A strenuous day indeed - as we head over to Moon Island and the naval base there, at rather short notice. From what our tutor Miss Blande tells us, we were scheduled for parachuting next week, but the Rain Island Naval Syndicate happen to have a visiting team of instructors over, who have offered to show us the ropes while on their tour here.
 Many of us were apprehensive, never having "hit the silk" before - and indeed, today was not the day to do it. On the far side of the island, there is an observation post standing on tall posts about forty feet high, looking over a steep drop to the West. Folk had rigged up a long rope slide, ending in a sand-pit, with pulley-like sliders for one to zoom down and drop into the sand.
 First, though, we were introduced to Captain Pardue, the first Rain Island serving officer we had met (not counting the base personnel here.) A definitely tall gentleman of the Badger persuasion - recognisably of European rather than American stock to judge by the fur pattern. But then, Rain Island was once part of our loyal Dominions, not so many decades ago - and surely some good people must have stayed on in their homes in the breakaway section rather than move to the still-staunch pieces of Canada. He looks indeed a quite Respectable person, but doubtless anyone who truly supports Rain Island must be at least in part an Anarchist, and the Empire is best off without them.
 Our first lessons were basic indeed - there was a wooden platform with three levels, from four to eight feet above a sand-pit. Dressed in a rather nicely tailored jump-suit, Captain Pardue demonstrated how to jump and land from the lowest step,  with one's feet together and rolling to take the fall. Our Self-defence classes proved useful training for this, as we have been learning very similar moves for months now! Not till he was confident with each of us were we allowed to get to the next level to practice from.
 I fear that some of us are at a disadvantage - Maria is certainly on the hefty side for this, while Missy Kahaloa leaves rather a crater on landing! It took till lunch-time till Captain Pardue was satisfied with our platform jumps, and we repaired to the Syndicate canteen for a rather light snack.  Having dusted the sand out of our overalls (and boots - I had the forethought to seal cuffs and such with rubber bands to keep the sand out) we sat down to a very pleasant fish "chowder" as Helen calls it. 
 I noticed Molly looking around the kitchens with interest, though she is hardly noted for her culinary skills (being the only person I have met who can burn coffee). She confided that her Father's product should sell here, these islands really having very little meat production for the locals, let alone the hordes of tourists in Season. I believe she called the pressed meat PAMS, probably after Packed Animal Minced Stuff which describes it truthfully if unflatteringly.  She looked up at the menu board, describing how it would look everywhere - PAMS and beans, PAMS and chips, PAMS egg bacon and beans, and probably PAMS with mashed potato, PAMS, PAMS, PAMS and a decorative order of PAMS on the side. One almost expects her to write a song about it, as it will surely have to sell by advertising rather than taste. I might be more sympathetic about her Family product, had she not shared one of her sample cans with us. 
 Oddly, I noticed the waitress who came in about half-way through the meal was the same one who had been serving us at The Missing Coconut on Saturday. A small world indeed!
 After some half-hour of instruction and watching demonstrations, we finally mounted the steep ladders up to the observation tower, where a safety line was clipped onto our harnesses to prevent them releasing till we were already most of the way down and over the sand-pit.  Captain Pardue explained that we would be lucky indeed to "hit the silk" on a wholly windless day, and to expect to hit the ground at a fair trot. Prudence Akroyd's bunch went first, making a rather good showing of it - no broken ankles, at least on the first jumps. We were next - and as I had had occasion to already test my parachute making unhappy adieus to Flying Fleas Numbers 1, 3, 5 and 6,  I volunteered to go first.
 Alas - for a bad half minute, I found my nerve wholly letting me down ! Very unexpectedly, my legs almost seemed to turn to jelly at the prospect of stepping out over forty feet of air, whereas I had "baled out" at ten times that altitude and more. Granted, on those occasions I had little choice in the matter or time to think about it, but I thought my diet had included enough moral fibre to get me going. Helen solved my dilemma with a hefty push, like the great pal she is, and once started I found the swoop down quite exhilarating. In fact, I almost forgot to let go of the harness, and performed quite a tumble on landing. 
 Helen, Maria and Molly made it down with no trouble, and we were soon back in the queue at the foot of the tower for another turn.  It was quite suprising to see who had troubles stepping off the ledge - Sophie D'Artagnan seemed to be in a regular funk, while "Soppy" Forsythe stepped off the platform as if alighting from an omnibus. NOT at all as one might expect!

January 22nd, 1935

A very calm day today - our schedules were again adjusted to take advantage of Captain Pardue's kind offer to train us before he leaves at the end of the week. After a half-dozen jumps on the tower (losing Missy K and Adelle Beasley to a wrenched knee and a dislocated shoulder respectively) we assembled back at the airstrip on Eastern Island. Four casualties is not so bad, considering that even trained parachutists run a similar risk every time they jump - and at the polo match a year ago against St. Iscariot's, we had that many down in the first ten minutes.  The Matron insisted then on sending me off, although I tried to reassure her that I had one collar-bone still intact, and was right-handed anyway.
 The aircraft we were to use, was quite a classic that I had to look up in the books later on - an old american Barling Bomber, one of their first mass-produced six-engined craft, evidently sold to Rain Island as surplus. Its lack of speed should prove an advantage, as the escape hatch is just behind the wings, and there should be plenty of room to avoid the biplane tail when exiting. 
 Well! It was quite a thrill, the first two dorms of us to "Kit up" and pack ourselves inside, as the big triplane rumbled down the Eastern Islands strip with its ten propellers thundering.  Though neither speedy or fast-climbing, in five minutes we had circled to just over a thousand feet, and under the eagle eye of Miss Wildford and one of the Rain Island crew chiefs we clipped in our static lines. Molly looked a little nervous peering down through the bombardiers' rangefinder at the altitude - though I pointed out that having more altitude, gives one time to sort out any problems that might occur on the way down. And climbing higher would give more scope for the winds to scatter us across the island, or possibly miss it altogether - though it is a quarter of an hour's walk across, Eastern Island looks a decidedly small target from a thousand feet.
 Helen added that hitting the ground from a thousand feet or a hundred was unlikely to make much difference to the outcome - which somehow failed to cheer poor Molly.
 Madelene X's dorm were out ahead of us, there being only time to get so many away on a single pass of the runway. We watched them through the open hatch, somewhat open-mouthed - but the static line triggered all the parachutes straight away, and they opened up like great white silk jellyfish swinging down to earth. 
 After another circle and another check of the static lines, it was our go at last - I insisted on going first, and whispered (or rather, shouted quietly, above the roar of wind and engines) to Helen to not assist me out this time. As before, I froze for a second as the signal went to jump - but forced myself out, tucking my arms, tail and legs in as the tailplane whistled past above me. The static line tugged, and five seconds later there was a great jerk as if a giant had pulled me up under the shoulders - and there I was, eight hundred feet above Eastern Island, swinging down in what was suddenly a great empty silence, as the Barling Bomber droned away off towards the West.
 Looking up, I could see Molly, Maria and Helen descending behind me, as the wind spun my 'chute around. In fact, I was so busy looking at them that I only looked down when a hundred or so feet from the ground, barely enough time to prepare myself. Happily, I touched down on the grass strip to the side of the runway, though rather harder than I had hoped - hitting the ground as if jumping from an eight-foot wall is no joke, even unladen and onto rain-softened earth. But I picked myself up and gathered in the 'chute as my friends landed, without much trouble (Maria having the misfortune to land on a gravel road beside the runway. Ouch!).
 Our good fortune held up, in that the wind stayed down until the last two dorms' teams took off. Jasbir Sind's team and Prudence Akroyd's bunch had a rather trickier time of it, in a sudden gust that threatened to give them practice with their life-jackets as well as their parachutes. Sophie D'Artagnan had been the last out, and actually landed on the beach - after which, our Tutors decided to call a halt for the day. Main Island is of course rather bigger to land on, but has less in the way of open, flat areas for a first attempt.  Getting down safely in the jungles or swamps might be on the advanced course, but I for one will happily wait till the third-year to try it!

January 25th, 1935

At last, we return to the skies under our own power (so to speak. Jasbir Sind has mentioned the Indian Rope-trick, but I feel our Tiger Moths are more dashing, and break fewer laws of Nature).
 Having checked and re-packed our parachutes on Tuesday evening, we had sewed small patches on our sleeves, marking us as initiates of the "Caterpillar Club", having descended safely on our silks. Which is more than many commercial pilots of many years' experience can claim - certainly, here at Songmark we have a very comprehensive Education. 
 It was very like meeting an old friend again, to finally get in the hangar with the Tiger Moths of the Academy. Possibly more like a horse, though, in that we needed to do the equivalent of cleaning the stable, feeding thoroughly and checking the tack down to the tiniest buckle, before going for the ride. Still, after luncheon I climbed into the front cockpit with Miss Pelton watching keenly from the rear instruction seat - and though she is hard to please, in five minutes I had checked all the instruments, received the clearance from the tower, and was taxiing over the grass towards the start of the runway.  A minutes' wait for the green flag, and off we went, for the first time in a month!
 After a few circuits, Miss Pelton tested me on flying perfectly straight and level, which proved harder than I had thought, with rather "bumpy" air at a thousand feet.  She explained through the speaking-tube that we would start on photography next week, and that we would be paying for each others' plates. Should I be the one to spoil Missy K's shot, I would get both the blame and the bill - a powerful incentive. Half an hour saw her satisfied for the present, and we went into circuits of the small "sacred Island" to the South of our own. Having seen signs of interesting Native rituals carried out there on the shortest day, I was keen to investigate further - but not to be too obtrusive. Having lived a little with the Hoele'toemi family, I would rather be shown these things properly by Saimmi or her people, than ferret it out like a spy. Still, it is undoubtedly fascinating, and the next Solstice is a long time away.
 On coming in to land, I passed low over the five Barlings drawn up outside the hangars.  They must have arrived here by a rather roundabout route, island-hopping across the Pacific. Although not as huge as the Soviet K-7 that was here, not every runway can take them,  and even our largest hangars can only house the tail and fuselage, leaving the wings and nose sticking out. One hopes we avoid any more tropical storms while they are visiting.
 After two more flights and the filling in of the log-book, I was quite ready to call it a day.  Though heaving on the stick and rudders is fairly hard work, it is the nervous strain that really "takes it out of you" - especially having the Tutor looking over one's shoulder the whole time. I felt more tired than many of our far more energetic trips with Jirry and his family through the jungles or sailing around the islands, which merely gave me a keen appetite, like a hard-fought hockey match. 
 Thinking of which, tonight I got out my radio and managed to contact Jirry. From my window I could see Mount Kiribatori outlined against the fading sunlight after supper - and thought of various events of that trip. One other event began on time today - after which I passed on the news that our adventure up there has not, after all, left me with a souvenir the like of which gift-shops do not sell. Which is a great relief to us both, but I have to confess one thought - the kittens in his village were indeed, quite adorable.
 

26th January 1935

A lively day indeed, heading out over to Casino Island for our dance lessons. Noota and Ethyl were on the water-taxi, and as we rounded Moon Island they mentioned strange explosions coming from the South tip. As there is a firing range on the island, it would usually provoke little comment - except that Ethyl  says they were a most Historical sounding boom, with a cloud of grey smoke rising. Possibly a film company is stealing a march on their competitors by shooting Pirate films before the main tourist flood begins.
 Ethyl tells us that March to May is when most film crews arrive on the island, with a good chance of sunshine and not too many tourists. Many a good "take" must have been spoiled by a speedboat cruising past a Spanish Galleon, or a gaggle of Hawaiian-shirted americans with cameras waving at the Polynesians of a supposed Eighteenth Century.
 Jirry had mentioned that commercial films are a good source of money on these islands, as extras who bring their own Costumes with them are a great saving for a small film company. In fact, the locals often supply a whole range of behind-the-scenes workers in everything from props to stunt persons, which similarly saves a fortune on shipping a large team across the ocean and accommodating them over here.  Who knows, perhaps one day we might have the opportunity to appear in some hula scene or Native crowd - in my local Costume and with my fur oiled for outdoor life, I would bet against my best friends back Home recognising me!
 We surrended our Passes to Miss Blande, who was chaperoning us across to the island, and hurried over to the Dance Studio. A strenuous morning indeed - we were quite gasping for breath by eleven, when we took a break for coconut-milk shakes. (These seem to be a local speciality, though the coconut milk is evidently canned, rather odd considering how the locals prefer fresh foods.) 
 On the wall, there is always a full display of posters advertising the music and dance events of the Islands, with a whole range of styles. There are small bands such as The KoKo-Knutts, The Spontones and The Jumping Jitneys, as well as large European dance orchestras such as the Syncopated Seventeen. This time of year, it appears that they are in very lively competition with each other, and rivalries appear to be fierce according to the "Daily 'Elele". (In which I discover that "Duelling Banjos" is more than just a musical duet.)
 Helen spotted that next week there is the first real dance meet of the year, with famous solo and groups of dancers attending from all over the Islands and further afield. Definitely we want to go there - though alas it only starts in the evening, and runs till late. Persuading our Tutors to give us late Passes will not be easy. Molly suggests that we stealthily set fire to some large public building and then heroically extinguish it while folk are watching - but I think not. She has been telling us wistfully of inventive ways that businesses who have "gone straight" work the "insurance racket", which sound to me almost dishonest. Possibly being in Trade does that to one's principles. 
 Helen complained that Molly would do anything to "Make a fast Buck", just as a most striking Native gentleman of the antlered type began to demonstrate his routine on the stage for us. Molly assented rather breathlessly, though I doubt she had the same type of Buck in mind.

 Another two hours of hard exercise and attention to detailed dance routines followed, after which we retired to our usual luncheon spot, "The Missing Coconut". Much to Molly's delight, the gentleman who we had watched dancing came in, though somewhat more dressed for the street. 
 When Molly bought a second cup of coffee and "accidentally" tripped over his table with it, the rest of us inwardly groaned, I am sure, and wrote it off as her having seen far too many slushy movies. Such things never produce anything but cleaning-bills  and a reputation for clumsiness (and for believing what Hollywood tells you.) Well! I would not have wagered a brass farthing on her chances, but in five minutes she was chatting very animatedly to a most apologetic buck,  a Mr. Lars Nordstrom as we overheard, who is one of the Norwegian "Natives" of Main Island. From what I gathered and she recounted later, he is here rehearsing for the big dance meet next week, which is promised to be a major fire-lit event down on the beach.
 With Maria's assistance we managed to drag Molly away at the end of lunch break, and whisper to her that flicking one's tail in such a way is quite Unladylike.  Molly replied with some more unladylike Words in the privacy of the dressing-room, the like of which had Helen comparing her to a famous Sergeant her Father had known, who could swear for ten minutes and not once repeat himself.
 A fine but uneventful afternoon followed, though on the way back I stopped off again at the Missing Coconut, to add to the tip we had left (Native Costume is very fine, but in its more Traditional form is rather short on pockets.) To my surprise, there again was the same waitress whom we had seen on Moon Island and elsewhere.  I greeted her, with the observation that it must be a trouble to wander around the islands doing the same job - to which she replied that she is one of four almost identical cousins doing the job, and that they might be found almost anywhere on the Islands. So that's all right! The mystery solved, and no need to tell Helen, who seems to prefer jumping at shadows these days.
 
 

29th January 1935

A still and damp day, as we made the trip over to Moon Island for the first of our armed Self-defence classes of the term. Miss Blande specialises in such things, and shepherded the entire First Year over for some more weapons safety lectures and familiarisation classes. A loud half-hour followed on the ranges, where I single-handedly dispatched twenty onrushing paper targets, and mortally wounded eight more. Molly appeared rather let down when handed a compact Beretta .22 automatic,  and complained that an ordinary Police bullet-proof vest would probably stop it.
 (We really must keep an eye on Molly, as she is getting decidedly Fanatical these days! On the way to the firing range, we noticed a pile of crates of equipment, one of which was labelled "Pineapples - Rain Island Militia". There were no officials in sight, so before we could stop her, she had prized up the lid with her pocket jemmy set, muttering "They'll never miss just one." She looked awfully disappointed when she saw the contents - nice ripe pineapples,  destined for the canteen. What did she expect?)
I did notice a dozen of the Spontoon Islands Technical High School students carrying boxes down towards the Southern tip of the island, all clad in their very unflattering dungarees.  Ten minutes later, we were leaving the firing range when there came a very distinctive boom, with a grey cloud rising just as Ethyl had described. 
Leaving Molly and Maria to cover for us, Helen and I ducked behind the coal bunkers and sprinted between cover to the Southern tip of the island, where we could look over the beach. A strange sight! Twenty of the S.I.T.H.S and two teachers were working on a platform looking out over the empty waters, clustered round a large tube. When they stood clear, I saw what they were doing - loading what looked like an ancient cannon with a smoothly fitting billet of wood, and making ready to fire. Then, one of them opened up a suitcase and attached a model monoplane to the front of wooden billet, before hastily stepping to one side.
So, at last we find out what the Model Club were boasting about, having a high-speed testing range. The cannon was fired in authentic Pirate style, the billet acting as a push-rod to launch the model - which streaked out on its own over the water, a dozen binoculars, cameras and stop-watches eagerly tracking its fate. One assumes the model is made of sturdier stuff than balsa wood and paper to withstand the shock of firing - sheet metal to judge by the colour, possibly mild steel or severe bronze. It must be a pain to see them  heading out to sea after so much work, as they assuredly sink on landing. 
Still, it looks like the S.I.T.H.S. has jumped ahead of us in their class project - we are both quite envious.
 

January 31st, 1935
A musical day, or at least a loud one.  Although every day we look out of our window and see the tall short-wave masts (and the short tall-wave ones, presumably) of Radio LONO on its hill scarcely a mile North of us,  none of had been there till today. Being so close to the transmitters makes it easy for even our most concealable "cat-whisker" radios to pick up a good signal, which certainly helped on our early tries at building a receiver.
 Although the transmitters and studios are on top of the hill, Radio LONO have more extensive offices down here at the far end of the runway. Miss Pelton informed us that this time of year, they run talent contests before deciding which artists to "sign"  for the tourist season. Spontoon's tourists appear to be a demanding crowd, not content with hearing broadcast records, and wanting a regular supply of live and local talent. 
 Molly's eyes lit up on hearing this - she has been telling us of how her Father's Establishments often pulled in major Broadway stars,  famous jazz musicians and the like. We have often sat up after lights-out with the headphones on, listening to radio crooners, tap-dancers and ventriloquists, the whole range of wireless entertainment. Alas, no stark Futurist bands seem to play within range of our receivers - though Madelene X has often commented that one might get the same kind of sound by rapidly turning the tuning dial back and forth in a thunderstorm.  She is no great fan of the genre.
 Anyway, after breakfast we assembled in our best uniforms and followed our Tutor down the gravel road alongside the runway. Maria looked at one particular patch with disdain, as if it still bore the mark of her unlucky landing. One day, folk really must invent parachutes that one can steer, at least enough to avoid a tree or greenhouse.
 The Radio LONO headquarters were a long, low building with a steeply pitched asbestos sheet roof, something like a native longhouse rebuilt in more solid material. When we arrived, the main room was filled with (mostly) very bad ventriloquists and their dummies, all competing furiously for a "show" in the coming season. Molly whispered that they would have had short shrift from one of her Father's Associates, "Legs" Lucciado, who has extensive interests in show business. One or two acts had indeed thought themselves "dead funny", to discover the verdict was "dead funnier, but funnier dead." 
 We briefly met the head of the studios, a large and harassed white bear, before heading up the hill to see the radio setup, the reason for the visit. Fascinating! I fear we must have pestered the technicians ragged, as we filled in our notebooks.  It seems that there is a submarine cable and land-line across to Main Island which connects to the new radio towers past Crater Lake - so the radio can transmit from two stations at once, on slightly different wave-bands. Madelene X's ears went right up, indeed she almost jumped up and down barking,  having spotted the idea straight away (she generally carries a Wireless magazine to class and has solder flux for a perfume.) Radio LONO has been used for years by flyers to find their way to the islands with a direction-finder: now with a more modern set, they can read out the distance as well from the angle of the two transmitters.
 At least, as the technician pointed out, from the North and South they can. One wonders if the Spontoonies have anything against encouraging arrivals from the East and Western sides of the Nimmitz Sea ?
 On the way back down past the offices, we passed a small ambulance slowly heading out towards the water-taxis, with two dishevelled-looking Natives glaring at each other, one arm apiece in slings. Molly suggested that they were ventriloquists who had tied for first place, and the radio station had made their glove-puppets fight to the death to decide the winner.
 We are all getting quite WORRIED about Molly.
 

February 1st, 1935
Dear Diary. We did it! Passes for tomorrow to the dance festival!
 Today being Friday, we had almost given up on getting a chance to win Passes. But Molly saved the day, with a most excellent suggestion. All this week we have been busy in the classroom and the cockpit with aerial photographs, and yesterday we each had to think of a project. Molly hit upon the perfect mission for us.
 As we were taking instructions on the ranges today (small-calibre hunting rifles, very handy when shooting "for the pot"), we made it to Moon Island unchallenged, despite our unusual luggage. Skipping lunch was a small price to pay - the four of us laid down a full "reconnaissance"  of the S.I.T.H.S project, drew up a tightly surveyed map of their firing range, and with cameras, stop-watches and a great deal of stealth, we "scooped" the whole trial on film. A very busy afternoon followed in the developing labs and with slide-rules (which I at least know how to use, though the sight of one terrifies Helen practically out of her stripes) we measured their rather odd monoplanes' performances just as well as they could have managed themselves. One particularly good shot Maria managed with our longest lens, showing the model performing an inelegant "splash-down" some four hundred yards offshore. One hopes that a manned version will have somewhat better landing behaviour.
 A hasty compiling of our results into a folder, and we were off to see Miss Devinski. Helen was a little worried, muttering something about "this stuff they either give you an 'A' or an 'F' for",  but our tutor was quite delighted. She did caution Helen and myself not to do the same on any of the more Official projects around here - but that the S.I.T.H.S was fair game. 
 So - we are retiring early, unsure of just how late tomorrow the dancing will go on till. Miss Devinski has cautioned that we must be at the water taxis of Casino Island no later than midnight, and that she will be attending the dance herself. Presumably if we do not leave the dance by midnight, we will not be transformed into pumpkins - but if the Senior Years have to come looking for us, we will probably wish we were.

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