Crossing the Horizon

by Laurie Notaro

  She grasped the brace with her whole body.

  She heard George shout something but had no chance of making it out. The roar of the wind, the crashing of the ocean, and the pounding of the engine surrounded her, forming a tumultuous screaming orchestra that erased any other possible sound.

  Ten feet above the water, Ruth felt the spray splatter her face, and she knew it was coming. She had no choice but to close her eyes. She coughed as the salty water shot into her nose. Her head jerked back and then her body slammed into the brace. She did not let go, even when a wall of water swallowed her up as the wheels of the American Girl sank into the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.

  The plane didn’t travel much farther. It slowed to a bobbing stop within seconds. George cut the motor and the knocking ceased. Ruth was dripping with salt water, but she was safe. She felt something pull on the back of her suit; it was George hoisting her up.

  “Get on the wing!” he yelled. “I’ll push you up!’

  Ruth fell backward into the doorway and against her seat. She turned around, pulled herself up to use the seat for leverage, and grabbed the most valuable thing she had brought with her, which had rolled forward onto the floorboards.

  She tucked it into her suit and stepped onto the seat, grabbing the edge of the wing with her hands. George hoisted her foot and then her other foot on the brace, and she scrambled on top of the wing. He pulled himself up after her, and they sat holding one another as the waves beat against the plane, the swells so much more ominous than they could have ever imagined.

  They could see sailors waving at them from the deck of the 3,700-ton Barendrecht. A dinghy had already been lowered and was heading toward them. The ocean seemed to be playing a dramatic crescendo; when Ruth and George rose fifty feet into the air, the Barendrecht dinghy was fifty feet below them. Then, as the surge reversed, the two huddled figures on the wings of the American Girl looked up at the tiny rescue boat as if they were looking up at the spires of the Woolworth Building.

  The American Girl, in the meantime, seemed to be floating, but it was clear she was taking on water. Ruth looked at George, still in his leather jacket and knickers; he had had no time to put on his flotation suit.

  “Can you really not swim?” she asked him.

  He smiled wryly. “Ridiculous for a boy from Florida, huh?” he said. “How did I expect to get away from the alligators?”

  The dinghy was getting closer, but the swells were not shrinking in size and still billowing up to enormous heights. With its tiny motor, it was hard for the boat to overcome the waves, but Ruth could see them managing to get closer and closer in increments. The sun was bright, and Ruth was happy for that, but she was freezing, and if she was cold, George, with his clothes soaked, had to be an icicle. He was shivering. She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his hands in between hers.

  “It will only be a couple more minutes,” she assured him. “Look, they are right there.”

  The boat had managed to come closer, almost parallel to the plane, but the discrepancy between their heights was daunting. The little boat pushed on, trying desperately to climb the wave, getting a little higher each time they reappeared in Ruth’s view. The American Girl simply floated, slowly sinking, at the mercy of the current: higher, then lower; higher, then lower; limp, crippled, and silent. Ruth almost missed the sounds of the pounding engine.

  The Barendrecht dinghy finally crested the wave that had separated them. The sailors were calling to her to leave the wing.

  Come on! they motioned to her, and threw over a coiled rope that lengthened in the toss between them.

  “Take Haldeman first!” Ruth insisted. “I have my suit on!”

  George shook his head, but Ruth wouldn’t have it.

  “Listen to me,” she said sternly. “You are freezing to death. Do you understand? Get in that damn boat before I push you into it.”

  The dinghy was much closer now, so close that George really only had to step into it from the wing of the plane. The crew covered him with a blanket immediately, and Ruth followed a second later.

  “Please bring in my plane!” she pleaded to the dinghy crew, who said they would need to go back to the ship to get a towline.

  “You’re Ruth Elder?” another crewman said, to which Ruth nodded.

  “Welcome aboard,” he continued. “We’ve been waiting for you! The rest of the world thinks you’re dead.”

  This shocked Ruth. The world thought they were dead? After all the flying and struggling they’d had to do through those storms, and the rest of the world thought it was as simple as that? Just dead?

  “Well,” Ruth said happily, “you can be the judge, but I don’t think I am.”

  As the dinghy came closer to the Barendrecht, Ruth slipped out of her flotation suit.

  “Where’d you get that?” a sailor said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Ruth shrugged and said, “I guess we invented them.”

  “You should have seen the hard time the press gave us when we demonstrated them,” George said. “That suit pretty much saved both of our lives.”

  “It did, huh?” Ruth wondered aloud. They waited alongside the tanker for a ladder, and Ruth climbed up first, with a sailor behind her for safety. When she reached the deck, with George not far behind, a throng of handsome young men gathered around her instantly.

  “This is Captain Goos,” the sailor who had helped Ruth up the ladder said, and Ruth quickly thanked him and shook his hand. Then she snatched off his captain’s hat to his delight, turned her back toward the sailors, and took off her own flying helmet. She shook out her curls and opened her vanity bag, the only thing she had saved from the American Girl before being rescued by the dinghy. After she was sure her lipstick was perfect, she popped Captain Goos’ hat on her own head, put her hand on her hip, turned around with a huge smile, and said simply, “How ya doin’, fellas?”

  A cheer went up from all the deckhands as Ruth waved and blew kisses.

  “Captain,” she said as she waved and smiled at the men, “do you mind if I use your wireless?”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, in a suite at the Garden City Hotel, a porter knocked on the door to the Elder suite. In his hand was a telegraph that said simply:

  We are safe and no one any the worse off. Landed by steamship Barendrecht. Wire you plans later. Love.—Ruth.

  * * *

  Ruth was a smash hit wherever she went, and on the deck of the oil tanker that had just saved her and George it was no different. For the next hour, sailor after sailor asked for her autograph and had pictures taken with her to send home to their families while a crew towed in the American Girl and George got some dry clothes. Ruth was exhausted, hungry, achy, but most of all she was breathing and not bobbing around the ocean in her flotation suit. She was safe. George was back on deck in time to see the American Girl being hoisted up off the sea by ropes, a loop around each wing.

  The sea, however, was still incredibly rough, and it was almost impossible to lift the plane from the grasp of the beating, sloshing water. Halfway up the side of the Barendrecht, which was itself being tossed around by the ocean’s turbulence, the American Girl hit the side of the tanker with force, making everyone on deck wince. It was a painful, thick sound that Ruth felt in her clenched jaw. In a split second, a loud crack was audible, and the right wing twirled and plummeted into the ocean below.

  The crew was still determined to bring her up, pulling furiously and with as many men as could fit down the rope. The tanker suddenly dipped deeply, and the plane hit the side of the ship again, this time with a more metallic sound.

  The second wing broke off and joined its twin, rising and falling on the tossing sea.

  Ruth saw the flash first, then heard the powerfully loud explosion a split second later as it discharged in her ears. Before she could see what had happened, a second, larger combustion sent flames all the way up to the bridge and the crew scattered. The fire formed a towering py
ramid of light; to Ruth it seemed to reach as far as the sun.

  Ruth stood there as she heard Captain Goos order the American Girl dropped; it was now a roaring ball of flame, and there was danger of it setting the ship ablaze, even though the oil tanker was not currently carrying any cargo.

  “Cut the lines!” Captain Goos yelled out to the crew. “Cut the lines!”

  Ruth ran over to the railing, black smoke billowing up as the maroon and orange plane was severed. She watched as the American Girl sizzled when it the hit the Atlantic, throwing up steam and dark, choking smoke.

  To Ruth, it was like watching an old friend drown.

  She covered her eyes with her hand and turned away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FALL 1927

  George Haldeman, Ruth Elder, and Captain Goos on the deck of the Barendrecht, 1927.

  Captain Goos had offered Ruth his quarters, and as much as she didn’t want to impose, the only thing she wanted to do was sleep. George was happy bunking with the crew, and as soon as they ate dinner—she didn’t know what it was and didn’t care—she crawled into bed and stayed there. Captain Goos had ordered the ship to head for Horta in the Azores, where George and Ruth would depart for Lisbon and then Paris. It would take them two days and set the Barendrecht back, but Captain Goos felt that as long as he had found a little girl floating in the sea who had just made history, the least he could do was take her to land.

  The next morning Ruth Elder woke up as the most famous woman in the world to everyone except herself. The New York Times had made two thousand inquiries to the Barendrecht’s wireless, keeping the operators up all night. Every edition of the paper was sold out within moments of hitting the streets, with readers eager to hear of the plight of the American Girl, how the two fliers survived through tumultuous storms, engine failure, and the fiery death of the plane.

  President Coolidge sent a message expressing his pleasure that the fliers had been saved. Ruth and George, the papers revealed, had been in the air for forty-one hours and twenty-six minutes, making theirs the longest flight ever; covered 2,623 miles; and been within six flying hours of Paris. It had almost happened, Ruth thought. They were so very close.

  Ruth was still wearing the Chinese ring Pherlie had given her for good luck, but her mother’s Bible and Felix the Cat were lost, along with everything else on board, including their passports and souvenir airmail. Long overdue, the thousands of people who had hoped against hope and had been waiting for her at Le Bourget in Paris for hours the day before had been rewarded with the first news that Elder and Haldeman were alive, and cheered when they heard of their escape from death and almost impossible rescue before the police asked them to clear the airfield.

  At breakfast, sitting in between the crew and the captain, the aviators were bombarded with these bits of information until it became one long blur. It was as Ruth sipped her first cup of coffee that Captain Goos leaned over and whispered fondly, “Your captain’s hat is very becoming.”

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned around to see one of the wireless operators standing behind her with a message in his hand. She took it, thanked him, and opened it.

  World’s love for the bravest girl in the world. Anxiously waiting your return. Love, Lyle.

  She emitted a single, solitary chuckle, crumpled it up in one hand, and put it next to her plate to be cleared with the remains of breakfast.

  * * *

  Elsie was turning out of Hyde Park after taking Chim for a walk, when she saw a man walking toward her.

  “Elsie,” he said, smiled, and came toward her, his hand outstretched, and Chim automatically stood up to his full height and positioned himself in between them.

  She knew him instantly. It was Dennis Wyndham.

  “It’s good to see you,” Elsie’s ex-husband continued cheerfully, and she smiled tightly. “Fine-looking dog.”

  “I—I am sorry; I didn’t expect to see you,” Elsie stumbled, still not sure if she was looking at her ex-husband or if she was having some terrible daydream.

  “I had business in Mayfair,” he explained. “I didn’t expect to see you, either.”

  “You are well?” Elsie inquired, only to be polite, unsure what to say.

  “Quite,” he confirmed, clasping his hands together nervously.

  “That’s nice to hear,” she said, nodded again, and stopped. “Well, then. Good to see you, Dennis.”

  But Elsie didn’t move.

  “I just finished a play in New York,” he added quickly. “I believe I met a friend of yours there. Mabel Boll?”

  Elsie couldn’t help but release a burst of laughter, then tried to stifle it.

  “Did she say that?” She smiled. “That’s unfortunate. We’ve met, yes, but friends, no.”

  “She seems to think you’re getting ready to make a transatlantic crossing. So you’re flying again?”

  “Oh, yes, I have been for quite some time; but no, I’m afraid Miss Boll is being awfully presumptuous about that. Good to see you.”

  This time Elsie did take a step to extract herself.

  “Yes, yes, you as well,” Dennis said, taking a step backward to let her pass, and then stopped. “She claims you’ve stolen her pilot.”

  “Do you really have business here?” she asked, dropping her polite smile.

  “It’s dangerous,” he said, afraid to look at her. “It’s a dangerous crossing. No one has survived from this way.”

  Elsie nodded and clenched her teeth. “What is it to you, Dennis, whether I do or don’t attempt a crossing?” she said angrily. “You certainly didn’t care very much about a young wife you left in a cold flat night after night, waiting for you to come home. You walked away without looking back. And now you have the nerve to tell me all of a sudden you are concerned with my welfare? Don’t butter me up, Dennis. Have more respect for me than that. Just tell me now how much money you want.”

  “I swear to you, I want nothing,” he said, clasping his hands together. “My intentions are earnest. Don’t make the crossing, Elsie. I ask you out of pure concern. And it’s true, I did leave you in an awful situation; I was a louse for doing it. There were certain things that I couldn’t explain to you then. There were things you couldn’t have known about.”

  “I figured them out eventually,” she answered. “It took some time.”

  He pursed his lips and rubbed his mouth with his hand.

  “I let you make a horrible mistake,” he said, looking up at her. “But at the time I didn’t even know it myself.”

  Elsie shook her head slowly.

  “I didn’t make a mistake, Dennis,” she said quietly. “It was never a mistake for me. I would have sacrificed anything for you and the life I imagined we’d have.”

  “I don’t know if I’m glad or not to hear that,” he said. “But I certainly have my regrets.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she responded.

  “No—not about you, certainly not about you,” Dennis admitted. “But the way I treated you. I wish I could have been honest. Although I don’t see how I could have hurt you less, no matter what I did.”

  Elsie pulled Chim to her side.

  “I agree that honesty would have been a better start,” Elsie agreed, and stretched out her hand. “But I am perfectly fine. It was good to see you.”

  “Don’t go on that flight,” he said quietly before he pulled back.

  Her mouth turned into a soft smile.

  He nodded, turned, but then stopped.

  “Elsie,” he said, “I am truly, with all of my heart, sorry.”

  Elsie stood there, not resolute, not trembling. Only still.

  “I know,” she replied, lowered her eyes, and then crossed the street.

  * * *

  Mabel decided she simply hated pilots.

  Hated them. She swore that once she had made it across the Atlantic as Queen of the Air, she would never want to go up in a plane again.

  She was also hating Levine q
uite a bit at the moment.

  “What do you mean he just quit?” she yelled at Levine, who was sprawled out in an armchair in her drawing room as much as Levine could sprawl, considering his compact real estate, drinking his typical scotch and water.

  “He got another job,” Levine said. “I can’t control Bert Acosta. I’m not his wife! The guy needed to make some money. What am I gonna do?”

  “Give him the money!” Mabel yelled, storming around the room with her own scotch.

  Suddenly Mabel stopped in the middle of the room, her satin silk skirt swirled around her legs.

  “Oh, let me guess,” she said, pointing at Levine. “You changed his contract, didn’t you? You tried to give him half—a third—of what you agreed on, didn’t you?”

  “Can I help it if the guy wants way too much money to begin with, then up and quits?” Levine said, lifting his hands, including the one holding the glass. “Now, I got all kinds of business set up in Cuba, and I gotta find someone else to take me.”

  “Us,” Mabel corrected him.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said,” Levine answered. “Us. Did I tell you about the rum?”

  “You told me about the rum,” Mabel said miserably. “I’m delighted at your bootlegging. You owe me a case, for all of my scotch that you drink.”

  “You know,” Levine said, sitting up, “I thought you’d be happy. She crashed, Mibs. Ruth Elder crashed and Grayson turned back. This leaves it wide open for you still! What are you so sore about?”

  “Sore?” Mabel said, her face turning from pink to carmine in an instant. “I’m sore? You keep playing poker with all of these pilots at my expense. You already got your chance. Now I want mine, and because of you and all of your fooling around, I’m stuck here with you, again, without a pilot. Fix it, Charlie, just fix it. Now I have to wait until every other woman crashes into the ocean!”