“You’re a lucky dog,” said Denny Jackson as he handed him the watch. “Now you have all the time in the world!”
“Easy for you to say,” Julian returned good-naturedly. “You still have your job.”
“Look, Crosby, next year it’ll probably be one of us. And they won’t be offering us the sweet package they gave you!”
Julian remembered telephoning Kevin Miles once he’d left the luncheon.
“Taking the afternoon off?” asked the broker.
“I may be taking the rest of my life off,” said Julian. “The guys at Palisades gave me a retirement party this afternoon.”
“I didn’t know you were retiring early,” Miles said.
“That makes two of us.”
“So you’re not entirely happy about it?”
“I really don’t know how I feel yet, Kevin.”
“A pat on the back and a boot in the ass, eh?”
“And a pretty sizable check, too,” said Julian.
“These days it’s SOP, my friend.”
“I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“At least money’s not a worry,” Kevin consoled.
“I guess time is the real enemy,” Julian stammered.
“That’s the truth,” Miles agreed.
“I’m too young to be cast away.”
“Of course you are, Julian. But perhaps you have to embrace this as an opportunity! Tell me something you’ve always wanted to do,” said Miles. “Something you never imagined you’d have the guts to follow up!”
“How would I know?” said Julian. “Choice is a rather novel idea in my life.”
“I’m serious,” his friend persisted. “What’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”
“I suppose I always wanted to buy a boat,” Julian confessed.
Julian could hear that Miles was preoccupied with another task as they spoke, and the lack of singular attention irritated him. “You never seemed much like the boat type to me,” said the broker. “But who am I to question your dreams? You’ve got the money.”
“I could buy a houseboat or a cabin cruiser and dock it at Sausalito Harbor. After all, why should I tether myself to this place?”
“Or you could head over to Hawaii,” Kevin suggested. “Have you ever been there?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Julian.
“Ten years ago I got a great deal on a condo. I’ve been over there dozens of times, and I’m telling you, Julian, you’ll come back a new man—that is, if you come back at all!”
How odd that an off-the-cuff conversation had turned into reality, detail by detail! Though Julian Crosby was certainly harboring no regrets. On the contrary, he felt grateful to Miles for rekindling his fantasy. And as the first fiery rays of morning light engaged the new day, Julian rose slowly from recapitulation and assessment to discover his anchor was gone.
ALL REFERENCE POINTS now receding, and balance and dimension in serious question, Julian kept track of the days and wondered just how the Scoundrel had been set adrift. He saw not a single ship on the horizon, though he thought he might have heard the hopeful sound of an airplane’s motor, circling. He continued searching the sky for fifteen minutes after the sound faded. Nothing. Except a solitary Calico Pennant dragonfly. If he thought he’d known loneliness before, the overwhelming magnitude of abandonment now settled over him like a cacoon.
“Captain Crosby, I’ve learned that a threat of mutiny is circulating amongst the crew,” revealed Buenaventura.
“But you are the crew,” said Julian.
The bird turned a somersault on his perch. He ruffled his feathers, winked at Julian, and began chattering riddles. “Merciless life laughs in the burning sun...”
“Birdbrain!” Julian protested.
“Nothing but ocean,” the parrot mocked, shaking his yellow head.
Indeed...
By night the fragmented images of dreams danced round the borders of Julian’s prescience, but with each morning prospect and promise faded in the dizzying gray circumference, and hope turned into parcels of doubt regarding his rescue. Though not once did he feel fear. Each hour spent in this whirlpool of dismissal seemed to promote a curiously heightened sense of self-awareness. Anticipation engaged him on a more subliminal tangent.
How many days had it been? Eighteen, he thought. Though by now his count might be off. His blond beard grew full and bristly; his lips turned purple, swollen, and cracked. He heard only the rolling swells day and night, and the circling plane as it made its curious once-a-day incursion.
Many futile attempts to re-start the Scoundrel’s engines caused Julian to renounce all trust in the rationality of the mechanical world. Yet even had he been able to coax the motors back to life, on which heading would he have sailed? All sense of direction had been lost by his third day adrift. Now he floated without reference upon the unfathomable Face of the Deep.
Night came again and the castaway lay upon his cot. He moved without restraint from cabin into cosmos and back again. He dreamed of himself as a much younger man in a state more virile than he’d ever truthfully known. Hurled over waves and plunged into aquatic troughs, he had an ejaculation, and awoke feeling incomplete.
With the drone of dimensional drift resounding hypnotically in his ears (or was it the habitual appearance of the spectral phoenix circling once more overhead?), Julian got to his feet and climbed the ladder to the head. The morning sky was gray and threatening and the sea was rough. Tossed over rolling walls of foamy water, then flung over breakers with the finality of castigating judgment, the Scoundrel survived as thunderous curls crashed against prow. The foundling held on for dear life as the parrot flapped his wings frantically and tried to free himself from his tether.
“All is lost! Abandon ship, Captain!” screamed Buenaventura.
“Hold on tight!” Julian called.
“We’re out of time!” proclaimed the parrot.
As the curtain of fog parted before him, Julian could distinguish beaches ringed by palm trees, and lush mountains crowned by low clouds. An island lay directly ahead. A tumultuous tide hurled the Scoundrel toward a protected cove.
Just then the bird broke free from his tether and took wing. Cutting through a stiff wind BV flew with conviction for the perceived safety of the rainforest, and Julian called after him desperately, “Wait! Wait!”
But the macaw was gone.
The novice sailor tried valiantly to steer his craft to a gentle landing, but whirling and pitching the Scoundrel defied guidance. Finally thrown from the head to the deck, Julian clung to a railing, barely avoiding being tossed overboard.
Moments later the ship ran aground on top of the barrier reef. Julian climbed to his feet and stared out in astonishment at the island’s sandy shoreline only a hundred yards away. He sighed gratefully. A vigorous swim reunited him with dry land.
IT WAS NOT YET DAWN but a crowd of curiosity seekers and well wishers gathered in the dim light on the tarmac at Miami. Each onlooker was hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Amelia Earhart dressed in flying togs and silk scarf as she climbed on board her Electra for take-off.
Publicity for this around-the-world flight attempt was, thanks to G.P., quite intense, and a company of journalists, along with a newsreel film crew, stood by as several mechanics made last minute inspections. Available earlier for reporters and photographers, the pilot and her husband had retreated to the privacy of an empty airplane hangar to say their farewells.
Together they sat on a cold concrete step. The surroundings were familiar, the circumstances inescapable. Her eyes were calm and clear. He was transparently anxious. She placed her delicate hands in his much larger ones as she spoke in a low voice.
“I know that if I fail, or if I’m lost, you’ll be blamed. Our backers will second-guess you for allowing me to leave on this trip. But this is my responsibility—mine alone!”
“I’ll call or cable at every opportunity,” he promised.
When the chief mechanic gave the ‘all-ready’ she stood up, pressed her husband’s hands again, took a deep breath, then walked from the cavernous hangar. Freddy was waiting next to the Electra. Together they boarded the plane. They waved to reporters and photographers, to relatives and spectators.
The prep crew backed away as she throttled up the engines. The running lights were flashing as G.P. lowered his head to say a short prayer. Inside the cockpit Amelia made a final check of the instruments, adjusted her goggles, then gave a ‘thumbs up’.
Weighted with fuel the Electra lumbered down the long runway. The crowd held its breath until the plane finally rose in the haze of daybreak. As the plane slowly climbed, the sun appeared above the aquatic horizon. Everyone watched until the Electra was out of sight. Then the crowd dispersed—all except George Palmer Putnam. He remained on the tarmac long after everyone else had gone inside.
Their first destination was San Juan, Puerto Rico, a route that Freddy had plotted many times while navigating for Pan Am. Averaging one hundred forty-eight miles per hour, they covered the distance in just over seven hours, and Noonan’s flawless calculations estimated landfall within one minute of actual touchdown.
From Puerto Rico they flew to Caripito, Venezuela; then on to Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana. Forteleza, a regional commercial center located along the northeast coast of Brazil boasted Ceara’s largest airport and best maintenance facility. The distance between Forteleza and Natal, Brazil’s easternmost point, Amelia covered with the aid of the Sperry autopilot.
The flight from Natal to Dakar, Senegal crossed the Atlantic at its shortest distance. The nineteen hundred mile flight was, for the most part, uneventful, though Amelia began to smell gas fumes shortly after take-off. Unable to identify the source of the leak, she determined to have the maintenance crew at Dakar identify the problem.
Thirteen hours into the flight they approached Cape Verde Peninsula, Africa’s westernmost point. On a fishing line installed for communication between pilot and navigator, Freddy passed forward a note describing a minor course correction: ‘Change to 36 degrees. Estimate 79 miles to Dakar from 3:36 p.m.’
Amelia immediately scribbled and inquiry: ‘What put us north?’
Not trusting Noonan’s fix she banked north, not south as instructed. Following the African shoreline she ended up fifty miles off course, at Saint Louis, Senegal. Forced to admit her mistake, she openly apologized to Freddy. Next morning they flew to Dakar for a layover. While the Electra was undergoing thorough scrutiny, they toured Cheikh Anta Diop University and rested up from their transatlantic crossing. They mailed home no-longer-needed South American maps and documents.
Over equatorial Africa, en route to Khartoum, Fred Noonan found navigation to be even more difficult than over open sea. Between Fort Lamy and El Fashar the so-called landmarks were often seasonal or ambiguous: ‘swamp during rain’, or, ‘two helig trees four hundred meters apart—intersecting twenty-fourth meridian.’ But as the navigator struggled in stifling heat with mathematics and direction-finding, the quixotic pilot openly delighted at flying over places once relegated to a position only in fantasy—places such as Qala-en Hahl, Umm Shinayshin, Abu Seid, Idd el Bashir, Fazi, Marabia Abu Fas...
From Massawa they continued down the Red Sea coast to the ancient port of Assab in Italian-controlled Eritrea. Here the temperature approached one hundred degrees, and they flew at low altitude over groups of nomad shepherds who pointed skyward with great excitement at the Electra. Amelia conjectured that it was possible many of these Tigre people had never before seen an airplane.
Expressly forbidden to land on Arab soil, the pilot flew around the Arabian Peninsula, then northwest of the Indus River delta, all the way to Karachi. There she talked with G.P. by telephone.
“I wish you were here,” she told him. “So many things you would enjoy... Perhaps someday we can fly together to some of the remote places of the world—just for fun!”
At Calcutta the air field was sodden. With even more monsoon rain in the forecast, they decided to refuel and take off immediately for Burma. The plane clung to the sticky soil of the runway for what seemed like ages before the wheels finally lifted. They cleared the fringe of trees at the aerodrome’s edge with only inches to spare.
Now en route for eighteen days, they turned inland from the Gulf of Martaban and flew twenty-five miles over saturated rice paddies to the city of Rangoon. After a formal State reception they were taken by proud and friendly Burmese officials to visit the Shwe Dagon Pagoda, the core of Burmese religious life. They learned about Alaungpaya, founder of the final royal dynasty in Burma, and about the history of Rangoon, whose name, they were told, translated roughly to mean, ‘the end of strife.’
By now the rigors of travel coupled with the enforced manners of cultural exchange had begun to take its toll. Patience between pilot and navigator had been well tested, but even as feelings between them began to turn ambivalent, such experiences were not lightly shared.
In Bangkok, they rode elephants and toured the exotic canal-lined streets with characteristic houses perched upon stilts. They walked through the street markets and visited the extraordinary walled Grand Palace to see the Wat Po and the Wat Emerald Buddha.
Hemmed in by volcanic peaks covered with vegetation, Bandung, on the Island of Java, was refreshing with its cool, wet, upland climate. Here their take-off was delayed by bad weather, though neither Amelia nor Fred was particularly upset. They were tired and needed rest. Furthermore, three of the Electra’s long distance instruments had been malfunctioning. The fuel analyzer, the flow meter, and generator meter would be crucial for the upcoming over-water flights. So the equipment was repaired while they waited for a break in the monsoon.
They finally took off from Bandung on the twenty-seventh of June. Stopping in nearby Jakarta, they indulged themselves in a dinner of rijsttafel, a traditional Indonesian feast consisting of rice with no less than twenty-one courses of fish, chicken, meats, eggs, relishes, curries, nuts, fruits, vegetables, and sauces. Unfortunately, a hit-and-run bout with dysentery followed. Already fatigued, the illness further compromised Amelia’s faltering endurance.
En route to Port Darwin, Australia, the pilot again noticed the unmistakable smell of gasoline—a rupture whose source had so far not been identified even during several all-out overhauls. Confined and virtually immobile for long periods of time in the cockpit, the pervasive vapors made her feel ill as she flew. Mechanics in Port Darwin meticulously inspected the plane point by point, but ultimately found no breach in the fuel system.
The relentless pace of travel dictated by State clearances was proving to be exhausting. In less than a month they’d circumnavigated two thirds of the globe, stopping infrequently for rest. At each layover numerous details demanded attention. Customs inspections and forms, fumigation of the Electra, inoculation certificates, obtaining accurate weather reports for the next segment of the trip, supervising chamois filtration of the fuel.
The night before the Howland flight Amelia slept very little. Instead, she spent hours writing detailed articles for publication in the International Herald Tribune. Freddy was occupied socializing at Cecil Hotel’s bar with Eric Chaters, head administrator at Lea Airport.
“As a navigator, your reputation is unquestioned, Freddy,” bolstered Chaters, “but being able to pinpoint Howland Island is going to be your ultimate test. I’m glad I won’t be sitting in your seat.”
While his companion was nursing a beer, Freddy Noonan had already slugged down several shots of straight whiskey. “Don’t worry, Eric,” he reassured. “I’ll have no trouble finding Howland.”
At Lea, the Electra was serviced yet again. Oil and oil filters were changed, spark plugs were cleaned, engines checked and re-checked. The fluctuating fuel pump and Sperry autogiro were again performing erratically, so they were taken apart and repaired for the third time. Luckily, the Lea maintenance crew was thoroughly familiar with Lockheed aircraft, and both Amelia and Freddy were duly impressed by their expertise and ability.
With the Electra left in capable hands, the pilot and navigator spent their last hours in Asia boxing up unwanted articles to be shipped home, items that included the flare pistol and its cartridges, and the two parachutes. In case of emergency these would be of little use over water.
At last they were ready for take-off from Lea, New Guinea. Ahead lay miles of boundless ocean, an obscure island midway to Hawaii where Roosevelt’s DOC had constructed a landing strip specifically for this trip, and finally, San Francisco.
At ten o’clock a.m., loaded with more than a thousand gallons of fuel, the Electra moved over Lea’s unpaved runway without so much as a breeze to help lift the overburdened plane into the air. The craft gained speed as it hurtled toward the seaward end of the runway, and as the wheels hit the crest of the runway’s tip, the plane virtually bounced into the air. At first unable to gain altitude due to the heavy load, the Electra hovered only a few feet above the swells, its props spraying sea water onto the windshield of the cockpit. Coaxed by the capable pilot, it finally began to climb. Slowly it rose to a hundred feet, then five hundred. As it disappeared from view, Amelia’s Lockheed was still no more than a thousand feet above the ocean.
Right from the beginning head winds were stronger than forecasted, and fuel consumption was proportionately greater than expected. Yet, with the crescent-shaped coast of New Britain on her left, and Bougainvillea Island just ahead, the pilot was glad to finally embark upon this long-anticipated flight over the Pacific. She knew the dangers, but they’d planned well. And if she’d ever doubted her navigator’s ability, she was now thoroughly convinced of his skill. For even across North Africa, where landmarks were few, and gaining a sense of direction seemed all but impossible, Freddy’s readings had been flawless. Throughout the trip he’d kept them precisely on course and delivered them to each destination virtually within minutes of his projection.
Yet she knew that navigating the Pacific posed unique problems. And there remained the intriguing side bar of President Roosevelt’s clandestine picture-taking detour—a service both she and Fred agreed they were willing to render.
But as she radioed her position over Nukumanu, Amelia realized she was already running a full hour behind her flight plan. Only a third of the way to Howland, she understood there was virtually no way of making up the lost time, thereby compromising range due to increased fuel consumption. To make matters more difficult, the clouds had grown thick as they flew northeast. Noonan passed her a note on the inter-cabin fishing line that read: ‘Six hours on dead reckoning. Need celestial fix. Can you climb on top?’
Amelia powered up the engines with a rich fuel mixture, and the Electra responded immediately. Up they rose above cruising altitude. Trying to break through the dense ceiling, the wings began to ice over, and the pilot was forced to descend without gaining the navigator’s needed reading. Shortly, she found a break in the clouds and tried again. This attempt consumed even more fuel than the first try, however the effort proved worthwhile. The navigator was able to establish position. Now a crucial question demanded an answer: Should they turn north toward Truk Island in the Carolines, or should they abort their ancillary mission because of adverse flying conditions?
‘How’s the fuel consumption curve?’ Freddy wanted to know.
Amelia scribbled a note and reeled it back into Freddy’s compartment amidst the auxiliary fuel tanks. ‘I think we’re O.K. Weather questionable...’
‘We go on your judgment,’ came the reply.
AE was flattered by Freddy’s trust, and a little surprised by his courage. All else in the balance, she could not disappoint the president. ‘Please describe alternate heading,’ she wrote. In a matter of minutes the course adjustment was in her hand.