You'll remember that "Air Craft" was Dave's last winter's project. Working in his garage, he'd started with a ten-foot aluminum punt and first mounted a sixteen-horsepower motor astern. To the motor David attached a three-blade thrust propeller. Behind the prop he installed two three-foot rudders. Then Dave mounted his old trolling seat amidships and, for safety's sake, enclosed the motor and big prop in a cage made of metal grillwork.

In the bow he positioned a marine battery to power the electric ignition, but also the green and red running lights, the twin spots up on the motor cage, a horn, and, at the cage's top, next to the American flag, an amber flasher, again just for fun. Was I going to miss a ride in a craft like that? No way, dude.

We were to meet at the lake just after noon on Sunday, and I'll admit to some distracting thoughts during the quiet of Quaker meeting that morning. You see, I'd never been in an air boat-and certainly not a scaled-down lake model like Dave's.

When I got down to the lake, there he was, putting along between the Otesaga and Fairy Springs. At that distance and silhouetted against the water, big Dave, looming up out of that flat punt, formed a picture like one in my seventh-grade history book: the U.S.S. "Monitor" off Hampton Roads, Virginia, prowling for the C.S.S. "Merrimac." Wags of the time called the "Monitor," low-slung and with a single round gun turret, "a cheese box on a raft." Dave in his boat (he'd now come around and was heading toward the dock) looked a bit like that, though not near so ominous.

Dave cut his engine (quieter than most outboards) and glided up to the dock. The captain was ready to welcome me aboard, but he had to get out first. The officers and full ship's company of the "Air Craft," you see, can number no more than one. So Dave climbed out and I, clad in orange life vest, clambered in. I settled on Dave's transplanted trolling seat, with tiller to my starboard and throttle to port.

Dave pushed me away from the dock and called, "Fire her up and then rev up to about half speed. That should do it." I quelled an urge to shout, "Aye, aye, sir," and pushed the starter. The battery in the bow cranked the motor in the stern, and behind it I sensed the three-foot prop begin to spin. I pushed the throttle forward, and "Air Craft" glided into motion. And there I was, heading for the Sleeping Lion, enthroned just above the lake's calm surface. Don't know my forward speed in knots, but it felt about the pace of a leisurely walk.

And it was glorious! The broad, sparkling plane of the lake spread out before me, the green hills rose from either side to meet a sky of perfect blue, the faintest of breezes wafted out of the west. I hadn't plotted a course but now decided I'd swing toward the Otesaga, make a big loop over toward Fairy Springs, and then return to the dock. I pulled back on the tiller. Out behind the motor and prop, those two rudder panels swung left, across the strong draft from the prop. That pushed the stern to starboard and swung the bow to port-and voila! I was putting along toward the Otesaga.

My loop almost completed, I spotted an islet of floating weeds in the water ahead. Old instincts from Chesapeake sailing and motoring rose up in me. Don't snag the centerboard! Don't snag the prop! But I had neither to worry about. "Air Craft's" seamless hull, even hauling me, was probably not drawing six inches of water; and her propeller, whirring away, was two feet above the water's surface. We glided right over the debris.

As I pulled up to the dock, Dave stood there, clearly delighted at my enjoyment. And better yet, there were two more witnesses to my seafaring. By luck, Jean and Tom Lyon had walked down to lakeside with sandwiches for lunch. They sat on a shaded bench, smiling as broadly as Dave.

I turned over "Air Craft" to its captain and trotted over to greet the Lyons. I so wanted to say, "Did ya see me? Did ya?" But of course they had and praised me outrageously for my maneuvering and seamanship. I tried to describe for them the exhilaration of the ride, but couldn't. The words weren't there. They never are, are they.

But walking back up the hill to the car, I rehearsed the voyage's every detail in my mind and felt grateful all over again to Dave Butler, who'd freed his inner kid to build that splendid, improbable craft. "Good for Dave!" I thought, walking up Pioneer Street, grinning like a fool.

Guess my inner kid's still alive and kicking, too.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek.