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obtaining accurate weather reports for the next segment of the trip, supervising chamois filtration of the fuel.
    The night before the Howland flight Amelia slept very little. Instead, she spent hours writing detailed articles for publication in the International Herald Tribune. Freddy was occupied socializing at Cecil Hotel’s bar with Eric Chaters, head administrator at Lea Airport.
    “As a navigator, your reputation is unquestioned, Freddy,” bolstered Chaters, “but being able to pinpoint Howland Island is going to be your ultimate test. I’m glad I won’t be sitting in your seat.”
    While his companion was nursing a beer, Freddy Noonan had already slugged down several shots of straight whiskey. “Don’t worry, Eric,” he reassured. “I’ll have no trouble finding Howland.”
    At Lea, the Electra was serviced yet again. Oil and oil filters were changed, spark plugs were cleaned, engines checked and re-checked. The fluctuating fuel pump and Sperry autogiro were again performing erratically, so they were taken apart and repaired for the third time. Luckily, the Lea maintenance crew was thoroughly familiar with Lockheed aircraft, and both Amelia and Freddy were duly impressed by their expertise and ability.
    With the Electra left in capable hands, the pilot and navigator spent their last hours in Asia boxing up unwanted articles to be shipped home, items that included the flare pistol and its cartridges, and the two parachutes. In case of emergency these would be of little use over water.
    At last they were ready for take-off from Lea, New Guinea. Ahead lay miles of boundless ocean, an obscure island midway to Hawaii where Roosevelt’s DOC had constructed a landing strip specifically for this trip, and finally, San Francisco.
    At ten o’clock a.m., loaded with more than a thousand gallons of fuel, the Electra moved over Lea’s unpaved runway without so much as a breeze to help lift the overburdened plane into the air. The craft gained speed as it hurtled toward the seaward end of the runway, and as the wheels hit the crest of the runway’s tip, the plane virtually bounced into the air. At first unable to gain altitude due to the heavy load, the Electra hovered only a few feet above the swells, its props spraying sea water onto the windshield of the cockpit. Coaxed by the capable pilot, it finally began to climb. Slowly it rose to a hundred feet, then five hundred. As it disappeared from view, Amelia’s Lockheed was still no more than a thousand feet above the ocean.
    Right from the beginning head winds were stronger than forecasted, and fuel consumption was proportionately greater than expected. Yet, with the crescent-shaped coast of New Britain on her left, and Bougainvillea Island just ahead, the pilot was glad to finally embark upon this long-anticipated flight over the Pacific. She knew the dangers, but they’d planned well. And if she’d ever doubted her navigator’s ability, she was now thoroughly convinced of his skill. For even across North Africa, where landmarks were few, and gaining a sense of direction seemed all but impossible, Freddy’s readings had been flawless. Throughout the trip he’d kept them precisely on course and delivered them to each destination virtually within minutes of his projection.
    Yet she knew that navigating the Pacific posed unique problems. And there remained the intriguing side bar of President Roosevelt’s clandestine picture-taking detour—a service both she and Fred agreed they were willing to render.
    But as she radioed her position over Nukumanu, Amelia realized she was already running a full hour behind her flight plan. Only a third of the way to Howland, she understood there was virtually no way of making up the lost time, thereby compromising range due to increased fuel consumption. To make matters more difficult, the clouds had grown thick as they flew northeast. Noonan passed her a note on the inter-cabin fishing line that read: ‘Six hours on dead