I can clearly remember my first flight into the remote runway of a foreign fishing destination. I’d like to forget about my departure from that same runway.

    Casa Blanca, a premier bonefishing lodge in Mexico’s Yucatan, was in its first years of operation and I was in my first years as a single-engine general aviation pilot. I was full of  adventure flying across the Straits of Florida from Key West, through Cuban airspace, and landing someplace exotic to go fly fishing.

    My youthful enthusiasm, unfortunately, had clouded my good judgement and after hours of flight I landed at Punta Pajaros on a short runway of sand and scrub carved out of the mangroves. Arriving in my little 4-seat Cessna Cutlass was the easy part. After a week of fishing I packed for departure and two of my pals climbed aboard.

    Taking off, heavy, I still have visions of the end of the runway where it fell off abruptly into the water and where a crashed plane similar to mine lay crumpled on the flats in a testament to bad judgement.

    I revved the engine and we were rolling...but not rolling fast enough. Pot holes in the scrub and wet sand killed our ground speed. Still on the ground and past the point of no return I knew braking now would only result in a skidding disaster off the end of the runway. I pulled back on the yoke and--nothing.

       Our Mexican fishing guides lined the departure end cheering us on like a World Cup soccer match. I pulled back the yoke again and the wheels lifted a few inches above the sand. Then there was air under the wings and water below. The crashed plane crumpled on the flats was close enough to touch. I was soaked with perspiration, and I smelled like a week of fish slime and margaritas, but at least we were airborne.

                                                           --Jeffrey Cardenas