This is not an unknown phenomenon. Subsequently I learned the rainbows were caused by our propellers.
* * * *
Log Book:
I do believe we are getting out of fog. Marvellous shapes in white stand out, some trailing shimmering veils. The clouds look like icebergs in the distance. It seemed almost impossible to believe that one couldn’t bounce forever on the packed fog we are leaving. The highest peaks of the fog mountains, (oh, we didn’t get out) are tinted pink, with the setting sun. The hollows are grey and shadowy. Bill just got the time. O. K. sez he. 10:20 London time my watch. Pemmican is being passed or just has been. What stuff!
The pink vastness reminds me of the Mojave Desert. Also:
J’ai miré dans ma prunel
Petite minute éblouie
La grande lumière éternele.
(Bill gets position. We are out 1096 miles at 10:30 London time,)—and having done so he is content to die. I wish I had that poem here.
One of the greatest sights is the sun splashing to oblivion behind the fog, but showing pink glows through apertures in the fog. I wish the sun would linger longer. We shall soon be grey-sheathed.