ADVENTURE IS ITS OWN REWARD

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 80, Issue 308, 29 December 1937, Page 3

ADVENTURE IS ITS OWN REWARD

Amelia Earhart Says That Dangerous Ventures Are the Deepest Security Of Our Hearts, Which Lose Their Worth if Too Well Sheltered

| FLY THE OCEANS because I like it, wrote Amelia Earhart, the American airwoman, who recently lost her life in the Pacific Ocean when her plane crashed. This may be a woman's reason, but I don’t think it needs an apology whether it comes from a woman or a man. It is the real motive behind most human activity. To wish for something from the bottom of your heart, and to have the pleasure of doing it, of concentrating all your energy upon it, is not only the surest guarantee of success—it is also being honest with yourself. Whether you fly the Pacific, sell hot-dogs, build skyscrapers, drive a team or run a grocery store in Auhison, Kansas, your greatest strength comes from the fact that you desire to do that one thing well. If you stop to thi k of the money you make or what people think of you or that you might break a leg, you waste this power. Some of my friends told me I was poorly prepared for my Atlantic Hight in 1932. I took with me only what 1 wore—riding breeches, a silk shirt, and a leather Hying costume. I brought no dress for “the other side” and sent no advance agent to await me and look after my affairs on my arrival in Europe. I said nothing to the press. 1 took only £4 and some food—a thermos bottle of soup and some tomato juice. If a succeeded, .1. knew everything would conic out all right; if I failed, nothing would matter. Aly aim was Io fly to Europe, and any mi necessary clothes, food, or publicity would merely have claimed attention. Protests and congratulations of friends and dozens of commercial proposals would only have committed me to the Hight and robbed me of my woman's right to change my mind. But freed of ail that I pursued normally an I happily my plans of preparation. The hours and days which I spent practising “blind” Hying were worth to me more than a the success that followed. It was the flying itself that absorbed me. If there is one lesson that 1 have learned in life it is this: if you follow the deepest desire of your heart all things will order themselves. If you sacrifice enough to do a thing, you usually do it well, and anything well done in life, whether in spurt, business, ITiemHhip or art, is profitable to others as well as to yourself. But here is another question: “Yes, Miss Earhart, wc understand you like to fly the ocean; but why do you want to do it?” This is a sensible question, and for that reason I will forfeit the privilege of replying “Because!” 1 am going to attempt to give a reasonable a nswer. 1 could easily enough say that I fly in the interests of science, aviation, or international good-will. But, unfortunately, this would not be the truth. If science advanced, aviation progressed, or world peace were helped by my wings’ flight, no one would be more pleased than I, nor more astonished. Tlhe first transoceanic flights certainly have had this effect; but. since the flight of Alcock and Brown in 1919, so much of it has been done, that the effect is neglible. Thus 1 must fall back on reasons less weighty but more personal. In 1928, as you probably have forgotten, I was the first woman to fly the Atlantic, with •Stutz and Gordon as my pilot and mechanic and myself as baggage. The first fligii.t was a kind of accident for me. At that time 1 was working in a poorhouse in Boston. I received a telephone call from a Captain Hailey whom I did not know. He asked me if I would like fo take part in a flight that involved some danger. As I had set the woman’s altitude record and had done some fair flying besides, this offer placed me n a curious s : tuation: if the organisers of the flight did not- like me »r if 1 had too many faults, I would miss the flight. On the other hand, if they liked me too much they would not care to .-<ive me risk it. Thus I had Io assume n attitude of impenetrable mediocrity. Apparently I succeeded, fur they chose me. 1 vividly recall the test for my last Atlantic flight. In the dead of night, with my altimeter

broken, I was flying between fog below and snow above. When I climbed for security, ice formed on the wings. When I flew lower to allow the ice to melt I ran into tlhe fog, dangerously bear the sea. I had to keep climbing and dropping, trying to stay wi’hin the haze between the ice and fog. There are times in life when flying too high or too low are equally dangerous. At these moment we must rely upon our common sense: we are all well enough equipped with that. On this first flight in the Friendship I was to help Stutz with the piloting. He made the take-off, the most difficult part of a hard flight. 1 was to take tho controls when the flying became easier; but it happened that it was all hard, with bad weather and log the whole of

the way. I who had no experience at that time in “blind” flying had to change places with Gordon for the entire trip. 1 was excess baggage. As an English paper staled, with more accuracy than friendliness, Stutz and Gordon “might just as well have brought along a sheep.” As a matter of fact, I was not even on the level of a woman back-seat driver because I could not have shouted loud enough to made the pilot hear. But I enjoyed myself immensely, feeling the joy of an adventure and the breath of disaster. I saw two brave men lighting the black wilt's of tho elements with boundless courage and skill. But for me the experience was incomplete because I was o ' * sidelines and 1 wanted to be in the game. No one mentioned that, however. Everyone insisted on giving me more credit than 1 deserved because I was a woman which had noth-

iug to do with this business! They made a bigger fuss over me than over the men who had done everything. That is the first reason why I like to fly alone. I wanted to prove myself, to deserve some small part of the fine things they said of me. But there are other better reasons. First, I will profess a motive to whi h everyone will concede: simply that women can do most things that men can do. In any situation that calls for intelligence, co-ordination of action, courage, coolness and strength of will (apart from that demanding great physical strength) women can equal nun. My second and last reason is that adventure is its own reward. By adventure, I do not mean flying the ocean alone! I mean taking any adventure that may come to us during life. I do not wish to eulogise foolhardiness; anyone who carelessly or hot-headedly takes a chance insults the spirit of Ulysses, the world’s first adventurer. Adventure is not for amateurs or feeble minds. It is for the person who for years has wanted to do a certain thing more than anything else in the world, who centres all his thoughts upon it, and who finally achieves his end. No novice ever did anything important except, perhaps, at a baby show or a beauty contest where the competitors a- prepared from birth. Even in my first transatlantic flight I was no novice. I had been interested in aviation as early as 1918 when 1 was a nurso in a war hospital in Toronto, Canada. Ever since then flying has been in my blood. Though I have respect for dollars and cents, they arc not the final measure of human happiness. I took nothing for my first flight except £2OOO from a newspaper, and I handed this all over to the organisers of the enterprise. It is true that I have profited somewhat since, having taken contracts for work which would otherwise not have been offered to me. These were agreeable helps, but they were not part of my plan in dong what I wanted to do. 1 have always wanted to do new things, to do them for the first time. I remember once, 25 years ago, when my sister and I put on our gym costumes and went out into the street to shock the well-brought-up children. That seems insignificant to-day, but it was very, very daring in that age of strict conventions. Weil, it is still a thrill to do something for the first time. My first solo flight delighted me so much that 1 climbed o 5000 feet, to Uhe great terror of my instructor. 1 then botched tho success by making a had landing. Thus my particular wish to fly the oceans was not new Io me: I had crossed oceans before; everyone attempts his own Pacific. What you do against tho force of tradition, the opinion of neighbours, and what people call common sense, that is an ocean. I have tasted life from childhood; I intend to keep on tasting it. My husband, George Palmer Putnam, the editor, has often expressed tho same idea to me: “Some day,’’ ho threatens, “I am going to some little town out West. I will take another name and find a job as a reporter on a small paper. I want to prove to myself that I can start all over again.” Many of us have the same inner feeling, and I wish the young people of our day would listen to that call. Young people, and old people, too, fear experiences; they fear even small ventures, little Atlantics. But strike out; do something that interests you, that you can do with pleasure; there is still time. 1 have worked at 28 jobs in my life; I hope to work at 228 more. Live, meet people, study them, adapt yourself to them, please them, inger them, discover what they are. That will do you more good than a college education. Wherever you go you will meet the unforeseen, that is inevitable, hut you will oe ready for it. Dangerous ventures are indeed the deepest security for our hearts, which, like hidden gold, lose their worth if too well sheltered.