Eight float planes. 15 Friends. 1 Perfect Day

Bollinger grew up on the Ottawa River near Rapides des Joachims and the Da Swish Dam about 100 miles north of the capital. He loved to fly there on a beautiful summer’s day and land his float-equipped Challenger or Bush Caddy to revisit old haunts. Sometime he would tie up at the dock at Rapides de Joachims for a walk about the old village and a Coca Cola under the shade of the maples. Sometimes float plane friends would join him. One particular spot he loved to share was a 500 metre-long sand spit jutting out from the north bank of the Ottawa River, 8-10 kilometres downstream from the dam. “It’s dog balls obvious” he’d say. “You can’t miss it.”

On August 21, 2025, eight float planes gathered there to enjoy a BBQ, talk flying and reminisce about Bollinger. It was the perfect flying mission. The reason all these pilots owned a float plane in the first place. The weather was stunning, the water was warm, the burgers and sausages were tasty.

Two of the attendees, Keith Sabiston and Rob Fleck, provided the day’s entertainment as they relived their “hold-my-beer-and-watch-this” youth by water skiing behind Keith’s de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver, a stunt neither had ever done before. What could go wrong?

After three aborted attempts to get up, Flecko finally figured out that starting immediately behind the Beaver was problematic. It was like “skiing through the base of Niagara Falls” said the intrepid senior citizen, “There was so much water, I couldn’t breathe or see.” Fourth time’s a charm. By staying outside the Beaver’s immediate prop wash, he got up and Keith executed two magnificent 360s, one on each side of the sand spit, with Fleck dropping the line right at the tip of the spit. Like any redneck who successfully executes a stupid idea without killing himself, Fleck was deemed a hero and met with slaps on the back, cheers and wide smiles all round.

Keith and spotter Graham Smith in the Beaver taxied in to adulation and more applause for their persistence in getting Fleck up and home safely. At 19.5 knots, it may not have been the fastest ski boat, but it burned the fuel of a deep sea tuna boat with four 300 hp Mercs on the transom, made more noise than three of Keith’s semis Jake-braking on the Coquihalla, and threw up the wake of a drag boat on a nitrous-oxide bender. So there’s that.

According to Fleck, next year, a longer rope would put him aft of the main prop wash effects. Perhaps we can convince him to wear a helmet next year — not for safety reasons! — but to attach a GoPro for a first-person POV of the fun.

Before the day was out, we toasted our beloved Bollinger, and then aircraft began their journeys home, most with a flypast and wing waggle goodbye. Typical of true aviators everywhere, these men, who have no doubt witnessed a quarter million or more arrivals, landings and take-offs between them, their eyes were always skyward, their talk silent as they watched every overhead break, every perfect flare onto the water and every waggle home. What a day.