It was going to take some training, but he was going to have his crew ready in time for the summer. Earlier, if the weather decided to cooperate.
Sure, there were issues of sea-worthiness in both prospective staff and designated vehicle, but he’d made up his mind and would not be blown off course. There were rivers to cross, lakes to traverse, seafaring and fishing to consider.
To be on the safe side, he collected piles of floaters. Not the glass “witch balls” his grandfather had left in the attic, but the highly visible red plastic ones.
“This way if you drown,” he told the kids, “it’ll ensure the Coastguard can find you before the toothy fish do.”
“After such an introduction,” his wife noted, knitting needles clicking in time with her rocking chair, “what did you expect? Of course they chose to train with Cousin Bob, the bush pilot.”