Spirits dampened during the long, gray days. When the weather was favorable in Boston, the mid-Atlantic was forbidding; when the mid-Atlantic was favorable, Boston was shrouded in fog; when the Atlantic and Boston favorably agreed, the harbor offered only a peaceful calm that made it impossible for the heavy plane to take off.
Amelia wrote what she called “Popping off Letters.” One for her father in Los Angeles, and one for her mother in Medford; the one was gay and stoically resigned, the other was serious and somewhat grim. The letter to her father read:
May 20, 1928
Dearest Dad:
Hooray for the last grand adventure! I wish I had won, but it was worth while anyway. You know that. I have no faith we’ll meet anywhere again, but I wish we might.
Anyway, good-by and good luck to you.
Affectionately, your doter,
Mill.
To her mother she wrote: “Even though I have lost, the adventure was worth while. Our family tends to be too secure. My life has really been very happy, and I didn’t mind contemplating its end in the midst of it.”
Toward the end of May everything seemed ready. But two attempted take-offs were unsuccessful. Too little wind and too much fog mutinied against human will and seabound craft.