The haze is not so marked now and the wind is rougher. This ship flies smoothly, but I know a smaller one would be tossed about.
The color of the sand about the edges of the water differs; some is white, some rusty. I cannot see any breakers, except far out—the sea is calm with sparking ripples.
Our shadow skims over the treetops. The people whom I cannot see are probably used to the sight and sound of strange planes.
* * * *
During the last two years this remote country has had many visitors from the air. These people, I think, have come to feel a real intimacy with the flyers. There have been Lindbergh and Byrd, de Pinedo, Mrs. Grayson, possibly Old Glory, and in the old days, the N. C. 4’s, disregarding the incidental flights which doubtless have winged over this territory.
* * * *
Log Book:
What makes people live on little jets of land like this one?
White, white sand and curving wrinkled water, windswept and barren.
I have changed my seat to a gas can, one of the two saved this morning.