GMT, 4 September, 1936 I climb into the cockpit of The Messenger. She’s a four-seater, built to be light and fast. But today she’s weighted down with nineteen hundred pounds of fuel: tanks in the wings, in the center body, next to me, and behind me where the passenger seats should be. There’s hardly room for my provisions and my maps. I latch the door and look out down the long military runway. A civilian runway won’t give me enough distance to get the heavy plane off the ground. I call out, “Switches on…Contact.” My mechanic swings the propeller. After a heartbeat of silence, the engine roars to life. I push the throttle forward and the airplane hesitates. She’s too heavy. The Messenger is rebellious and surly. Well, I’ve had more than one reluctant horse under me. I coax it forward. Sullenly, she yields to persuasion. I won’t circle on the runway: I dare not waste a drop of fuel. I head straight west.
