One day when AE and Wiley Post were discussing flying in general, Amelia told the veteran pilot about her plans to fly from Mexico to New York. He asked her what route she intended to take. She told him she would go as the crow flies—in as straight a line as possible.
Wiley Post strode across the room to a globe on the table. He turned it until he found Mexico, then measured the distance to New York between his thumb and little finger. He raised his head.
“You are cutting across the Gulf then?” he asked. The white patch over his eye caught the light from the window.
“Yes, sir!” Amelia answered. There was no doubt in her voice.
“That’s about seven hundred miles,” he said. “Almost half an Atlantic.” He looked at her directly, his large round face serious and questioning. “How much time do you lose if you go around by the shore?”
“About an hour. Maybe a little more.” She fingered the long string of pearls about her neck. Her voice was low and soft.
“Amelia, don’t do it,” Wiley Post said. “It’s too dangerous.”
AE was incredulous. Did Wiley Post, who had braved every hazard in flying, think such a simple flight as this one was too dangerous? She could not wait to be on her way.
It was not the first or the last time that she disregarded professional advice.
Shortly before midnight on the nineteenth of April she soared into the California moonlight, heading south and east. The light from the full moon was soft; it gently gilded the rolling hills and marked as with a large diffused flashlight the course to the Gulf of California. In the moisture of the night air the Wasp motor purred: the rhythm of the pistons was smooth and even.