... glad to be going home for the Labour Day Weekend. To see my sweet Nicole and stroll along the sandy beaches on the Northumberland Straight and, maybe, just maybe, get stuck at Kissing Rock at high tide. I fell asleep in a flash.

We had been waiting for the flight out for four days. It was Thursday. The wind had been blowing 40 knots or better all along the coast of Labrador. The eldest pilot with Crash Airways rang down Makkovik and Annie said it was calm. So, we taxied out into Nain Bay almost a click. Number One hit the ignition three times on the turn.

That's when the wind hit. I awoke with a start. I looked out the window from the rearmost seat (next to the two rear doors on an Otter - safety concious lad that I am) to see the right pontoon about six feet under water. Then.... another hit on the ignition, but, this time, full throttle. She pitched and lurched and shook and shit... no, that was me that shit.

When we got back to shore and offloaded, my boss told me Number One confided that, in 42 years of being a bush pilot, that was the closest he had ever come to death in the freezing waters of the Labrador coast.

Rum and Pepsi never tasted so good... until...