One winter day, when the shore was held tight in ice, a strange new sound buzzed across the frozen south end of the lake. It was not wind. It was not a whistle.

It was a propeller.

Men in thick coats pushed a curious craft out onto the ice near Hammondsport. It had runners where skates might be and canvas wings where feathers should be. Children stamped for warmth and tried very hard not to blink.

Under the ice, Karl hummed along the cracks, spreading and knitting them until they were steady. He did not want foolish ice to turn this new chapter into a sad one.

"Ready," someone called.

The engine barked and then roared. The machine scooted. For a breath—a single held breath—it lifted. It skimmed along the ice, just a little above the world.

"Engines with wings," Karl thought. His heart flipped, half joy and half worry. "We will need new rules for edges."

Summer came. On a flat field, a squared-off craft named the June Bug faced the wind. Glenn Curtiss, quiet as the ash on his cigarette, climbed aboard. The wheels bumped. The plane ran. Then, on July 4, 1908, it rose and flew one measured kilometer.

People shouted. They waved hats and handkerchiefs. Their idea of possible stretched, like wings.

Flying schools soon opened where land and water shook hands. Students learned the grammar of air: into the wind, mind the rudder, don't hurry the landing. Keuka became a mirror they used to tidy the sky.

Karl added new work to his keeping. On lesson mornings, he combed the chop in one direction so the water would not argue with itself. When a landing came in with more hope than skill, he lifted a soft bulge of water under the hull. A hard thud became a long, sliding sigh.

Big flying boats appeared—some built right there in shops that smelled of spruce, varnish, and engines. There was the Model E and, later, a great craft named America. Sailors came for lessons. The Navy sent men with notebooks. They learned that a good lake can teach as much as any runway.

High on the ridge, Awenasa's granddaughter watched, eyes wide.

"We once spoke only to distance," Awenasa said. "Now we speak to height too."

Karl traced a small bubble Y at the place where the arms meet, for water and for air, for the lake and for the town.

At dusk, when a flying boat came home over the dark lake, children on shore counted softly. "One…two…NOW!" The hull kissed the water at now. Silver spray leaped up on both sides like wings folding in.

The old promise sat steady in Karl's chest.

"We keep the lake," he whispered into the ripples, "and the lake keeps us."