The Spirit of ST Louis (23 page)

One hundred miles behind me; 3,500 miles to go. The Spirit of St. Louis is about 100 pounds lighter. I mark down the instrument readings on my log, turn off the fourth and on the fifth gasoline tank, and reset the earth-inductor compass.

Rhode Island is already beneath me. How these northeastern states are crowded together! I'm accustomed to the great distances of the West, where an inch on the map represents many miles on the ground, and where railroads are often an hour's flight apart. Here in New England, states seem the size of counties, and maps are drawn on so large a scale that it takes no time at all to cross them.

I look down on small fields spread out in stream-fed valleys and sloping toward heavily wooded hills. They're filled with cattle, gray boulders, and moist green crops of spring – so unlike the big farms of my Mississippi Valley, with their straight miles of fence lines, "square with the world." Here, there's no direction, no sense of north, south, east, and west. The tumbled-down stone walls run every which way, with hardly a right-angle corner in sight. What a job it must be to work out a disputed boundary. And what a hopeless place for a forced landing if my motor should fail! There's not a single field where I could get down without crashing.

Highways and villages are everywhere. I can't keep count of them on the map. And the railroads are too close together to make good check points -- it's hard to tell one from another. The engines leave long trails of smoke that hang motionless until they slowly fade in air -- no wind down there. Columns of smoke from factory chimneys spread out lazily in whatever direction they desire, as undisciplined as the stone walls of the fields. I wish the wind would rise a little and blow from the west—blow me along on my route over the ocean.

There's Providence under my left wing. And on my right the intricate channels of Narragansett Bay spread out as far as I can see. The Massachusetts line runs through the city's eastern suburbs. Only an hour and a quarter since take-off, and I'm unfolding the map of the fourth state. The Spirit of St. Louis has flown over the whole of Rhode Island in the time it takes to walk a single mile. The Atlantic Ocean lies less than thirty minutes away—and the sky is clearing. The dull stratus layer overhead has become mottled with lighter patches. In the distance, dazzling white strips between gray bunched clouds show where the sun is breaking through.

Clearing along the North American Coast. Thirty-five hundred miles to Paris; nearly fifty hours of fuel in my tanks. New England, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, the Atlantic Ocean -- I'll pass above them -- and then Ireland, England, and France! No plane ever flew with such range before. Open skies ahead, the world turning below: when it turns to Paris, I shall land.

The sky line under the wing seems to be dividing. Below the straight but still vague line of the natural horizon, a darker irregular line has formed – the Atlantic coast! There, above it, is the great ocean itself -- real wet, and endless -- no longer simply an idea or a blue tint on paper.

I slip Massachusetts into the map pocket, and pull out my Mercator's projection of the North Atlantic. What endless hours I worked over this chart in California, measuring, drawing, rechecking each 100-mile segment of its great-circle route, each theoretical hour of my flight. But only now, as I lay it on my knees, do I realize its full significance. A few lines and figures on a strip of paper, a few ounces of weight, this strip is my key to Europe. With it, I can fly the ocean. With it, that black dot at the other end marked "Paris" will turn into a famous French city with an aerodrome where I can land. But without this chart, all my years of training, all that went into preparing for the flight, no matter how perfectly the engine runs or how long the fuel lasts, all would be as directionless as those columns of smoke in the New England valleys behind me. Without this strip, it would be as useless to look for Paris as to hunt for buried treasure without a pirate's chart. Twenty miles after passing the Massachusetts coast, it says, change course to 71 degrees magnetic. Proceed in that direction for 100 miles; then change course again, this time to 74 degrees. Allow for whatever wind is blowing, and in another hour you will be approaching the shore of Nova Scotia. With one more change of course, you will strike land near the mouth of St. Mary Bay -- provided the instructions have been interpreted correctly and followed accurately. After the thirty-seventh instruction has been carried out, you will see the city of Paris lying ten miles ahead. Circle a tall tower near the center of the city, take up a course to the northeast, and within ten minutes you will find a great aerodrome called Le Bourget!

THE THIRD HOUR
Over the Atlantic

TIME - 9 : 52 A.M.

Wind Velocity 0 m.p.h Visibility Unlimited

Wind Direction --- Altitude 150 feet

True Course 56° Air Speed 107 m.p.h.

Variation 15° W Tachometer 1760 r.p.m.

Magnetic Course 71° Oil Temp. 40°C

Deviation 1°E Oil Pressure 58 lbs.

Compass Course 70° Fuel pressure 3.5 lbs.

Drift Angle 0° Mixture 1

Compass heading 70° Fuel tank Nose

Ceiling 4000 feet

Cape Cod, a low, bluish hook of land, dents the horizon to my right. Back of my left wing, the smoke of Boston darkens clouds. Rapidly fading out of sight behind me is the coast line of the United States.

Looking ahead at the unbroken horizon and limitless expanse of water, I'm struck by my arrogance in attempting such a flight. I'm giving up a continent, and heading out to sea in the most fragile vehicle ever devised by man. Why should I be so certain that a swinging compass needle will lead me to land and safety? Why have I dared stake my life on the belief that by drawing a line on paper and measuring its azimuth and length, I can find my way through shifting air to Europe? Why have I been so sure that I can hold the nose of the Spirit of St. Louis on an unmarked point on that uniform horizon and find Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland, and Ireland, and finally an infinitesimal spot on the earth's surface called Le Bourget?

The first real test of navigation is at hand. For more than two hours, I'll be out of sight of land. There'll be no rivers or cities with which to check my course. When I left the coast of Massachusetts, I was on the great-circle route to Pairs. When I strike the coast of Nova Scotia, I'll know exactly how many degrees I've deviated from it. Between the two there's nothing but the black line on my chart and the waves of the ocean beneath my plane. This will be a check on theory, and on my ability to hold a compass heading over water. If I'm close to course at Nova Scotia, I should be close at Ireland too.

It's about 250 miles from Massachusetts to the Nova Scotian coast, and just under 2000 miles from Newfoundland to Ireland. If I multiply my error in miles by eight when I strike land, the result will indicate roughly how far off I'll be when I reach the shores of Europe -- if my navigation across the ocean is neither much better nor much worse. Ten miles off at Nova Scotia would equal eighty miles at Ireland.

There are neither whitecaps nor wind streaks on the water – just hold the compass course; no need to compensate for drift. I nose down closer to the low, rolling waves -- a hundred feet -- fifty feet -- twenty feet above their shifting surfaces. I come down to meet the ocean, asking its favor -- the right to pass for thousands of miles across its realm. The earth released me on Long Island; now I need approval from the sea.

It doesn't seem a hostile ocean. It has rather a cold hospitality. There will be a polite relationship between us; it will hold a flattened surface while I fly on and on, with no rising hill or mountain top a hazard to my flight. I'll have only the air to contend with, the wind, fog, and storm. If I can combat my own element, I'll have nothing to fear from the sea. It will even help me a little, ruffling its surface or waving a flag of spray in warning of the changing tricks of wind.

A cushion of air lies close to the water. On it, wings glide more smoothly; the tail lifts higher, the waves flash by, and a plane races along with lessened effort. I drop down till my wheels are less than a man's height above the rollers. The Spirit of St. Louis is like a butterfly blown out to sea. How often I used to watch them, as a child, on the banks of the Mississippi, dancing up and down above the water, as I am dancing now; up and down with their own fancy and the currents of air. But a touch of wing to water, and they were down forever, just as my plane would be. I saw dozens of them floating, broken and lifeless, in eddying currents near our shore. Why, I used to wonder, had they ever left the safety of the land. But why have I? How similar my position has become!

Miles slip by quickly as I skim over the ocean farther from New York, closer to Paris; the haze clearing, the clouds lifting. Then, a fishing smack, appearing off my starboard wing, reminds me that I'm flying below mast-top level. I let the Spirit of St. Louis rise a few feet, and keep a sharper eye on the periscope.

Only once before have I been so far out over the ocean that I couldn't see land. I was eleven years old then. My mother and I were on board a ship, southbound for the Panama Canal. What a contrast! Even the lifeboats were bigger than my plane! There were long decks to walk on, dozens of people to talk to, three hot meals a day, and a stateroom at night. No one was concerned about fog or storm, aside from the inconvenience of staying under shelter. One morning, a flying fish landed on the deck; and the deck was no higher than my cockpit, now, above the waves. I look out on both sides of my plane; but there's no flash of wings, no splash in water. Maybe flying fish don't live in northern seas.

Flying next to the water grows tiresome. I climb up a hundred feet and search the horizon for signs of life. There are still a few fishing boats in sight. When I'm high, I can settle back comfortably, touching stick and rudder just enough to keep the compass needle centered. When I'm low, I have to keep a firmer grip on controls, and rivet my attention to the space between wheels and water.

The cockpit brightens suddenly, flooded with sunlight and warmth. I squint up through the oblong window overhead. I'm flying under a dazzling blue field of sky surrounded by gray-bottomed clouds and hemmed in by glacial mountains of blinding white. Ahead are the foothills—smaller cumulus masses, rising on each side of widening valleys; and beyond, closer to the horizon, lies a flat blue plain of limitless open sky.

THE FOURTH HOUR

Over the Atlantic

TIME — 10:52 A.M.

Wind Velocity 10 m.p.h Visibility Unlimited

Wind Direction NW Altitude 50 feet

True Course 57° Air Speed 104 m.p.h.

Variation 17° W Tachometer 1725 r.p.m.

Magnetic Course 74° Oil Temp. 41°C

Deviation 1°E Oil Pressure 57 lbs.

Compass Course 68° Fuel pressure 3.5 lbs.

Drift Angle 5° R Mixture 1.5

Compass heading 68° Fuel tank R. Wing

Ceiling Unlimited

I mark down a third set of instrument readings on the log sheet. At 16 gallons per hour, about 300 pounds of fuel have been consumed. The plane's almost a barrel's weight lighter. I think of upending a barrel of gasoline next to our tractor on the farm -- more weight than I can lift has been taken off the wings. I ease the throttle back to 1725 r.p.m., and lean out the mixture again. The air speed drops to 104 miles an hour. I have to pull the nose up a trifle -- enough to warn me against reducing power further.

There are ripples on the water -- a northwest breeze. That's too much from the side to be of value. What I need is a west wind; or better, one from the southwest. Now, I'll have to head into the drift. I reach down and offset 5 degrees on the earth-inductor dial. A side wind's not a good omen. With a large high-pressure area over the ocean, I had hoped for a tail wind on this portion of my route. What does it mean, this unexpected direction? Is it only temporary, or is it warning of a storm ahead?

I think of previous flights when clear skies ended against solid walls of cloud. Time and again, barnstorming or flying the mail, I've found my route blocked tightly by unexpected weather. But then it was usually a case of returning to the last flying field I'd passed over, or picking out some nearby pasture on which to spend the night. Now, there are no pastures below, no airports close behind. If I turn back, I'll have to go all the way to Long Island for another start. Even if I could find a field large enough for my overloaded plane along the New England coast, to land there would mean the failure of a nonstop flight.

I'm a little tired. The sun beating in through the window overhead makes the cockpit uncomfortably hot. Shall I take off my blanket-lined flying suit? I can wriggle out without too much trouble; but to put it on again while I'm piloting would be a tremendous effort, and I'll surely need its warmth tonight. Well, I can at least pull down the zipper and get some cool air around my chest. Why didn't I think of that before?

My legs are stiff and cramped. But that won't last more than three or four hours. The dull ache will get worse for a time, and then go away altogether. I’ve experienced the