On the surface was a great light; he could almost feel the intensity of some luminary beacon shafting through the water. Below, against a backdrop of ever-deepening shades of green and gray, lay the vast coral reef and sandy bottom. Myriad schools of multicolored, tropical fish (supported by a grand and diverse cast of undersea plants pulsating to the rhythms and currents of the fluent medium) brought the mercurial art of water ballet to its natural zenith. Simply putting on a mask had unveiled this silent world—one that seemed to appeal to some primordial atom deep within his ancient consciousness.
Along the coral reef the crystalline framework of the radically symmetrical bodies—brittle tentacles of calcium carbonate—formed a gorgonian colony: orange and purple sea feathers; fans; calcareous spicules with erect central rods surrounded by conglomerate cylinders. Prolific were hydras, jellyfish, and sea anemones. There were mollusks and snails and crabs. A Crown-of-thorns, a Spiny Sea Urchin, a Diadema, a Gall crab... Julian became entranced by the parade of fishes: first a Parrotfish swam right in front of him; followed by a Lionfish with its colorful, zebra-like patterns. A shoal of Jewelfish awash in chromium-pink, changing to silvery-yellow in reflective light, was no more than an arm’s length away.
Kamehaloha directed Julian’s attention to a vibrant stand of fire coral. Waving his hand from side to side, he instructed the novice diver not to touch the poisonous branches. Then he pointed out a community of Moray eels, green and snake-like with geometric patterns that appeared to undulate as the creatures slithered near the reef’s foundation.
In this world of intricate patterns and temporal networks, linear measurement lost all meaning, and Julian now floated in an odd state of suspension. So when Kong pointed to his watch and motioned toward the surface, Julian was surprised to learn that they had already been diving for nearly and hour. They ascended slowly, Crosby at Kong’s heels, so the pressure could equalize within their bloodstreams. As they neared the surface the light of day grew brighter and brighter. Suddenly they were above water, and for a moment the world of dry land and air felt curiously foreign to Julian.
Onboard the Scoundrel, Julian was all expletives.
“What an experience! That was fantastic! I never imagined it would be so...” He fell speechless.
“So you liked it?” said Kong as he peeled off his mask and began unfastening his BC. “I knew if I told you what I had in mind you would have put up some kind of fight. Now you’re aware of something new.”
Still dripping seawater, Julian sat on the Scoundrel’s deck. Considerable suction was created between the rubber fins and bare skin, and a popping sound punctuated their conversation as he peeled off his flippers.
“This was probably some sort of tactic to make me want to buy the boat,” said Julian. “And perhaps it just might have worked, Kong.”
“You think you want to buy it?” Kamehaloha asked as he wrung water from his long hair.
“I’ll buy it on two conditions,” said Julian, still breathless.
“What conditions?”
“That you include the two scuba outfits. And that we spend another day sailing together so I can become thoroughly familiar with every operation on board.”
“Okay,” said the Hawaiian. Kamehaloha’s characteristic smile spread over the breadth of his face. Julian, too, beamed at the notion of owning the Scoundrel.
“We can sail over to the Big Island next Sunday,” Kong suggested. “I hear there’s going to be a luau at Hilo Harbor. You can drop me off there, and then go anyplace the Scoundrel will take you. I have only one more question.”
“What’s that?” Julian asked.
“Do you have twenty-five thousand in cash?”
Julian looked the Hawaiian directly in the eye. “I can get it,” he said. “But you’ll have to give me a couple of days to have the money transferred to a Hawaiian bank.”
“I think the haole just bought himself a boat,” said Kong, extending his hand. “Congratulations, brother!”
They shook hands to seal the agreement.
CHAPTER 3
A Luncheon with the President
IN JANUARY 1937, Amelia Mary Earhart Putnam stood in the doorway of the Round Robin Lounge off the lobby of the venerable Willard Hotel in Washington, D.C. Having just come from the salon, and dressed in a new, smart-looking blue suit with a silk scarf, a black belt and bag, pumps, and her silver Distinguished Flyer’s Cross, she searched the room for her longtime friend, Eugene Vidal, but did not locate him.
Approaching her, the Maitre d’hotel bowed graciously. “May I be of service, Miss Earhart?”
By now she probably should have been accustomed to being recognized, yet such familiarity in public still managed to catch her off guard.
“I’m meeting a friend, Mr. Eugene Vidal. But perhaps he’s not here yet,” she said.
“Mr. Vidal is seated at the back of the room,” he told her. “By his request,” he added. “Please allow me to escort you, Miss Earhart.”
At Vidal’s table the host withdrew. Gene stood up and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then pulled out her chair. “Welcome to Washington, AE,” he said as they sat down.
“It’s dreadfully cold here,” she remarked.
“What do you expect? It’s January!”
“I’m acclimated to the weather in California,” she said.
“How’s George?” Vidal asked.
“Feeling sour about not being included for the White House luncheon.” She smiled indulgently at the minor tantrum GP had thrown before she left Oakland.
Knowing George Putnam’s moods, Vidal chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll get over it,” he said.
A waiter arrived to take their drink orders. Though it was just before noon, Vidal ordered a scotch and soda; AE wanted only tonic water.
“You must admit,” she said, “it’s a little odd that GP was not invited.”
“Not if you know the Roosevelts,” said Vidal.
“Mrs. Roosevelt has always been totally supportive of my flying,” she told him.
“The First Lady is captivated by you, Amelia.”
“Don’t tell me things like that, Gene. I’m nervous enough about this luncheon.”
“Why?” he wanted to know. “You’ve been to the White House before. You’ve met the president and Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“But not for lunch in their private quarters. What do you suppose this is all about?”
“Part of Roosevelt’s charm is the way he perpetuates mystery,” said Vidal. “So what’s today’s protocol?”
“The limousine is picking me up in an hour,” she related.
“Good. Then we can have a few minutes together—to talk.” To Vidal, AE seemed uncharacteristically nervous as she took a compact from her bag and checked her already flawless make-up. “You look stunning, Amelia,” he reassured her.
Snapping the compact shut, she said, “I am going to the White House, you know. To meet with the president and the First Lady.”
During the next forty-five minutes they discussed ongoing repairs by Lockheed to the Electra following the aborted take-off and rollover in Honolulu. Amelia told Vidal that the repairs were going well and that as a result of the accident several innovations were being incorporated into the plane’s structure. They also discussed plans to establish, following the completion of her equatorial flight, a new commercial airline.
“Of course you know that Harry Manning has withdrawn as navigator for the around-the-world flight,” she said to Eugene.
“ I didn’t know that. Since when?”
“Since we returned from Hawaii. He says it’s because his leave of absence will run out before we can get underway again, but I think it’s something more—something personal.”
“Involving you or GP?” Vidal inquired.
She took a sip of the tonic then dabbed her lips with the cocktail napkin. “I can’t determine,” she said. “But it looks as though I’m going to have to find another navigator.”
“That’s unfort
unate,” said Vidal. “Who do you have in mind?”
“GP wants Freddy Noonan. But I don’t know.”
“Freddy’s a great navigator, of course. But if those rumors about why he was sacked by Pan Am are true...”
“What do you mean if they’re true? Gene, everybody knows Freddy has a problem with booze.”
“So why even consider him, Amelia?”
“Because when he’s sober there’s nobody better.”
“Sounds risky,” said Vidal.
Amelia smiled ironically. “The entire flight is risky.”
At precisely twelve forty-five the Maitre d’hotel approached their table: “Sorry to intrude, Miss Earhart,” he apologized, “but the limousine has arrived to take you to the White House.”
Amelia patted Vidal on the shoulder. “Can’t keep the president waiting,” she said.
“Of course not.” He smiled at her.
She was escorted out of the lounge, through the elegant lobby, and out the revolving doors. There a White House chauffeur stood holding the door of the limousine open for her. She slid inside, the driver closed the door, and they were off to sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue.
Arriving at the White House by one-fifteen, Amelia was shown directly upstairs to the living quarters of the First Family. In a marble-white foyer, Mrs. Roosevelt welcomed her cordially and told her, “My dear Amelia, you always look so full of vitality. You’re truly amazing. Truly!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Roosevelt,” she blushed.
“We’re so happy you could come to luncheon today. We know you must be incredibly busy with preparations for your upcoming flight. I don’t know how you do it, dear. We so admire your courage. Now, please don’t be bashful. Come into our little parlor and say hello to Franklin. I know he’s anxious to talk with you.”
As the First Lady took her by the hand and led her into the First Family’s private parlor—a lavish yet still homey room—Amelia saw the president sitting comfortably on a divan, his crutches nearby. A second man sat nearby the president—middle-aged, square-shouldered, and well dressed—though her attention was naturally drawn to FDR.
Roosevelt’s complexion was florid, and his partially gray hair was a little out of place, as though he might have been having a nap just prior to the guests’ arrival. Holding a lighted cigarette in a filigreed holder, he looked at her over the top of his Pince-Nez glasses. “Amelia Earhart!” he boomed.
This man, this president, had a distinctive way of making whomever he was addressing at the moment feel like the most important person he would see all day long. Amelia had met him before, and she liked him very much. One could not help liking FDR. And Mrs. Roosevelt was delightful, too.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. President,” she said, moving across the room, then shaking hands with deference. “Thank you for inviting me to the White House.”
“The pleasure is ours,” he said with a captivating smile. “Eleanor and I think the world of you, young lady. Imagine how many young people—especially little girls—are inspired by your accomplishments!”
“I simply do what I do, Mr. President. I fly because I love it!”
“The best reason to do anything, I suspect,” said FDR. He removed his cigarette from its holder and dashed it out in a nearby ashtray, then turned toward his other guest. “Please allow me to introduce Mr. James Forrestal, Undersecretary of the United States Navy.” He turned back to Amelia. “Jim, may I present Mrs. Amelia Earhart Putnam.”
The Undersecretary stood up and offered his hand. “The honor is all mine, Mrs. Putnam,” he said. “I’ve followed your career with great interest.”
“My husband sees to it that my so-called exploits are well publicized,” she explained with humility.
“Amelia’s husband is George Putnam, the publisher,” Eleanor offered.
Forrestal nodded his recognition. Amelia looked over at the president, who was smiling.
“Shall we move to our little dining room?” suggested Mrs. Roosevelt. “I believe they’re ready to serve lunch.”
“Splendid,” said the president. “I’m hungry!” he declared. He reached for his crutches and struggled to stand upon braced legs. Though several aids waited nearby, no one moved to assist him, for they’d long ago been instructed as to his preference for independence.
The Roosevelts’ dining room combined the formality of the White House with the imported personal comforts of Hyde Park. The table and chairs were Chippendale—not overly large or intimidating. Above a credenza hung a genuine Winslow Homer. The large window opposite the double doorway looked out upon a snowy west lawn surrounded by bare trees.
The dining table itself was laid with fine white linens monogrammed in silver thread. Four silver candlesticks with tapered white candles were placed round a floral centerpiece of lilies. The china was Doulton, and the crystal water goblets were etched with the Presidential Seal. FDR sat at the head of the table; Eleanor sat opposite him. Amelia was seated at the president’s right, and Mr. Forrestal at his left.
After crab cocktails and spinach salads, they were served Filet Mignon, saffron rice, buttered limas, and baby carrots. For dessert they were offered lemon chiffon cake. Over coffee the president nodded for the servers to leave the room, then asked Amelia how the repairs to her airplane were progressing.
“Quite well,” she told him. “But it’s terribly expensive. The Electra was not insured, you know. No company was willing to assume the risk. But we’re hoping to be ready for a second try by the beginning of June.”
“That soon?” said FDR.
“If we can raise the funds. Though we’ve decided to reverse our course,” she explained. “Instead of flying east to west, we’ll be traveling west to east.”
“Why is that?” inquired Mr. Forrestal.
“Global weather patterns have changed since our first attempt,” she told him.
“Then you’ll be flying over the Pacific at the end of your journey?”
“Right,” said AE.
“You know,” said FDR, “we’re beginning to hear disquieting news concerning Japanese activities in the mandates.”
“I don’t understand,” said Amelia.
“After the War,” explained the president as he placed a cigarette in his holder, “the League of Nations mandate prohibited all military activity in the South Pacific. Of course, the Japanese have now withdrawn from the League of Nations. I have information from personal sources—French, not American—that the Japs have ignored the mandate and are building oil storage tanks in the Carolines and the Marshall Islands. Shells for three-inch guns were seen being unloaded from supply ships—concrete airplane ramps, hangars, entire machine shops... Word is out that they’re dredging the harbor at Jaluit Island in order to make it navigable for big supply ships. When our own ships tried to call at Mili atoll, we were turned away. Apparently, there’s something very sensitive going on out there.”
Forrestal offered FDR a light.
“What do you presume their intentions to be, Mr. President?” Amelia boldly asked.
The president took a reflective puff of his cigarette. “Amelia, you must understand,” he explained, “that our own intelligence-gathering agencies are radically under funded. I complain until I’m blue to the various appropriations committees, but in truth there’s not much I can do to influence the isolationists. Even if they can nurture a little ignorance, as president, I can’t afford such complacency. One way or another, I must know what’s going on out there.”
Forrestal was next to speak: “I’d like to know, Mrs. Putnam, just what is the range of your modified aircraft?”
Amelia’s expression showed the confidence she felt in the plane she’d recently received from Purdue University.
“Lockheed Corporation has done a marvelous job of designing and installing extra fuel tanks in the fuselage,” she told Forrestal. “In theory, the Electra can carry over eleven hundred gallons of fuel. But it’s doubtful I’d ever get off the ground with
such a weight load. Still, with nine hundred fifty-four gallons, I was able to fly non-stop from Oakland to Honolulu, and on arrival there was plenty of gas in reserve. Presumably, the plane has a range of four thousand miles, though such a flight would have to be made in near perfect conditions. And such conditions exist only in theory, not in practice.”
“So, it will not be possible for you to fly all the way from Asia to the Hawaiian Islands without refueling,” Forrestal concluded.
“Quite correct,” said Amelia. “It will be necessary to refuel somewhere between Papua New Guinea and the Hawaiian archipelago.”
“Have you determined a refueling point yet?” he asked.
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