[1]. After a pupil completes his training with an instructor, who has a duplicate set of controls, then he is sent on his first solo flight. To fly solo is to fly alone.
And Dad would reply, “Not yet awhile. He has a lot to learn and there’s plenty of time yet.”
So on that first meeting with Jack, as they rolled across the bridge to Long Island, Kiwi had wondered if this broad-shouldered sailor-flyer could be coaxed into teaching him.
Dad and Jack had been too busy talking to notice him. Dad was asking a thousand questions: how much had they got done on the ship? ... were the tanks installed yet? ... had the motor been shipped? Dad seemed upset that more had not been accomplished. “We must get a hustle on if we’re to get off by the 15th of June,” he had said.
After they had been riding for some time, Kiwi asked:
“Whose house are we going to, Dad?”
Dad turned to Jack, who hurriedly said, “Wait till you see. I have had a wonderful idea. You remember Old Bert who used to fly the pontoons over at Rockaway—who would loop any old crate they would let him fly? He has a shipyard over here and is building houseboats—two sizes—and he thought we would like to use one of the smaller ones—just one big room and a little kitchen and a porch. We can moor it where we like, sleep under the awning on top, and keep the car on the shore near by so that we can run back and forth to the field. That will only take about twenty minutes, and it means a good swim in the morning and another after mucking around the hangars all day. Does the Kiwi swim?”
“Like a fish.”
“Well, that’s settled then.”
