Long before Boeing was known for airplanes mysteriously falling out of the sky and a too-cozy relationship with federal regulators, it was known for seaplanes. Bill Boeing's first flying machine, built in 1916, had pontoons rather than wheels.

A fine specimen hangs from the rafters at MOHAI, just a stone's throw from a very active seaplane runway: Lake Union. You've probably seen Kenmore Air's planes while lazing away a summer afternoon, wondering if any of them has ever accidentally decapitated a stand-up paddleboarder.

Watching seaplanes is a summertime delight. Even better? Flying in one. I will not mince words: They are a splurge. One-way flights start at $149 to take you to places like Vancouver, Victoria, and the San Juan Islands—and it only goes up from there—while some combination of ferry, train, bus, and/or car can get you to and from those destinations for much less.

But in an increasingly pricey city where splurges abound, soaring over Puget Sound in a vintage DHC-2 De Havilland Beaver six-seater is worth forking over your hard-earned dough. It's the best bird's-eye view in the city. (Kenmore also offers "scenic flights"—20 minutes of flying around over the city for $99.)

My wife and I splurged on a flight to Orcas Island last summer to celebrate what the wedding industrial complex calls a "mini-moon" (a short getaway after your nuptials that doesn't necessarily qualify as a honeymoon). For $318 per person, we flew round-trip from Lake Union, hopped in a taxi once we got to Orcas (there's only one or two on the island, so call ahead), and spent two blissful nights at Doe Bay Resort.

Weight restrictions are tight—just 25 pounds each, including accessories like purses—so we packed one backpack each and biked down to Lake Union the afternoon of our departure. Kenmore Air's terminal is a squat lakeside building with a parking lot and a dock at the southern crook of Lake Union, just past Jennifer Dixon's lovely JewelBoats mosaic on the Westlake cycletrack. Check-in was beyond painless, and we found ourselves with time to spare.

So we went for a swim. I joined the high schoolers illicitly jumping off the footbridge between the Lake Union Park beach and MOHAI. My newly minted bride dipped her toes in. We watched our chariot come in for a waterborne landing, toweled off, and sauntered back over to the terminal. Fifteen minutes later, my bathing suit still damp, we were taking off from the same splash pad I had just cannonballed into. Miraculous.

The plane makes for a noisy ride, but Kenmore provides earplugs—and on a clear day, the views are stunning. I've heard that even on cloudy days, the views are stunning. And for those with a fear of flying, well, it's runway all the way.

What sealed the deal on my love affair with seaplanes was our return. We flew out of Orcas from a dock at Rosario Resort, a turn-of-the-last-century establishment nestled along postcard-perfect Cascade Bay. We raced to meet the plane on time, only to discover there was an hour-plus delay. Island time, indeed, but nothing a dockside fish and beer combo couldn't soothe.

The silver lining: When we did finally take off, on one of those ephemerally perfect early August evenings, the flight aligned with sunset. All of the Salish Sea was splayed before us awash in golden light. Mount Baker glistened pink with alpenglow. We had a front-row seat for the fire-orange sun disappearing into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Ninety minutes later, we were back inside our house, wondering if it was all a dream.