It was really necessary for a woman to wear breeks and leather coats in these old days of aviation. The fields were dirty and planes hard to enter. People dressed the part in a semi-military khaki outfit, and in order to be as inconspicuous as possible I fell into the same styles. A leather coat I had then, I wore across the Atlantic, eight years later.
Neta sold her plane and I bought one and changed instructors after a few hours’ work. John Montijo, an ex-army instructor, took charge of me and soloed me after some strenuous times together. I refused to fly alone until I knew some stunting. It seemed foolhardy to try to go up alone without the ability to recognize and recover quickly from any position the plane might assume, a reaction only possible with practice. In short, to become thoroughly at home in the air, stunting is as necessary as, and comparable to, the ability to drive an automobile in traffic. I was then introduced to aerobatics and felt not a bit afraid when sent “upstairs” alone for the first time.
Usually a student takes off nonchalantly enough but doesn’t dare land until his gas supply fails. Any field is familiar with the sight of beginners circling about overhead, staying up solely because they can’t bear to come down. The thought of landing without their instructors to help them, if need be, becomes torture, which is only terminated by the force of gravity.
In soloing—as in other activities—it is far easier to start something than it is to finish it. Almost every beginner hops off with a whoop of joy, though he is likely to end his flight with something akin to D. T.’s.
I reversed the process. In taking off for the first time alone, one of the shock absorbers broke, causing the left wing to sag just as I was leaving the ground. I didn’t know just what had happened, but I did know something was wrong and wondered what I had done. The mental agony of starting the plane had just been gone through and I was suddenly faced with the agony of stopping it. It was all in a matter of seconds, of course, and somehow I contrived to do the proper thing. My brief “penguin” flight came to a prompt conclusion without further mishap.
When the damage had been repaired, I took courage to try again, this time climbing about 5,000 feet, playing around a little, and returning to make a thoroughly rotten landing. At once I had my picture taken by a gentleman from Iowa who happened to be touring California and wanted a few rare sights for the album back home.
© Keystone Views
SOUTHAMPTON—MRS. GUEST, GORDON, A. E., STULTZ, MRS. FOSTER WELCH
