Land ho?

“You’ll make it next time, I’m sure,” I assured Howard, handing him a steaming cup of tea.

“Sure, if I can get another plane,” he croaked.

“This wasn’t your fault, you don’t control the weather. Nobody wants the Japanese to make it first, the sponsors will build another plane for you.”

“The Japanese at least made Bermuda, and I was ten percent under projections and not yet to 150 degrees.”

“Well, let’s just enjoy the cruise home, shall we?” I flopped down in the leather chair opposite him.

“I’ll enjoy it when I can sail all the way back from Tokyo.”

Howard stared silently out the porthole at the bucking grey water. The ship groaned.

“I’m starting to think man wasn’t meant to cross the Great Ocean,” he griped. “Between the raging seas and the storms… if God had meant us to cross, wouldn’t He have put Asia a little closer to Europe? This unholy expanse of ocean will be the end of us yet.”

“Here,” I said, “have a biscuit.”

Howard grumbled and took it. He can be so contrary sometimes.

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