The Master
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Altitude
Water ripples out all around us and miniature tidal waves race towards the nearby beach. Jet fuel obliterates my sense of smell and tears form in the corners of my eyes as the propeller whirls rhythmically in a circle. My knuckles turn white as I cling to the wheel, my grasp one that a wrestler would admire.
Twenty yards behind me, my mother waves, and her grin steadily shrinks as she realizes that we are really going to go through with this. My father leans back in his chair, his toes grinding the sand particles beneath his feet into a fine powder. Michelle, my sinister little sister, happily stares out at the water, a grin plastered into her normally stoic visage.
Wading out into the water, my uncle came up beside the plane and unhooked it from its anchor. Directing the cockpit out into open water, Les pulled himself into the plane. Sitting in the co-pilot chair, Les seized his seatbelt and secured it to its clasp.
“Ease the throttle forward,” directed Les, sweat beads glistening on his forehead. “Not too much now ‘cause we don’t want to drop underwater.”
Pushing the throttle forward as little as humanly possible, the plane lurched into action, plunging through the once glassy water. As we skimmed through the water a nearby canoe was overturned by the waves and winds created by the great velocity at which