# The Fun of It/Chapter 17

ACROSS THE ATLANTIC—SOLO
London, May 25, 1932
Active preparation for the Atlantic Flight started after I had finished the manuscript of “The Fun Of It.” Indeed, the book itself was finished by the time I left New York . . . Here, at the request of the publishers, is a final chapter describing the flight itself—a post­script from overseas.
Starting from Harbor Grace, Newfoundland, on the afternoon of May 20, 1932, I landed near Londonderry in the north of Ireland the next morning, thirteen and a half hours after the take­off. That, briefly, is the story of my solo flight across the Atlantic.
Ever since my first crossing in the “Friendship,” in 1928 when I was merely a passenger, I have wanted to attempt a solo flight. Then, a few months ago I decided upon it seriously. My Lock­heed-Vega plane, which had been under charter to a transport line at Washington, was free. I found that Bernt Balchen was ready to take charge of its re-conditioning, while my husband, always a good ​sport about my flying activities, was ready to back the plan with full enthusiasm. For several reasons it seemed wise not to talk about the proposed flight in advance. After all, there was nothing to talk about until it became an actuality, and from the start I definitely planned that I might abandon it at any time.
It was clear in my mind that I was undertaking the flight because I loved flying. I chose to fly the Atlantic because I wanted to. It was, in a measure, a self-justification—a proving to me, and to anyone else interested, that a woman with adequate experience could do it.
The plane was taken to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey just across the Hudson from New York. There is located the now unused Fokker plant, and close by lived Bernt Balchen, who with his wife are close friends of Mr. Putnam and mine. Bernt of course is one of the very finest flyers living, and also a great technician with rare engi­neering training. He has the happy characteristic of conservatism and being unhurried in his judg­ments. At the outset we told Bernt that if at any time he thought I couldn’t do it, or the ship couldn’t do it, I would abandon it, and no harm done. But Bernt never once wavered in his confi­dence, and that confidence helped immeasurably in sustaining my own.
First Balchen and his helpers strengthened the fuselage of the Lockheed which had had some hard knocks in the three years I have flown it. Then ​extra fuel tanks were put in the wings and a large tank installed in the cabin. These increased the fuel capacity to 420 gallons, giving the plane a cruising radius of about 3200 miles. In addition, there was tankage for 20 gallons of oil. Loaded, the plane weighed about 5500 pounds.
Additional instruments were installed, including a drift indicator and additional compasses. Of the latter I had three—an aperiodic, a magnetic and a directional gyro, for checking one against the other.
From Pratt & Whitney in Hartford I secured a new “Wasp” motor, for my old one had flown a bit too long for the Atlantic grind. This was a supercharged engine developing 500 horsepower which behaved magnificently under grueling con­ditions. As important as the motor is its fuel and oil, and under the guidance of Major Edwin Aldrin, an accomplished flyer, my tanks were filled at Teterboro, and later at St. John and Harbor Grace, with Stanavo gasoline and oil.
During this time of preparation the plane was chartered to Bemt Balchen, who was actively working with Lincoln Ellsworth in preparation for a South Polar flight. Ellsworth was having an­ other plane built on the Pacific Coast and it was taken for granted that Balchen was making tests with mine with the possibility of including it also ​in their Antarctic program. In the meanwhile, as opportunity offered, I would drive over from my home at Rye and get in odd hours in the air. Most of these were devoted to blind flying until I felt really confident of my ability to handle the ship without looking outside of the cockpit—that is, flying it solely with instruments.
As May moved on we studied the weather maps with increasing interest. As usual with all flight projects. Dr. James H. Kimball in the New York office of the United States Weather Bureau was of the greatest assistance. We never talked definitely of my plans and I don’t know that he was aware exactly what was up until the last moment. He was, as always, tireless in his co-operation.
On the afternoon of the eighteenth of May, the weather map was anything but promising. A per­sistent “low” with its inevitable bad weather hung over the eastern Atlantic. It seemed probable that many days might elapse before a promising break would come. Much as I wanted to move up to Harbor Grace to be ready, I was almost resigned to further days of waiting.
On Friday, the twentieth, my husband went to town and later in the morning I drove to Teter­boro to talk things over with Bernt and do a little flying. The ship by then was ready to go. I arrived about 11:30. Eddie Gorski, our mechanic at the hangar, told me there was a telephone call. It was my husband, at Dr. Kimball’s office. They had just gone over the morning weather reports, ​from ships at sea, from England and from the keystations of the United States.
“And how is it from here to Harbor Grace?” I asked.
“Perfect. Fine visibility all the way.”
That settled it.
“We’ll go this afternoon,” I told my husband. “I’ll see Bernt and will get off as soon as possible.”
Ten minutes later, after Bernt and I had talked, I called back and told Mr. Putnam that we planned to start at three. For me there wasn’t time for luncheon. Instead I drove back to Rye as fast as I could. There I changed into jodphurs and windbreaker, gathered up my leather flying suit, maps and a few odds and ends and raced back to the field.
I reached the field at 2:55. At 3:15 we took off. Three hours and thirty minutes later we were at St. John, New Brunswick. Early the next morning we flew to Harbor Grace in Newfound­land arriving at 2:15 P.M. There detailed weather reports from Mr. Putnam awaited us. The outlook wasn’t perfect but it was promising. I had planned to leave Harbor Grace in the eve­ning. Thus by the time night came the load would be lightened somewhat while I would still be fresh for night flying.
Bernt had flown the plane to Harbor Grace while I rested in the fuselage behind the extra tank, with Eddie Gorski beside me. So, the start de­cided, I left Bernt and Eddie checking ship and ​motor while I found a friendly bed and restful nap. In ample time I was awakened. The later tele­grams confirmed our decision. At the field, the engine was warmed up. A final message from my husband was handed to me. I shook hands with Bernt and Eddie, and climbed into the cockpit. The southwest wind was nearly right for the run­way. At twelve minutes after seven, I gave her the gun. The plane gathered speed, and despite the heavy load rose easily.
A minute later I was headed out to sea.
For several hours there was fair weather with a lingering sunset. And then the moon came up over a low bank of clouds. For those first hours I was flying about 12,000 feet. And then something happened that has never occurred in my twelve years of flying. The altimeter, the instrument which records height above ground, failed. Sud­denly the hands swung around the dial uselessly and I knew the instrument was out of commission for the rest of the flight.
About 11:30, the moon disappeared behind some clouds, and I ran into rather a severe storm with lightning, and I was considerably buffeted about, and with difficulty held my course. In fact, I prob­ably got off my course at this point to some extent because it was very rough. This lasted for at least an hour. Then I flew on in calmer weather though in the midst of clouds. Once I saw the moon for a fleeting instant and thought I could pull out on top of the clouds, so I climbed for half an hour ​when suddenly I realized I was picking up ice.
I knew by the climb of the ship which was not as fast as usual that it was accumulating a weight of ice. Then I saw slush on the windowpane. In addition, ice began to coat my air speed indicator so that it refused to register accurately on the panel before me.
In such a situation one has to get into warmer air, so I went down hoping the ice would melt. I descended until I could see the waves breaking although I could not tell exactly how far I was above them. I kept flying here until fog came down so low that I dared not keep on at such an altitude. Instrument-flying cannot be done safely very near the surface with the equipment we have today.
There was nothing left but to seek a middle ground, that is, to fly under the altitude at which I picked up ice and over the water by a sufficient margin. This would have been much easier to do had I been able to know my height.
Later, I tried going up again with the same re­sult. So I gave up, just plowing through the “soup” and not looking out of the cockpit again until morning came. I depended on the instru­ments there to tell me the position of the plane in space, as under these conditions human faculties fail. Had I not been equipped with the best I could never have succeeded. The directional gyro, which is freest of all from fluctuations if set every 15 minutes, was a real life-saver.
​About four hours out of Newfoundland, I no­ticed a small blue flame licking through a broken weld in the manifold ring. I knew that it would grow worse as the night wore on. However, the metal was very heavy and I hoped it would last until I reached land. I was indeed sorry that I had looked at the break at all because the flames appeared so much worse at night than they did in the daytime.
As daylight dawned, I found myself between two layers of clouds, the first very high, probably twenty thousand feet, the lower ones little fluffy white clouds near the water. This was the first sight of the sea in daylight.
I noticed from the white caps that there was a northwest wind. The little white clouds soon grew packed and resembled a vast snow field. I could see on the leading edge of my wings particles of ice which had not yet melted. Soon I went a little higher and ran into another bank of clouds. I was in these for at least an hour and then came out in a clear space again over the white snow fields.
By this time, the upper layer was thin enough for the sun to come through, and it was as dazzling as on real snow. I had dark glasses but it was too much for me even so, and I came down through the lower layer to fly in the shade, as it were.
Anyway, ten hours had passed, and I wished to see the water lest I was passing a boat. I had seen ​one vessel shortly after I left Harbor Grace. I blinked my navigation lights but apparently no one saw me as I was flying high. Then I picked up either a fishing vessel or an oil tanker off the coast of Ireland, but those were the only two I saw until I met a fleet near the coast.
From then on I met sunshine and low hanging clouds, most of which I kept under even though they were very near the water.
By the way, I didn’t bother much about food for myself. The really important thing was fuel for the engine. It drank more than 300 gallons of gasoline. My own trans-Atlantic rations consisted of one can of tomato juice which I punctured and sipped through a straw.
Of course, the last two hours were the hardest. My exhaust manifold was vibrating very badly, and then I turned on the reserve tanks and found the gauge leaking. I decided I should come down at the very nearest place, wherever it was. I had flown a set compass course all night. Now I changed to due east and decided to head for Ire­land. I did not wish to miss the tip of Ireland and the weather was such I couldn’t see very far. I thought I must be south of the course, for I had been told by the weather man in New York that I might find rain in that direction. When I ran into the storm I thought therefore I probably was in this “weather” he anticipated. Then when breaking white caps below disclosed a wind from the northwest ​I was sure I must be south. As it happened, I probably was exactly on my course, and I think I hit Ireland about the middle.
I started down the coast and found thunder­storms lower in the hills. Not having the altimeter and not knowing the country, I was afraid to plow through those lest I hit one of the mountains, so I turned north where the weather seemed to be better and soon came across a railroad which I followed hoping it would lead me to a city, where there might be an airport.
The first place I encountered was Londonderry, and I circled it hoping to locate a landing field but found lovely pastures instead. I succeeded in frightening all the cattle in the county, I think, as I came down low several times before finally land­ing in a long, sloping meadow. I couldn’t have asked for better landing facilities, as far as that is concerned.
There ended the flight and my happy adventure. Beyond it lay further adventures of hospitality and kindness at the hands of my friends in England, France, Italy, Belgium and America.
Aviation Books by Women
Bacon, Gertrude. Memories of Land and Sky. London, Methuen, 1928.
Barry, Mary Elizabeth and Hanna, Paul R. Wonder Flights of Long Ago. New York, Appleton, 1930.
Beale, Marie. Modern Magic Carpet. Baltimore, J. H. Furst, 1930.
Camac, Harriett. From India to England by Air. Pri­vately printed, 1930.
De Sibour, Violette. Flying Gypsies. New York, Putnam, 1930.
Earhart, Amelia. “20 hrs. 40 min.” New York, Putnam, 1930.
Goldsmith, Margaret. Zeppelin, A Biography. New York, Morrow, 1931.
Gray, Jack Steams. Up. Strasburg, Va., Shenandoah Press, 1931.
Heath, Lady Mary and Wolfe, Stella Murray. Woman and Flying. London, Long, 1929.
Jacobs, Anne Marguerite. Knights of the Wing. New York, Century, 1928.
Ovington, Adelaide. An Aviator’s Wife. New York, Dodd, Mead, 1920.
Verrill, Dorothy. Sky Girl. New York, Century, 1930.
——— Aircraft Book for Boys. New York, Harper, 1930.