Air Boat: Love is an Adventure

By Jacek Waliszewski

Air boat is a can't-put-it-down, stay-up-all-night, tell-all-your-friends triumph. In his debut novel, Jacek has delivered an indelible protagonist and an unforgettable love story.

-Caitlin McNally, Senior Producer, National Geographic

Winner of Best Adventure Fiction of 2022, and 100 top Indie notables, Air B

• Language: English
• Publisher: storiesbyjacek
• Release date: Jun 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986013015

Jacek Waliszewski

Jacek Waliszewski is himself a U.S. Army Special Forces Green Beret, the first-born son to the co-founder of the Polish Solidarity resistance movement, and is featured in the award winning documentary RETROGRADE by Academy Nominated Director Matt Heineman. Air Boat is book one of a multi-part series based on the many adventures Jacek has had while in Special Operations, and his next book, Midnight in Syria, is set to release in early 2023.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Flathead Lake is the largest body of water in Montana. It was carved out by a glacier’s eonic scrape, then filled by thousands of years of glacial melt until it was more than three hundred feet deep. The trees along the lake’s border are tall and only occasionally displaced by snowdrifts, forest fires, or a new cabin. The lake is twenty-five miles long, fifteen across, and contains several islands, the largest being Wild Horse, which some would say looks like a fish swimming east.

The mountains are closer to the water’s edge along the eastern shore, and it is there that a blue pickup truck approaches the Yellow Bay State Park sign. The sun has just started to rise, and the truck drives with its headlights on while the exhaust puffs clear white haze. Brothers Osborne’s Make it a Good One plays from one of the open windows, and the truck slows before turning off Highway 35. It moves onto a gravel road, approaches the boat launch, and parks to the side. 

Luke is in his early thirties, well built, and has a scruffy two-week beard. He adjusts the well-worn Glacier National Park baseball hat on his head, turns off the engine, and shuts the door. He walks to the back of the truck and drops the tailgate. He pulls a kayak out and drags it to the water. The sleeves on his Henley shirt are bunched up, and he straightens them out, then secures his rod, bait box, and thermos in the kayak.

He paddles south of the Flathead Lake Biological Station peninsula. The finger of land looks like a small version of Florida, and a flock of thirty Canadian geese, who have never been to Miami, float where the panhandle would have been. They eye Luke, this early morning intruder, but deem his steaming thermos of coffee and quiet presence not to be a threat.

Luke casts his line.

There is a small silent splash.

The morning is otherwise still and only punctuated by a goose’s sleepy gonk, recast, or jump of a fish in the distance. But time yields to eventuality, and the day gives way to the rest of the world.

Luke turns his ear at the sound of a distant motorboat. It is a soft rumble, thick and throaty. It is steadily coming toward him but blocked from sight by the peninsula. The geese hear it too and start to pop their heads up. They, like Luke, are frustrated at the wake the boat is about to bring.

But there is no boat.

The sun glints off the silver wings of an airplane as it flies low and under the tree line. It is only a few feet above the lake, and the plane’s body is thick in the front and angled at the rear. Two sturdy pontoons hang under the winglets, and the red tail is complemented by a black stallion decal. The Grumman Widgeon is from World War II and was designed to patrol coastal waters, but it is now here in Montana, nearly seven hundred miles from the nearest ocean.

Luke admires the plane for its mechanical beauty, but the Canadian geese do not. They sound the alarm at this metal pterodactyl, flap their wings, and spread frantic lines of whitewash. The flock rises with slow inevitability, and it is apparent to Luke and the pilot that the geese will fly directly in front of the plane’s flight path. The pilot turns slightly and dips low to avoid the birds. The plane’s nose glances the water and passes safely under the birds. But it is now flying directly at Luke at more than a hundred miles an hour.

Luke’s eyes grow wide in realization, and he flips himself out of the kayak. He swims hard down toward the rocks and turns to look above him. The underside of the plane’s bow churns toward him, the engine’s reverberations grow, and the winglet buoys skim a wake of their own. The plane approaches his kayak and lifts to spare it by no less than a foot. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the plane is gone.

Luke punches out of the water and takes a deep breath. The adrenaline prevents him from feeling the cold, but he knows it will happen soon since the lake is fed year-round by snowmelt. He hangs on to the kayak and catches sight of the plane. It makes a long arc around the southern portion of Yellow Bay and comes back at a higher altitude.

The pilot can barely be seen behind a large pair of aviator glasses.

Luke is a small speck in the water and curses at the plane with a raised fist.

But the pilot can’t hear or help him, and after seeing he is okay, the plane waves its wings in an apology, then flies away.

With nothing else to resolve, Luke flips his kayak right side up. His bait box floats with half the contents spilled, and after a more committed search, he can’t find his fishing rod.

He rightfully assumes it has sunk.

Dammit! he splashes.

* * *

Luke pulls his kayak up the boat ramp. Water squirts out of his boots as he slides it into the back of his truck. He purses his lips and unlocks the door, sees his seat, and wonders how long his boots will take to dry. He takes his shirt off after a moment of deliberation, rings the water out, and drives away.

* * *

The sun is only slightly higher by the time Luke pulls up to a bait and tackle store. The bungalow building is next to the water. One wall is dedicated to all things boating—bait, tackle, and life vests. On the other wall, a garage-sized cooler is full of cases of light beer, and a red-checkered short-order kitchen is in the back of the building. A vintage board advertises burgers, fries, and milkshakes.

Luke parks and sees the infamous red-tailed plane tied to the dock.

He gets out of his truck with a stern look on his face, and Katie, the old cashier, sees him storm in.

Hi, Luke, she says.

Luke nods to Katie, then looks through the windows at the plane. A tall middle-aged man with a sweater vest and jeans stands on the dock. The old man is inspecting the propellers and says something to a young woman in her midtwenties. She is wearing a T-shirt and ball cap and is pumping gas into the plane’s fuel tank.

Katie. Can you tell me who owns that plane? And good morning, Luke corrects, remembering his manners.

The two of them look outside. The young woman puts the fuel nozzle away and points at the numbers on the gas pump. The man shakes her hand and starts walking back to the shop.

Katie looks down at a clipboard. Murphy. Forty gallons.

Luke walks closer to the back window and studies the man. He looks plump, well dressed, and in no rush.

Murphy, huh?

Ah, yup. Hey, you okay? Katie asks, sensing Luke’s frustrated energy.

Yeah, I’m fine, I just got to have a little talk with Mr. Murphy.

Katie is about to say something when the brass bell on the back door dings and Mr. Murphy comes in.

Murphy! You son of a bitch! Luke starts.

The old man is caught off guard. What? he asks, looking behind him.

Luke is not in any mood for theatrics. You nearly killed me out there!

Murphy stutters. How?

You ran me over! Luke points to the lake.

The man looks past Luke toward the parking lot. I did? When?

Yeah!

There’s an awkward pause, and Murphy thinks for a moment. But I haven’t driven since yesterday.

Driven? Luke asks. You were flying, today, at Yellow Bay.

Murphy recognizes Luke’s confusion and is confident he isn’t responsible for whatever irked him so. Son, I’m renting that cabin, he says, indicating one up on the hill. He then walks past Luke to the store’s self-serve counter and pours himself a cup of coffee. "I just got out of bed half an hour ago, and perhaps more importantly, my name isn’t Murphy."

Luke turns back to Katie. "I thought you said his name was Murphy?"

Katie shakes her head and suppresses a grin. "No, I said Murphy bought gas. That’s Murphy," she clarifies, pointing at the plane.

The woman with the T-shirt sits in the cockpit of the plane and puts on her sunglasses. She pushes a lever, turns a knob, and starts one of the engines. The propeller turns, and she throttles it with confidence. She backs the plane away from the dock and starts the second engine. When they are synchronized, the flaps are tested, and the plane moves through the marina like any other boat. Once it is clear of the last buoy, the engines throttle up in full, and the hull starts to rise the faster it goes along the lake. Water sprays in wide sheets, the plane skims the surface like a skipping stone, and it rises into the air a few seconds later.

Katie grins, then nods at the wall of gear. So, you need a new fishing rod?

Luke shakes his head and turns to the older man. And to apologize. Sorry.

Not-Murphy takes a sip of his coffee. Sounds complicated.

Chapter 2

Tucked behind a mountain ridge, Luke stands on the sharply angled roof of a one-story cabin. It is squat, with a slightly leaning brick chimney, and is wrapped by a wide covered porch. The high peaks of the Swan Range dominate the view, and a small clearing spreads out in front of the home. Luke wears a sturdy leather tool belt and has pried several wooden shingles off the roof.

He tosses the bad ones to the side and hammers new ones in their place.

When he stands to wipe the sweat from his brow, something near his truck catches his eye. A husky sits calmly near the front wheel. The gray and white dog has been watching him for more than a minute, and Luke sees that it only has three legs.

He is intrigued and takes the ladder to the ground. He approaches the dog and extends the back of his hand. The dog sniffs him and wags his tail, and Luke scratches him behind his ear.

Hello, he says.

The dog looks around.

Are you lost?

The dog yawns, and Luke sees the collar around its neck. He rotates it to the tag, which only has a name.

Saint.

Well, Saint. How are you?

Saint barks, and Luke kneels to further check