I was hanging around Roosevelt Field one afternoon with nothing much on
my mind when a couple of friends came up and said they were just taking
off for the South. They wanted to catch the Pan-American plane from
Miami the next day. They were amateur pilots. The weather was lousy
toward the South and they hadn't had much experience in blind or night
flying. I said I would fly with them as far as Washington and maybe by
that time the weather would clear. When we got to Washington the weather
had pretty well closed down. I didn't like to see them start off in a
fog bank with the sun already setting, so I volunteered to go to
Greensborough. The stuff grew thicker. We were flying at two hundred
feet and getting lower all the time. So when we landed at Greensborough
there was nothing to do but stick with the ship. We took off for
Jacksonville after a scanty supper. It was one o'clock in the morning.
By that time I could barely make out the beacon lights. I turned to the
girl sitting next to me and told her that if we lost the beacon behind
us before we saw the one ahead of us we would have to turn back. At that
moment both beacons disappeared. I started to bank the ship towards
home. And then suddenly the whole sky lightened up. It looked as though
a huge broom had gone to work to tidy up the clouds.
We landed at Jacksonville at five in the morning without further mishap.
I said good-bye to plane and passengers and then started wondering how I
was going to get back to New York. I decided to hitch-hike and save the
train fare. It took me three days. When I appeared at the house with a
straw behind each ear and a suit full of holes my wife thought I had
gone crazy.