ALMOST A DISASTER
My hand trembles as I recall Croagh Patrick, and our flight over it.
This mountain is fully 2,500 feet high, and rises abruptly from the
shores of Clew Bay. In many ways it was the most attractive mountain to
me in all Ireland. There is a flat plain, with some ruins, on the top
of it, and in former times it was a place of great sanctity.
Saint Patrick, after whom the mountain is named, made several
pilgrimages to its summit, and here St. Patrick exercised magic power
for Ireland’s welfare. Here is the record in the historian’s own words:
“St. Patrick brought together here all the demons, toads, serpents,
and other venomous creatures in Ireland and imprisoned them in a deep
ravine on the sea front of the mountain, known as Lugnademon (the pit
of the demons) as fast as they came in answer to his summons, and kept
them safely there until he was ready to destroy them. Then, standing
on the summit of the Croagh, St. Patrick, with a bell in hand, cursed
them and expelled them from Ireland for ever. And every time he rang
the bell thousands of toads, adders, snakes, reptiles and other
noisome things went down, tumbling neck and heels after each other,
and were swallowed up for ever in the sea.”
As we neared Croagh Patrick I bravely asked Mike to sail over its flat
top, and see this sacred spot. Mike was ready to do it in a minute. He
pulled the levers and we began to ascend, while still over two miles
distant from the mountain. Higher and higher we went when we reached an
altitude of 2,000 feet, I could feel my heart begin to thump.
Timing himself with an accuracy, which astonished me, Mike sailed
over the top of Croagh Patrick about 30 feet above the flat plain. He
circled around once and we passed close beside the ruin of the ancient
chapel. There is also a large Celtic Cross standing upright on the
summit.
I was so glad to have old Mother Earth so near once more, that I
suggested that we land. Mike was going to bring the aeroplane down
when he remembered that there was no way to rig up a starting rail on
the top of Croagh Patrick, and so we kept on in our flight. A minute
afterwards I was sorry we did not alight, anyhow.
After his second circle around the flat plain, which is half a mile
square, Mike started east, and in a couple of minutes the earth was
2,500 feet below us. The suddenness of the appearance of this vast
abyss between us and land seemed even to unnerve Mike for a moment. I
almost collapsed.
Then Mike did a foolish thing. He imagined he could glide down from
this height, and he shut off the motor. We glided swiftly some 300
feet, and then I could feel the aeroplane begin to sink under us. What
happened I do not just know. The first intimation I had of real danger
was Mike’s face as he quickly turned to start the motor. I could hear
the big propellers whiz behind me. In starting the motor, Mike released
a lever for an instant. As we were descending with lightning speed
this was almost the cause of a fatal disaster. The aeroplane began to
rock violently, and I was almost thrown from my seat. The accident to
Orville Wright and Lieutenant Selfridge at Washington the year before
flashed before my mind. I wondered if Mike could regain control of the
machine. I caught the sides of my seat and braced myself against the
foot-rail. Even then I had difficulty in holding on. I glanced at Mike.
His face was pale. His eyes shone. Every muscle and nerve was tense. He
was like a rider on a runaway horse, determined to assert his mastery.
His self-control was perfect.
In spite of Mike’s coolness I am surprised we escaped. As the aeroplane
kept sinking and rocking like a ship in a storm, I closed my eyes and
resigned myself to my fate. I was aroused by Mike’s voice.
“A close call, Jack, old boy,” he said affectionately. I could see that
there were tears in his eyes. He was thinking of me and of my escape.
Brave Mike. I wanted to hug him right there. I looked around and saw
we were about 500 feet above ground, the aeroplane gliding smoothly
through the air.
It was fortunate for us there was no breeze to speak of. All that
morning, except for a little while on the seacoast, the wind gave us no
trouble.
I was glad to see Westpoint a few miles ahead, as we had planned to
stop there for a lunch, and to replenish our supply of gasoline, or
petrol, as they call it in Ireland.
One good thing came out of our Croagh Patrick experience. I began to
help Mike in operating the aeroplane. I took entire charge of the
motor, which I could reach more readily than he could, at any rate.
This left him free to manage the levers. He was the captain and gave
all orders, but I started and stopped the motor the rest of our trip.
I found this of advantage to me, especially after the rapid descent
from Croagh Patrick, as it gave me something to do, and, when not
engaged watching the scenery, or consulting my map or guide-book, I
could busy myself with the motor.
We had other exciting incidents, but this division of labor assisted us
in keeping the aeroplane completely under our control—as long as the
motor worked.