Canton Island

Left the Waldorf at 0430 for a 0600 takeoff. Climbed to 12,000 feet to get over the equatorial front. Bacon leading, Beswick flying number two on the left and myself flying number three on the right. A 20,000-footer loomed ahead. We widened out a bit and plunged in. It got blacker and blacker. A freezing rain started pounding on the windshield, and the plane began to rise and snap in the terrific turbulence. The air currents dropped us a thousand, then up again, as the wings flapped and groaned. Every instrument on the board went wild and spun senselessly. The rain became heavier, as the clouds became blacker. The wings and nose began to disappear in the murk as Savio said, “Jesus, let’s get out of this!”

“What’s the reciprocal of 210°?” I shouted at him, as I started a slow turn to the right, so intent on the instruments, I could not even do a simple arithmetical problem in my head.

“030!” he shouted back as I brought her out on a reverse course. The bucking and surging gradually ceased as the clouds grew lighter in color.

Finally, breaking out into the clear, I was relieved to see Beswick just emerging from the wall of clouds, about half a mile away. Together we dropped down to 200 feet and went under the storm, despite the heavy rains.

Crossed the international dateline at about 1300, thus automatically jumping into —