We can see a haze. Reports last night said 200 miles of fog. I hope all 200 miles of it have gone away. (Temperature outside: 52°. Inside 58°.)
Bill shows me where we are. 11:55 and the plane is off Cape Canso. He is trying radio again and has hooked up the other set.
The wind is steadier over the sea.
Slim comes back for a sandwich. We seem to have endless ham sandwiches. Coffee and cocoa will be taken on at Trepassey and a few fresh things.
* * * *
This plethora of ham sandwiches, it developed, was our own fault. We simply didn’t explore far enough. Three generous lunches had been prepared for us by the Copley Plaza Hotel, arranged for a “fishing trip.” The tactical error was putting all the ham sandwiches on the top layer. We never got beyond them. Later, to our chagrin, we discovered that below there were similar layers of delicious chicken and tongue sandwiches, hard boiled eggs and much beside. We never had the courage to determine exactly what else there might have been.
The gastronomic adventures of trans-oceanic flying really deserve a record of their own. Our own highlights were varied. Ham sandwiches seemed to predominate en route. At Trepassey it was canned rabbit, in London the desserts were strawberries, and home again in America chicken appeared invariably on all state occasions.
* * * *
Log Book:
Bill has been flying. G. now has controls. The sea looks like the back of an elephant, the same kind of wrinkles.