BOS-PWM, July 31, 1994. I had a sudden dire family emergency and had to get up to Portland. On a big summer weekend last-minute beggars can't be choosers, and we got booked via Logan and onto a very small NW Airlink plane for the last leg -- don't recall type, perhaps a Dash-8 -- with no flight attendant. We were delayed and delayed again for ATC, then took off and flew northeast into into a clear blue sky filled with what I think was just short of wind shear. The aircraft was bobbing around like a cork in a washing machine and at certain points yawing so badly we actually appeared to be flying sideways. Not a word from the cockpit; two relatively green kids had their hands full. Wings dipping violently and engines surging. And all this only about 8000 feet above ground. The 100-mile hop seemed to take an hour. I have a very stable stomach and it was the only time in more than 40 years of flying, man and boy, that I thought I was going to vomit. A terrible flight. When we got onto the ground and disembarked I took a look in the cocpit. Those two guys were drenched with sweat... I can still see the pink of their backs through their uniform shirts.