The Fun of It/Chapter 5

by Amelia Earhart

ACROSS THE ATLANTIC WITH THE FRIENDSHIP

WHEN the Friendship finally got off at Boston, she was headed straight up the coast for Newfoundland. There, at Trepassey, we intended to take on a supply of gasoline which had been stored in advance, why or for whom no one knew.

Owing to local weather it was impossible to go farther than Halifax the first day. More fog. We came down through a hole in it and put in at the harbor. News of our destination had leaked out at Boston soon after our departure, and in the Nova Scotia hotel where we spent the night, I had my first taste of the “inquiring reporter” who in­quired so persistently that sleep was impossible.

In our brief stay at Halifax, we suffered a bit from holidayitis. In the first place it was Sunday. Then, as I remember, it was Orchard Day, and the birthday of the King, to boot. Everybody was away celebrating so that getting fuel proved an acute problem. But get it we finally did and as the day was gorgeously clear with a fine following wind, we were able to take off about nine. Indeed weather conditions were so nearly ideal that had it not been necessary to refuel, we should have passed Newfoundland by entirely and continued on our way eastward.

In Trepassey there was plenty of trouble. Weather and mechanical difficulties combined to keep us in the hamlet on the coast of Norman’s Woe for thirteen days, instead of two or three as we had counted upon.

I hope some day to return to Trepassey really to enjoy its fishing and hunting and to renew acquain­tance with its hospitable people. During our visit we were under too much strain to think of anything except vital matters like weather reports, gasoline consumption, leaking pontoons, oil lines and the like.

Two Trepassey memories which stand out par­ticularly are of the lovely hooked rugs and the excellent trout streams of Newfoundland. The coast is a graveyard of wrecked ships, and from the wrecks, I was told, come most of the materials used in the rugs. Much of the silver encountered in the fishermen’s homes has the same origin, as can be seen by the names of lost ships it bears.

Of course, what comes up from the sea out of ships generally belongs to the finder, with no ques­tions asked. If the other fellow’s loss is forgotten, I have often thought how exciting it would be to open boxes and barrels brought in by the tide. Like the bottle and pill box in “Alice in Wonderland” with their enticing, “Drink me” and “Eat me,” I am sure these floating surprise packages must say almost audibly “Open me! Open me!”

Newfoundland people come principally from England, Ireland and France. Originally, as I understand it, they were supposed to return to their homeland at the end of each fishing season.

Mountains of the Upper Air

Courtesy Pan American Airways

One of Pan American’s Clipper Ships

However, some of them strayed and stayed, and from these pioneers largely descended the inhabi­tants of today.

Quite different from the barrenness of the coast is the hospitality of the people. Little as they had, they shared it gladly with the strangers who had dropped down out of the skies. As a matter of fact, air visitors were no novelty to them. The Italian round-the-world flyer, de Pinedo, had been marooned there for many days in 1929 and the NC Navy flyers of 1919 had started from Trepassey with their giant sea planes.

As it took a week for the mail to come from Boston and as our friends in the “States” had not expected us to linger long in Trepassey, no mail caught up with us. But many messages reached us by telegraph, and eventually a newspaper cor­respondent from St. John’s came in on the little train which charges down from Newfoundland’s capital twice a week.

So long did we linger perforce in Trepassey that the natives began to think the Friendship couldn’t fly. During the first days of our stay, many came over from neighboring villages, and all who hadn’t seen our plane land seemed to feel we had taxied in and had never been off the water at all.

Unless the wind blows from a certain direction, Trepassey harbor is too narrow for take-off with a heavy load. When the “blow” is from the south­east, which is best for the take-off so far as the terrain is concerned, it brings in the fog that hangs forever off-shore, where the warm gulf stream meets the colder waters of the north.

Thus we had to take advantage of the moment and be ready to hop off when conditions were right, as they changed rapidly. Ultimately we were obliged to alter our plans for carrying 900 gallons of gasoline, barely contriving to get off with 700. This lessened supply decreased our margin of safety and shortened our cruising range. At best, we hoped only to reach Ireland, and for days we seriously considered the possibility of trying to make the Azores, when our representatives in New York notified us that gas was obtainable there.

One of the questions which has been asked me most frequently is what we ate on the actual flight. We had with us scrambled egg sandwiches, made fresh in Trepassey, coffee for the men (I don’t drink coffee unless I have to and a special promised container of cocoa for me somehow didn’t material­ize), a few oranges, a bottle of malted milk tablets, some sweet chocolate and five gallons of water. Then, in case we were marooned, we had an emer­gency ration called pemmican, a very concentrated food used by explorers. A spoonful or so a day is supposed to keep one healthy and happy. After testing this concoction, which is reminiscent of cold lard with dark unidentified lumps floating in it, I question the degree of happiness obtainable, what­ever the health content.

Actually on the trip there was so much to do and think about that none of us seemed to be hungry. I ate six malted milk tablets and two oranges, and I think the men consumed about the same quantity, washed down by coffee. Somehow or other under the strain of excitement, no one seemed to feel like eating. And then, after all, twenty hours is not so long to go without sleeping or eating, if one is in good physical condition.

About eleven on the morning of June seven­teenth, the wind was reasonably right, and the weather forecast as relayed to us from New York, not too unpromising. So again we taxied to the end of the harbor and faced into position before the wind.

With the waves pounding the pontoons and breaking over the outboard motors, we made the long trip down its length, the ship too heavy to rise. Stultz turned around and taxied back to try again.

I was crowded in the cabin with a stop watch in my hand to check the take-off time, and with my eyes glued on the air speed indicator as it slowly climbed. If it passed fifty miles an hour, chances were the Friendship could pull out and fly. Thirty—forty—the Friendship was trying again. A long pause, then the pointer went to fifty. Fifty, fifty-five—sixty. We were off at last, staggering under the weight carried with the two sputtering out­board motors which had received a thorough dous­ing of salt water.

We had made so many false starts, practically no one was on hand to see our real departure. I had left a brief telegram announcing it to be sent half an hour after we were actually in the air. This was my last message to New York.

Our Atlantic crossing was literally a voyage in the clouds. Incidentally the saying about their silver linings is pure fiction. The internals of most clouds are anything but silvery—they are clammy grey wetness as dismally forbidding as any one can imagine. However, some air travelers know that above them there is a different world from any en­countered elsewhere. If really on top of a solid cloud layer, the sun shines brightly over a fluffy sea with a brilliance more blinding than that of snow fields. Or as it sinks, the clouds may be colored as beautifully from a bird’s-eye view, as when we see them at sunset from the earth. Of course, from an altitude of several thousand feet, the sun can be seen longer before it drops below the hori­zon, And as evening falls, it is really brighter “upstairs” than on the ground.

I kept a log of the Friendship Flight and find I mention clouds more often than anything else.

Log book: “I do believe we are getting out of the fog. Marvellous shapes in white stand out, some trailing shimmering veils. The clouds look like icebergs in the distance. It seemed almost impossible that one couldn’t bounce forever on the packed fog we are leaving. The highest peaks of the fog mountains are tinted pink with the setting sun. The hollows are grey and shadowy.” Or again: “We are running between the clouds still, but they are coming together. . . . How grey it is before; and behind, the mass of soggy cloud we came through, is pink with dawn. Dawn ‘the rosy fingered’, as the Odyssey has it.

“Himmel! The sea! We are 3000. Patchy clouds. We have been jazzing from 1000 to 5000 where we now are, to get out of clouds. At present there are sights of blue and sunshine, but everlast­ing clouds always in the offing.”

In the northern latitude in which we flew, the late June days were remarkably long. It was actually light until ten o’clock at night and dawn or its approximation appeared before three in the morning. In the hours between, there was little complete darkness unless we were blanketed with fog. Otherwise as the sun moved around the world, we thought we could see a pale glow marking its course, far to our left.

Log book: “5000 ft. A mountain of cloud. The North Star on our wing tip. My watch says 3:15. I can see dawn to the left.”

The highest the Friendship climbed was 11,000 feet to get over a bank of clouds which reared their heads like dragons in the morning sun. The lowest we flew was a few hundred feet along the coast of Wales. Some of the clouds over the Atlantic held rain, and every time the plane plowed through them the outboard motor would cough and com­plain. They did not like being wet because they had been caked with salt water on the take-off and the salt had dried to make a contact for the sparks to jump from the plugs.

If the Friendship had come down on the water and had not floated, we should have been in a sorry plight for to save weight we had left life-savers be­hind and also the rubber boat which we originally planned to take. That little boat I now use in summer for sport at the beach at Rye. It can be blown up in a few moments and won’t capsize; while its capacity load has never been determined.

The sun, as I have said, went to bed late and got up early. The 11,000 feet the plane was forced to, as morning came, was not high enough to climb over the clouds piled in front of her like fantastic gobs of mashed potatoes. Bill Stultz checked his gasoline and concluded we should waste too much if he went higher in an effort to surmount them.

By that time we were nearing our last few hours of fuel. So the nose of the Friendship burrowed down into the white clouds and we descended quickly through the grey wetness to about 2500 feet.

Log book: “We are going down. Probably Bill is going through. Fog is lower here too. Haven’t hit it yet, but soon will so far as I can see from the back window. . . . Everything shut out.

“Instrument flying. Slow descent first. Going down fast. It takes a lot to make my ears hurt. 5000 now. Awfully wet. Water dripping in win­dow.”

The reference to my ears hurting simply records a rather swift descent. When a plane comes down, it necessarily enters air which grows more dense near the earth’s surface. The increased pressure on the body is noticed most on the eardrum, par­ticularly if any of the passages are stopped, as when one has a cold. If the change from the higher to the lower altitude is made gradually enough, normally no sensation is present. However, if the drop is very rapid and through a considerable dis­tance, the reaction may range from unpleasant to painful. Indeed, it would be possible to rupture eardrums in a very fast dive continued through many thousand feet. The same condition obtains in going below the surface of water. A diver must accustom himself gradually to the greater pres­sures as he goes down to prevent pain or permanent injury. He must also be careful about coming up too quickly, for in decreasing pressure adjustment is needed also.

Bill Stultz didn’t care whether he made us con­scious of our descent or not. He was doing what he thought best, and a little temporary discomfort was of no consequence. Finally the Friendship was levelled off and we cruised along where we could now and then see a bit of water through occa­sional holes beneath us.

Although I have told it before in print, I should repeat the story of our most exciting moment. Our radio equipment had been silent after eight o’clock the first evening. Consequently instead of getting word from ships to help us check our position we had to depend solely upon dead reckoning.

According to our calculations the time had come for us to see Ireland. However, if we had mistaken our course and gone out of our way, then with our diminishing supply of gasoline, our situation might be serious. Minutes passed and we saw no Emer­ald Isle.

But suddenly out of the fog, on a patch of sea beneath us, appeared a big transatlantic vessel. Instead of its course paralleling ours, as we thought it ought to, it was going directly across our path. Its action was unpleasantly puzzling. After all, were we lost?

We circled around the vessel, hoping that the Captain would guess what we wanted and have the bearings painted on the deck for us to read. But nothing happened. Then I wrote out a request that he do so, put the note into a bag with a couple of oranges for ballast, and tried to drop it on the deck, through the hatchway in the bottom of the plane. But my amateur bombing did not work; my aim was faulty and the two oranges landed in the water some distance from the ship.

What to do? We couldn’t expend further fuel in aimless circling. If our course was really wrong, should we give up, land in the water beside the unknown vessel, and be hauled aboard in safety, or should we stick to our guns and keep going, trust­ing in the accuracy of our observations?

Tacitly, the crew agreed to follow through. We knew we had about two hours’ gas or a little less than that left, and it seemed sensible to use it up in an effort to complete the job.

So we kept on eastward. The diary records the tenseness of the moment. Log book: “Can’t use radio at all. Coming down now in rather clear spot. 2500 feet.

“8:50 2 boats!!!! (These were two little ones which not only didn’t disturb us but gave us pleas­ure as the first sign of life we had seen.) Then. Trans steamer. Try to get bearing. Radio won’t (I meant wouldn’t respond to Stultz’s frantic calls). One hr’s gas. Mess. All craft cutting our course. Why?’’

“Mess” expressed our situation as well as any single word I could think of at the time—our puz­zlement, our helplessness with a diminishing fuel supply, our exasperation at our inability to com­municate with the ship just below us.

It turned out the ship was the America, com­manded by Captain Fried. Later he told me that every time he had learned of a contemplated cross­ing by air he had seen to it that bearings were painted on the deck every two hours in the hope that the flyers might come his way. But none ever had. Of our flight he had heard nothing in advance so his paint pots were not in readiness. For this lack of preparedness he afterwards apologized to me profusely, and, I understand, has since kept cans of paint ever ready to serve in a similar emer­gency.

As it turned out, we were within a few miles of the mainland when we sighted the America. Though we did not know it, Ireland had been passed and we were nearing Wales, facts which accounted for the diagonal course of the America proceeding through the Irish sea.

Soon after the fruitless orange bombing, we saw several fishing vessels so small that we knew they could not be many miles off shore. What shore we did not know—or care.

Just as the America had loomed out of the fog, so land appeared. In the previous hours we had seen so many dark clouds which looked like land that at first we thought this new shape was simply more shadow geography. But it stayed, undis­solved, and grew larger through the mist and rain. Land it was, very definitely.

Very low we skirted the cliffs against which the sea was beating, and looked down on a story-book country-side of neatly kept hedges, compact fields and roadways lined with trees.

The Friendship had to follow water, for being fitted with pontoons, we did not dare cross large areas of unfamiliar land, particularly with only a few gallons of fuel in the tanks. After some min­utes of cruising along the shore, we came to what seemed a break in the channel we were following, and decided to descend near a little town. That landing, we knew, would be the end of the journey, for it would not be possible to take off again with the quantity of fuel we had left. So low it was by this time that the engines were supplied only when we were flying level.

Stultz set the Friendship down in mid-channel and taxied to a heavy marking buoy, to which the men made the plane fast to keep her from drifting in the swift tide. Then, having crossed the Atlan­tic by air, we waited for the village to come out and welcome us.

The buoy was about half a mile from shore and probably our craft looked no more exciting than any other seaplane. There were three men whose identities I should like to know working on the railroad along the water’s edge. Certainly no phi­losophers could have cultivated more incurious or placid natures than they. They looked us over, waded down to the shore, and then calmly turned their backs and went to work again.

Perforce we stayed on the Friendship and waited for something to happen. Time passed and noth­ing did. After a while, groups of people slowly gathered in the rain. Slim Gordon crawled out on the pontoons and called for a boat, to no avail. Probably if the townspeople heard it at all, his American sounded as strange to the Welsh people as their own language did to us. Something like this that was—lmnpqrs.

“I’ll get a boat,” I said finally, and squeezed for­ward into the cockpit. Out of the open window I waved a white towel as a signal of distress. At my gesture a friendly gentleman on shore took off his coat and waved cordially back at me. But that was all.

Finally boats did begin to come out. Yet, even after the first one returned to shore with news of our arrival, it was several hours before the Friend­ship was sailed into her mooring place for the night and her crew were able to disembark.

Though we had been scheduled to arrive at Southampton, the weather was too threatening to fly on, and the three musketeers began to need food and rest, although we did not get either very soon. Actually I think dinner was served about ten, after the rigors of a welcome at the hands of 10,000 en­thusiastic Welshmen, disciplined by three flustered policemen.

Since our visit, these kindly people of Burry Port have erected a monument in our memory. It stands eighteen feet high and bears this inscription.

“Erected in commemoration of Miss Amelia Earhart of Boston, U. S. A., the first woman to fly over the Atlantic Ocean. Also of her companions Wilmer Stultz and Louis Gordon. Flew from Trepassey, Newfoundland, to Burry Port in 20 hours and 40 minutes in the seaplane Friend­ship, on June 18, 1928.”

The day after our arrival in Wales we flew the Friendship from Burry Port to Southampton. On this stretch I did some of the flying—the only time during the trip. The harbor at Southampton was crowded with craft of many kinds, and Bill Stultz had something of a task to find a clear space in which to land. For some time we circled about in doubt, until suddenly the green lights of a signal gun fired from a rapidly moving launch indicated where the reception committee wished us to come down.

Once on the water, the launch drew alongside and took the three of us ashore. That was the last I saw of the Friendship, and unfortunately the last any of us saw of the charts and other paraphernalia used on the flights. We might have cherished some articles, had they not disappeared, for our respec­tive grandchildren. The malady of collecting sou­venirs seems to be universal in its scope—but one grandchild’s loss is another one’s gain.

For instance, when we landed at Burry Port my entire baggage consisted of two scarfs, a tooth­brush and a comb. One scarf was quickly snatched by some enthusiast, I don’t know just when. The other stayed with me because it happened to be tied on. The toothbrush and comb also survived, prob­ably because they were hidden in the community duffle bag, shared by Stultz, Gordon and me.

By the way, the absence of baggage—even a change of clothes—seemed to provoke much interest, especially among women. I had no intention whatever of trying to set a fashion in transatlantic air attire. My traveling wardrobe was due entirely to the necessity of economizing in weight and space. I had landed in exactly what I wore and nothing more, and knowing this, my English friends kindly saw to it that I was generously out­fitted. So much publicity was given to my lack of wardrobe that some weeks later when I reached New York with three trunks it was impossible to protest duties that were levied by cruel customs men upon my purchases and my gifts!

The Friendship was sold to an American and by him later to three South American flyers who planned another crossing of the Atlantic. Their project was not fulfilled, and recently I was told that the faithful old plane has become the air force of a band of revolutionists in South America.

At Southampton Mrs. Frederick Guest, sponsor of the flight, met us. More than ever then did I realize how essentially this was a feminine expedi­tion, originated and financed by a woman, whose wish was to emphasize what her sex stood ready to do.

To me, it was genuinely surprising what a dis­proportion of attention was given to the woman member of the Friendship crew at the expense of the men, who were really responsible for the flight. The credit belongs to them and to the flight’s backer as well as to the manufacturers of the plane and motors. This thought I have tried to bring out at every opportunity.

But I happened to be a woman and the first to make a transatlantic crossing by air, and the press and the public seemed to be more interested in that fact than any other. Though palpably unfair, the circumstance was unavoidable. I think in the fu­ture, as women become better able to pull their own weight in all kinds of expeditions, the fact of their sex will loom less large when credit is given for accomplishment.

Some day I shall go back to England and see all the things I didn’t get enough of on my hurried visit. The memory of my two weeks in London is a jumble of teas, theatres, speech making, exhibi­tion tennis, polo and Parliament, with hundreds of faces crowded in.

Nevertheless, a few particular incidents stand out. One is a vivid recollection of the gracious and brilliant Lady Astor. On my visit to her beautiful country place she led me to a corner and said:

“I’m not interested in you a bit because you crossed the Atlantic by air. I want to hear about your settlement work.” I was glad to find some­one who regarded me as a human being, and after I told her of seeing Toynbee Hall upon which Den­ison House was patterned, she promised to send me a couple of books she thought I might like to read. She did and I did.

Like Christopher Robin, I enjoyed seeing the changing guard at Buckingham Palace—perhaps because it amused him. Driving to the left-hand side of roadways was as interesting as a new game to me, accustomed to American traffic rules.

“Should you like to meet the Prince of Wales?” This was the first question I was asked in a con­solidated interview of newspaper writers.

“That depends on his Highness’ wishes,” an American official answered for me, courteously and correctly.

I said not a word myself, as his reply was eminently satisfactory. The next day in an English daily was published my supposed reply, to wit:

“Wal, I sure am glad to be here, and gosh, I sure do hope I’ll meet the Prince of Wales.” I preserve this clipping among my most precious souvenirs.

Perhaps the implied nasal twang of the alleged quotation explains why I never did meet the Prince.

After a fortnight of seeing London and being seen, we headed home again on the steamship Roosevelt. How thoroughly we enjoyed the restfulness of this voyage which afforded really the first relaxation since our departure from Boston! We were allowed by Captain Harry Manning to loll at will on the bridge.

“Can’t you take us to South America instead of New York?” was an almost daily question from us to him. We tried in vain to have him alter the course of the Roosevelt and land in some pleasant country where no one knew us. For all three of us dreaded the inevitable receptions and longed for the ocean to stretch itself indefinitely.

In spite of our dread, homecoming was really an event. The reception at City Hall in New York and the presentation of medals there and in Boston and Chicago followed closely upon our landing. Riding up Main Street while people throw tele­phone books at you is an amusing modern version of a triumphal march.

Three years ago the returned aviator still rated

Courtesy U. S. Department of Commerce

A Typical Department of Commerce Beacon

Checkered Countryside as Seen from Approximately 30,000 Feet Altitude

spectacular headlines. He was front page “news,” she was even front-pager (again the accident of sex).

In all, I think thirty-two cities asked us to visit them. Speedily I discovered I was a native of Bos­ton, Kansas City, Chicago, Des Moines, Los An­geles and several way points. (I have told you be­fore of my childhood in many states.) At all events, though the friendliness and undeserved honor of their invitations were appreciated, it was impossible to accept many of them.

On the advice of those who helped me, we first went to several cities, and then so far as I was concerned, went into retirement. Had the prof­fered schedule been accepted I might not have got home for a year and a day.

But even the retirement was reasonably strenu­ous. Today, if you ever figure in any unusual ex­ploit, be it a flight, a voyage in a small boat, or, say, a channel swim, paraphrasing Alice in Won­derland, “There’s a publisher close behind you who is treading on your heels.” Writing a book seems inevitable. My “porpoise” wanted his book in a hurry. They always do, and so the first weeks of “rest” were devoted to completing a little volume called 20 hrs. 40 min.

Between chapters I talked to editors, promoters, airline operators, and educators with propositions generous, preposterous, or inviting. Before any commitments were made, the book was completed. Clearly, it was time to get into the air again.

In England, I had purchased a small sport plane from Lady Mary Heath. It was the one she had flown alone from Cape Town to Croyden. Its fuse­lage was studded with medals and mementoes of her historic flight, and when she turned it over to me, she put on another. It says, “To Amelia Ear­hart from Mary Heath. Always think with your stick forward.” In other words when your atten­tion wanders, be sure the nose of your plane is down to maintain flying speed for safety.

Just as the book was about finished, the Avro arrived, and between correcting last chapters, I flew it from a nearby polo field. Then with the final proofs of the book ready, I purchased a lovely assortment of air navigation maps and headed for California and the National Air Races there.

I still had no plan for myself. Should I return to social work, or find something to do in aviation? I didn’t know—nor care. For the moment all I wished to do in the world was to be a vagabond—in the air.