Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
14 September, 1936 to 20 September, 1936



Wednesday 14th September, 1936

A long day! Had it been in other company I would have enjoyed myself thoroughly, just three Songmark girls with good weather and open skies to enjoy. Mr. Johnson had suggested he come along, but Zara and I showed him our detailed fuel calculations. Though he is not particularly heavy, hauling the weight of one extra passenger six hundred miles means we would have to sacrifice a hundred and twenty pounds of foodstuffs or other supplies, and he wants every ounce of that.

The flying part of it all went very well, with Zara taking off and flying the first leg out to my navigating, Brigit grumbling in the back as she worked the same calculations with her sliderule trying to catch me out. We had time to hear quite a bit about where we were going, which is about as different from Polynesia as could be imagined.

I was quite wrong about the Zogist empire, although their royal family right now are Moslem they have a lot of Catholic and Eastern Orthodox subjects, and the history is so complex it makes my head spin. Religion is not actually the problem – or at least, it is only one problem, in that every mountain valley has a complex web of antagonisms with all the others who they are in constant ferment with. Having this far-flung colony was an idea of relieving the pressure; every family that “owes blood” is obliged to take revenge by a socially unbreakable code of honour, as soon as they get the opportunity. But scattering settlers across this chunk of the Pacific ensures it is unlikely they will ever actually meet up. In one stroke King Zog removes blood feuds and gets a stream of hardy colonists who are used to living on very little (and some of these islands have just that.)

I asked about traders and the like, but Zara says they are specially chosen for being free of current blood debts, so can go anywhere with impunity. She has a lot to say about her national traditions, not all of it too complementary. There are the three main religions but it is not unusual for folk to convert or defect in any direction; quite a common thing is for youngsters who discover themselves promised in unwelcome marriages to head over the valley to the next village and swap churches; this inevitably leads to blood-feuds but nobody seems to think it odd. Being an ammunition salesman in Albania seems a lucrative job.

By mid-morning we had passed over a small port the map names as New Durres, which gave us a spot-on navigational fix. This did not improve Miss Mulvaney’s humour; honestly I think she would be happier being lost in the middle of the Pacific just so long as I had been at fault as to the navigating. Another half hour and the slightly larger New Tirana appeared on the horizon, noted for its three churches, broadly speaking (one with a gothic spire, one with onion domes as we saw in Vostok, and one with a dome and minaret.)

New Tirana! I suppose it is the first time since Vostok that I have been somewhere in a totally new culture; on Krupmark Island and the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands they at least speak English. With Zara at the radio we were cleared to land (so she said, and at least nobody fired at us) and by ten a.m we were tying up at a loading ramp with many curious gazes upon us from the locals.

Quite an experience, indeed – Zara was absolutely in her element, talking Albanian at about 78 rpm speed and leaving Brigit and myself to look around cautiously. After all, the locals had no idea we were coming, and she could find nobody who had even heard of the Johnsons’ project. I only hope someone like Beryl has not set the whole thing up. I have no idea what a genuine official land grant from the Zogist court looks like, and I doubt many people in Utah do either. Finding someone who speaks Albanian, let alone is fluent in legal terms, would probably be a quest in its own right.

After about an hour we had taken shelter in a coffee-house where Zara was happily sinking very small and incredibly potent cups of sweet black coffee, while spreading out town maps and a directory she had borrowed from the café owner. The locals are mostly the usual mix of European species, but with an admixture of hamsters, jackals and such who came from much further East; Albania being as far into Europe as the Mongol Golden Horde settled, and many of those being golden hamsters.

A very busy afternoon followed, with us scurrying around town shopping for supplies a young colony needs. There was a fair quantity of structural material, corrugated iron, L-section girders, water containers and all sorts of hardware. Getting all that back to the dock took most of the rest of the day, as did paying for it. It was not just a matter of comparing prices in the shops and picking out the best value; I should have guessed that everything needed haggling over, and Zara has been out of practice for nearly four years. A leisurely and civilised way of doing business (as Jasbir and Li Han keep telling us) but not for anyone in a hurry.

Zara went out onto the docks for some last-minute supplies while Brigit and I secured the load in the fuselage, strapping it well down. Sacks of rice and kit-bags of clothing were benign enough to carry out from Spontoon, but I wanted to make very sure no girders come loose and start sliding around should we hit a squall on the way back. Brigit saw the sense in it, and indeed we can take no risks on this trip; anything unfortunate happening to the aircraft would leave us decidedly stranded.

By the time we had secured everything we had expected Zara back – I went up onto the dockside to tell her to hurry up but there was no sign of her. It was already getting near time to leave if we were to get back to Zmajevich Atoll by sunset. Night navigation over the ocean with no radio beacons and very few landmarks to a landing site with no runway lighting is something we have all agreed to avoid. I know Brigit would dearly like to see me make a mess of my navigation, but she also wants to get back to tell everybody about it.

Although it may be the capital, apparently New Tirana does not see a lot of trade. In fact there were only three tramp steamers on the far side of the harbour and us at the seaplane slipway opposite. Everyone seemed to be closing down for the day, and this near the equator the sun goes down almost before you know it. I tried asking various folk where a pilot had gone (we were all in our flight suits although with nothing much underneath in the heat) but they just shrugged and replied in their local language. It could have been Montenegrin as far as I could tell; certainly it was all Greek to me.

My tail was definitely drooping as I returned to give Brigit the news. I could have wished for Helen or someone in her place; the irritating colleen just sat down in the pilot’s seat with her arms folded behind her head, grinned and asked what I was going to do about it. So much for teamwork and Songmark solidarity!

It was definitely a problem. Time was slipping away, and even if Zara turned up that minute we could hardly get back in the light. I had no passport with me so even trying to find the local Authorities would be troublesome let alone getting assistance, even if someone there spoke English. I had to assume something unfortunate had happened to her, which meant choosing between staying with the aircraft and going after our Senior.

Brigit suggested we leave Zara and get back to our paying customers. After all, we had done all the shopping we are contracted for, and I could get us back to Zmajevich Atoll and Spontoon with Brigit navigating. I looked at her rather hard, and spotted from her tail angle she had something in mind. I think I know her plan – let me take the decision to abandon a comrade and pretend to go along with it until we get back to Spontoon, when all of a sudden she tells everybody about me leaving Zara in the lurch! On the other paw, if anything happens to our aircraft we are not going to get back to Zmajevich Atoll or anywhere else in a hurry. I spelt that out for her, and by the way her snout wrinkled I think I defused her plan. But I had to come up with a better one; if I am in charge I determined to BE in charge, and ordered Brigit out to help me pull the aircraft further up the slipway to above the high tide mark, and secure it to the docks. I needed a guard dog to make sure it stayed safe, so I at least had the satisfaction of pointing at her and saying “STAY.”

At Songmark, they do train us to deal with emergencies. Having secured the exits as best I could, I headed out into the city streets having agreed to rendezvous at sundown two hours later (sundown at 18:20 as we are somewhat South of the line and they are heading into Spring in this hemisphere. 18:00 on the dot every day of the year on the equator, which must get rather boring.)

If I thought it was tactically inconvenient enough to search a strange city where I can hardly read the street signs let alone understand anybody, as I headed out I felt a familiar pain and realised things were going to get … more inconvenient, biologically. It was something I had hoped for a few days ago; mentally I tore up my copy of that document Mr. Allsworthy so “generously” wrote for me. That was the good news, and a weight off my mind. I could wish things had been timed a day or so differently though, as I hurried along the city streets wearing only a thin flight suit.

I had to confess, wandering around New Tirana at random with no clues to go on and with nobody to ask for them, was not a wonderful plan. It was hardly likely I would find Zara standing in the street chatting with an old friend and quite unaware of how the time was passing, after all. The only alternative I could think of was NOT looking for her though, having left Brigit guarding the aircraft in case she showed up there.

The inhabitants seen decidedly relaxed, in terms of folk lounging in coffee-houses rather than stalking the streets in hunting parties as I had half feared. Zara had told me the Albanian South Indies were governed by strict rule of the one traditional code of law everyone agreed with, the “Canon of Lek” named after a folk hero and ruler of old. It is full of surprising things, such as having everyone walk at least the length of a gun barrel apart, “lest they accidentally turn and strike the one behind, as even accidentally given every blow must be avenged.” * One assumes post office queues take up more room than in other countries.

By the time I had quartered the city twice the sun was getting low on the horizon, and with a matching sinking heart and tail I turned round to return to the docks. Getting caught out in an unknown city at night would be a bad move, and I was hardly likely to see Zara in the dark anyway. Just then there was a shout behind me – and turning round I spotted our missing senior in full flight along the street, being hotly pursued by four locals!

There was a narrow alleyway just behind me, with some broken barrels lying around. I grabbed a barrel stave and called Zara’s name; fortunately she saw me and headed my direction, and I ducked out of sight before any of her pursuers spotted me. Zara was totally out of breath; but nodded when I whispered for her to wait at the far end of the alley in sight. It was a classic ambush, with the three stoats and small fennec fox spotting her at the other end and not looking down to where I was concealed behind a barrel – until the first two stoats found out as I swung ten pounds of wood at their knees and flattened them right away!

Dear Diary: there are things that I doubt my chum Mabel learned at her finishing school. In the films you see adversaries weighing each other up, feinting and ducking. At Songmark we are told to avoid fights altogether but if needed – go straight in at full strength without hesitating, and use momentum to keep the opposition off guard. It took a second or so for the fox and remaining stoat to switch from “chase” to “fight”, and in that time I had gone for an Australian Rules Hockey strike, connecting with full force. Anyone hit on the nose that hard tends to lose concentration altogether; they were wide open for me to use my Jude-Jitsu holds and I did so with a lot more energy than we are allowed to in training.

Zara is a true Songmark girl whatever our Tutors say; she had returned to help me out and by the time I had settled the second pair, she was busily banging the first two stoat’s heads against the wall. It became obvious that none of the four would take an interest in running after us for awhile, but just to discourage them Zara pulled off one sandal apiece and we ran with them straight for the harbour where she dropped them off.

Yelling for Brigit to wake up and get out to help us, I asked Zara if an immediate retreat was in order. She nodded breathlessly and helped us pull the floatplane back into the water and cast off. I was definitely glad we had stowed the supplies firmly, as I cast off the last of the lines and put all my strength in to turning the nose round into the harbour. Brigit helped for a change. Even before the nose was lined up we heard the port engine starting up; sleeve-valve engines are famous for being tricky starters in cold weather but happily there was none of that in the South Indies! Scrambling aboard, we just got our tails through the hatch as the second engine roared into life and Zara pushed the throttles open.

Of course, in most circumstances we would taxi out of the harbour to get into cleaner water with less chance of a floating balk of timber or other debris shed from the docks, but it was time to take a risk and hope we got back to Songmark to be “chewed out” as Helen calls it by our Tutors. All went well and even with its full load the Clive was airborne inside a minute, as we shook our tails at New Tirana and its inhabitants.

I had laid in a course for Zmajevich Atoll but the sun was about to set and we had twenty minutes of usable light. There was a tense debate about where to go; Zara pointed at an uninhabited atoll just past New Durres we had overflown that morning and seen it was big enough to take off and land in with no nasty surprises such as internal reefs or coral bosses. In fifteen minutes we had it in sight in the last on the sunlight; there was no time even to circle but to put the aircraft straight down in the central lagoon and idle forward till the floats kissed gently shelving sand and Brigit and I jumped out again to secure it, still soaked from our last wetting. Well! After all that we could finally relax in the last of the light, and pitch our pup tents on the beach. Brigit was still growling about now being a good time to break out the medicinal brandy she would have sneaked onboard if not for me. At least there was tea and that bottled “camp coffee” to be brewed over a stove made from a can filled with sand with a cup full of petrol soaked in it.

Zara refuses to talk about what happened to her, which is less than useful. And rather ungrateful I should have thought, but that is up to her. Still, we got away with our shopping done and our tails intact, which is the main thing.

• Editor’s note: see the classic travel tale “In High Albania” by Edith Durham, written in 1909. Amelia is not exaggerating; if anything she is glossing over the less believable bits.


Thursday 15th September, 1936

(Position: unnamed Atoll approx. 20 NM SSE of New Durres)
A most unwelcome sight when we awoke – our beloved aircraft leaning over at ten degrees, one float half submerged and resting on the bottom! This is exactly what we hoped to avoid. Zara stripped down to the fur and splashed into the water; hopefully the leak could not be too bad or we would have noticed it last night. She surfaced half a minute later, shook her head and went down for another look. Ten minutes later she could still find nothing. The floats have access panels on the top for inspection and draining seepage, which are just big enough for me to squeeze through. Looking at the clear water filling it, I had an idea. I asked Zara to move the aircraft a little further into the water, and to bring me a bottle of her Camp Coffee. She objected to us sinking any further, but went along with me.

As the float moved off the bottom, I opened the stopper of the bottle and drew lines of the dark treacle-like coffee concentrate from one end of the float to the other. Suddenly I spotted it; as the water moved in through the leak, I could see where it disturbed the dissolving coffee. It was not a hole exactly, but a leaking seam that we might have strained taking off on full throttle bouncing through the waves.

The next few hours were spent waiting for the tide to go out, which happily left us high and dry and able to get to work with rubber cement patching the seams as soon as we had bailed about a hundred gallons of Pacific Ocean out of the float. Against Brigit’s objection I poured about ten gallons of it back as soon as the repair finished but before the tide came back; if there had been any gaps left we would have seen water leaking out again, but all seemed healthy. By lunchtime everything was double-checked and drained dry, and we were ready to start again. Having twice baled the float out by paw we were absolutely dripping in the tropical heat, so Zara voted we take a break before we needed all our concentration for the flight back. She took the first swim, then relaxed on the beach while I had my turn. I must say, it was a relief to be able to clean up my fur and flight suit. There is no laundry out here and the soap is packed away in the aircraft, but scrubbing with coral sand is better than nothing.

It always happens that things go wrong just when least expected. I had just returned to the beach to dry my fur when Brigit gave a yelp and beat a hasty retreat from the shallows she was just about to swim into. She was absolutely spitting furious, and snarled that I would have to do better than that if I wanted rid of her.

I followed her pointed paw and spotted the lagoon was suddenly full of six and eight foot Mako sharks, their fins cutting the water as they thrashed around obviously hunting. They had definitely not been there earlier, and we had looked carefully before going for a swim. Then I realised just what Brigit was saying – from her point of view it had been a typically cunning English trick for me to scent the water as I cleaned myself up, giving the sharks time to move in before she took her swim.

Honestly. That is not the sort of trick to play on people, no matter if they deserved it. Actually, I did find myself contemplating it would have been a rather effective plan for someone totally unscrupulous who knew the sharks were a minute or so away. I hate to say it, but if any Songmark student has to get eaten by sharks … well, some would be less of a loss than others.

An uneventful flight back in fine weather brought us across to Zmajevich Atoll with an hour of light spare, or perhaps I should say to New Elohim City. Our customers were very happy to see us, Mr. Johnson gravely informing us that they had all prayed all night for our safety. Which was nice of them. Zara explained that we had a leaking float that took some time to fix, and we were delayed until it was too late to make the flight in the daylight. This is all perfectly true, but not actually in the right order or cause and effect. Still, all’s well that ends well, and before dark all the supplies were unloaded and carefully piled ready to begin the first real buildings.

Brigit got her bath after all, six hours later than she planned – twenty feet up the beach, using a carefully checked and shark-free bucket.


Friday 16th September, 1936

(Position; Zmajevich Atoll still. Or New Elohim City, New South Zion. Or is that Newer South Zion? Possibly New, New South Zion. Not our problem.)
Hurrah! Today Mr. Johnson told us the password and account number that will actually get us paid back on Spontoon. I hope so anyway; it is a long way to come back here to complain if our pay cheques bounce. We spent the day helping erect buildings and plant nut trees in sheltered groves amongst the coconut palms. I would not like to bet if any of these will survive the climate, let alone give a decent crop.

Happily, the Johnsons, Grayes and Tames are not depending on the nut farm for food. They have assembled fishing nets which are positioned in the gaps in the reef; the tide can do the work, and all they have to do is boat out and check the catches. Quite a neat system, all told, and even the first day’s attempts provided enough for a jolly fine evening meal. Just because these folk are banned from alcohol or any other stimulants, does not mean they cannot enjoy a really good meal. It will also be our last fresh food for awhile as we fly back first thing tomorrow. It certainly makes a contrast, heading out with Brigit and Zara rather than my regular friends. Zara is moody and never tells us anything, and Brigit is so convinced I have it in for her that it is liable to be a self-fulfilling prophesy as soon as we do not have to rely on each other. It feels like climbing up a cliff of rotten rock rather than sound basalt; one never knows what hold will let you down next.

Still, we are in each other’s pockets for the next few days and there is no avoiding the fact. At least I had one last night away from them, and sat down to watch the sunset on the Westfacing beach. I was joined by the four Mrs. Johnsons, Mary, Mehitabel, Jean and Ruth, who also will be in very restricted company after we leave and until their next wave of colonists arrives by sea next year.

Mary made another gentle attempt to persuade me to stay. She admitted that it was a selfish thought, but she needs to have the best people available in her family, and says they need someone with my skills. It is nice to be in demand! I had to tell her that I am training to be an Adventuress, and settling down to farm life is really not what I have been aiming for as I worked my claws blunt these past two years. Plus there are folk waiting for me back on Spontoon. Actually, I was thinking “Absence makes the heart grow fonder”, and indeed we have only been gone a week though it feels a lot longer. A regular week at Songmark flies by even if we do get grabbed for gate duty or such at the weekend; I feel like a sailor-girl contemplating shore leave after three months at sea, and there is little in common with a respectable life as Mrs. Johnson #5. So I had to quite firmly turn them down, to their great disappointment.


Saturday September 17th, 1936

(Position: Waohabono Island, French Macronesia.)
A long flight! We left at dawn to much tearful paw-waving, wishing the new colony well (but I would not bet on it. That looks like a tragedy waiting to happen. Faith can move mountains I am told, and it would be a good idea if they moved a small one next to New Elohim City to retreat up if ever a tidal wave sweeps over this part of the Pacific.) The weather was sunny and the aircraft empty apart from fuel, as we had gone over it yesterday and donated every scrap of materials not actually listed in the manifest we signed when we took it over in Spontoon. That speck of coral sand is a long way from anywhere; I gave the Johnsons some of my own tool-kit as I can replace it far easier than them.

It should have been quite a holiday atmosphere; mission accomplished and heading home for a few days holiday with money awaiting us in the bank and our log-books getting healthier by the flying hour. Now I can claim commercial flight experience, which should put me in good stead next holiday. No more disastrous Krupmark trips for me! If I never see that place again (except through a bomb-sight) it will be a minute too soon.

Sadly, having Brigit in the back rather poisoned the mood as she was doing her best to catch me out in every navigational calculation. Eventually even Zara lost patience and told her to shut her snout; the rest of the trip to French territory was done in glowering silence. It seems that Customs is a dull job on small islands, and folk resort to extreme measures to justify their pay. This is not unique to the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands. When Zara landed to refuel, the half dozen splendidly uniformed and extremely overheated Customs Officers were all over us. Hearing that we were carrying nothing at all, not even passengers, got their noses twitching at the scent of the most suspicious flight they had seen in ages. The fact that we were from three different countries (as Brigit insisted) was another red rag waved at their faces. Happily we are in no hurry now, and could sit back and watch with amusement as they swarmed over the aircraft, probed and sampled the fuel tanks and looked inside the floats for contraband. One of the officers was a bloodhound, who proudly announced he could scent targets as well-hidden as a sealed hip flask packed in a new rubberised tarpaulin – but after two hours he retreated in bafflement, glaring at us as if we had filched his pay bonus from under his nose. There may be some advantages in ferrying the folk from Utah out and following their rules about not having alcohol or pretty much anything else – in a few rather bizarre sets of circumstances.


Sunday 18th September, 1936

(Position: Passing Cap Gallette, French Sandwich Isles)
Back in the Northern Hemisphere, much to our delight. Zara managed to coax the unladen aircraft up to 12 thousand feet, which made for a far cooler ride in the tropical sun. It is quite a sight; the Pacific stretching out unbroken for hours, the water absolutely dark blue and miles deep. From that height one can see occasional “seamounts” that almost reach the surface in the clear waters, some of them obviously having coral reefs despite now being hundreds of feet below the waves. Not having ocean depth charts, unfortunately they were no use to us for navigating. Brigit claimed that one of them away to starboard had great cyclopean masonry structures on top, but that is insane. She tried to get Zara to overfly it so she could get a good photograph (the angles were all wrong from our course), but we are watching our fuel very carefully and Zara refused to divert.

Actually, it reminded me uncomfortably of Cranium Island, which along with Krupmark is a place I will avoid like the plague. That had the appearance of being much older than it had any right to be; we have studied geology at Songmark with a view to prospecting, and I can spot ancient rocks that are the only source of diamond “pipes” and similar. The stranger side of Cranium Island was all Archaean greenstones and deepest Precambrian porphyry, something one only expects in the hearts of continents and not in the mid-ocean at all. One hears of islands being thrust up from the depths by earthquakes (or drowned in them with attendant damage to the tourist trade) and having seen one candidate, I could wish it had stayed where it was.

Our arrival in the French Sandwich Islands was uneventful, as having been worked over down to our toothpaste tubes the last halt, we could wave fresh Customs certificates at the local authorities here. Having been frustrated by not finding anything in French Macronesia their officials had taken great delight in frustrating their colleagues across the map by giving us totally clean papers which made them grit their teeth and wave us straight through! Brigit looked thoughtful about this, and commented that there should be a way of using this next time, probably involving a rendezvous with a suspicious freighter at sea somewhere between Point A and Point B.


Monday 19th September, 1936

(Position: Big Island, Hawaii)
Hawaii again! Despite it being the most famous spot on the Pacific map, I have not seen the place for two years since the ship from Rain Island called in here on my way to Spontoon for the first time. It looked a bustling, cheerful place, with the secure and impregnable naval base of Pearl Harbour protecting the islands as staunchly as the fortress of Humapore does our own colonies. We touched down in a harbour on the far side from there, where the docking was cheaper and one does not have to dodge battleships on the way in. Just one more night before we are home!

Actually, Zara relaxed to the extent of telling us her plans. Unlike the rest of us she is keen on returning to the Albanian South Indies. She has not mentioned why. But now she has some commercial experience, that and the letter of recommendation from Mr. Johnson should help her as official liaison with New Elohim City and their neighbours.

I can see her point; she is qualified in all sorts of ways. Getting in at the start of a new country has its advantages; unfortunately it is that tiny atoll she is talking about and not some great island full of potential. Newer South Zion (or whatever folk will call it to avoid confusion, if they care) is what I would call the most God-forsaken piece of sand in the Pacific, but the Johnsons are presumably better qualified to judge. If they prefer that to Utah, I must make a definite note in my Memo book to avoid Utah.

We cleared Customs an hour before sundown, and for a change felt safe in leaving the aircraft in charge of the harbourmaster while we could explore the town. Brigit’s nose twitched and before we could stop her she was straight across the road to the nearest bar, where she hopefully waved a paw-full of Spontoonie shells and her tail thrashed like a propeller when the barman (an odd-looking goose gentleman) agreed to take them.

Oh well. I had to admit, a chilled white wine went down very nicely, and is just within my limits for flight regulations tomorrow. Zara does not drink, at least not alcohol, and though she hopefully enquired the barman explained that Nootnops Blue is illegal in Hawaii as well as most other places.

By this time Brigit was on about her fourth pineapple brandy, evidently in no mood to follow strict flight regs. She then switched to something she called “sour coconut Pop-skull” which by definition does not sound a healthy beverage. I think it may be a local version of the “red-eye” that they drink in the cowboy films, which probably killed more cowboys than six-guns ever did.*  The bar was quite crowded, with the regular international mix of species plus various geese in partial Hawaiian dress who were mostly working as staff. She was wearing her flight suit somewhat open in the heat, and by the looks she was giving some of the more handsome canine customers, there may have been more kinds of “heat” involved than showed up on the thermometer. After about an hour it was pitch dark outside, and though I was tired out after six hours piloting and four hours navigating, Brigit looked as if she was just ready to start the evening’s exercises after her tenth drink. I have never seen “sour coconut Pop-skull” on sale in Spontoon, and there may be good health reasons for it.

Dear Diary: had it been almost anyone else I would have left her to it, merely reminding her that we were leaving at nine tomorrow with or without them onboard; a supercargo with no cargo is merely superfluous now. But after a whispered discussion with Zara, we frog-marched her out of the place, Zara’s loud commenting that she was a good shot with a bucketful of cold water having an obvious deterrent effect with Brigit’s would-be dates. This might actually be true; I do recall two of her dorm were canine.

As we expected, Miss Mulvaney was not pleased at this, and a minor Civil War took place outside. Hostilities were quite brief, as she is only a first-year and full of enough alcohol to fly the seaplane for a good half minute. She had a decidedly bad half minute, after which Zara and I took turns to carry her unconscious form back to the harbour while smarting from our own injuries. A Songmark first-year is a Songmark girl after all, and we never expect to get away totally unscathed.

Not a wonderful end to the evening, especially later when Brigit came to and proceeded to demonstrate in the back of the aircraft that the coconut brew is bad for the digestion. It smelt bad enough going down. Having weeks or months of abstinence and then seeing how fast one can swig the strongest alcohol in sight, is not a wonderful idea either.

* Editor’s note: Authentic 1870’s recipe for saloon red-eye: “Take one barrel commercial raw spirit. Add two pounds burned sugar to give it a colour, and two cups sulphuric acid to give it a kick. Cut with well-water as needed. To make Fire-water for the Indians, add two ounces strychnine per barrel. Make’s ‘em plumb crazy.” Aren’t modern health and safety laws wonderful?


Tuesday 20th September, 1936

(Position: Home sweet home! At last!)
(Written awaiting the water-taxi back to South Island.) A fairly smooth trip back; we were out of Hawaii at 08:30, over the Islets of Langerhans at noon and into the heart of the Nimitz Sea soon after. Radio Lono was serenading our homecoming with a fine swing hula dance tune by the SponTones. By 14:30 we had Mount Kiribatori in sight on the far horizon, and by 15:10 I was hearing the welcome voice of Spontoon air traffic control welcoming us home as our floats kissed the waters off Moon Island. Brigit had spent a bad morning but given us no further trouble and let me do my navigating in peace, so that was an improvement.

It took another hour to sign off the Clive to the renting company (we had hosed the fuselage out before breakfast) and have Customs clear our baggage. Then before anything else, the three of us jumped on a taxi to Casino Island, heading for the bank with our details firmly held between our ears. About the first time this trip the three of us have agreed on anything, our smiles when the cashier consulted the sealed envelope brought out of the vault and handed our wage cheques over to us! As we had already said farewell to our trusty aircraft, our options had we found the account was empty would have been slim.

I must have been associating with the likes of Beryl for too long now, I am starting to see crooked deals all over the place. It was scarcely a tender farewell either; Zara slunk off without a word while before running off to her own bank Brigit snarled a few words, none of them printable.

Scarcely the Three Musketeers, yet we did our jobs well and got paid for it. My log-book is stamped with thirty more hours commercial flying experience, though unfortunately in a unique aircraft that we are not likely to use again. I will not miss the way it side-slips, or the muscle strains after an hour of holding the tail up when it got badly out of trim. And somewhere in the far Pacific I have yet another invite to settle down with a Respectable family if my tastes ever change that way.

Anyway, we survived and prospered. If I can do that even with Brigit and Zara, the prospects with Helen, Molly and Maria are looking better all the time. Home now to see what they have been getting up to!

 

(And she did. In her next tale, “Autumn Fruit.”)
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