Flying solo

The looks on the faces of those milling about the jetty at Lake Rotoroa were uniform: mild admiration morphing through surprise to disbelief, before all agreeing that concern was more appropriate. My son was dressed similarly to the rest of the raggedy bunch; long lean legs under the skin of camo’ thermals, overdressed with baggy shorts, topped with Merino long sleeved vest, alpine jacket and gloves…all were dressed for New Zealand’s Southern Alps. What separated my son from the group was a decapitating smile – and his age. And his inexperience.

He’d just idled off the jetty, nosed the 3.8m Smartwave plastic dinghy through 180 degrees to point south, and squirted the throttle of the ‘thirty-horse’ enough to pop the boat onto the plane. Accompanying him was a heavy