Lindberghs

At Bathurst, Gambia, on the northwest shore of Africa the Lindberghs waited two days last week for a breath of sultry air to lift their plane and start them across the South Atlantic. Behind them lay a five-month cruise from New York to Labrador, around Greenland, through Denmark and Sweden, into Russia to Moscow, around the British Isles, through France, Holland, Switzerland, Spain to Portugal. From Lisbon, where Mrs. Lindbergh declined two bottles of 200-year-old port wine, they flew to the Azores. Thence they zigzagged via the Canary Islands, where Colonel Lindbergh painted a sign on his plane: "Lindbergh's Property. Trespassing Forbidden"; and Cape Verde Islands to the tiny British colony where they now broiled. Ahead of them lay a 1,875-mi. salt water hop to Natal, Brazil, the last ocean-crossing of their homeward trek. Somewhere near the Equator they might pass within striking distance of Germany's seadrome, the S. S. Westphalen. The heat and Mrs. Lindbergh's homesickness combined to increase their impatience to be off.

They tried to take off from the sultry harbor, but the ship refused to rise, so slick was the water, so still the air. They unloaded 40 gal. of fuel, piled most of their baggage ashore. The Colonel rocked the controls back & forth as he gunned the ship across the harbor. Still it refused to take off. Twice, thrice--five times he tried, then dejectedly clambered ashore again to whistle for a breeze.

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