BENEATH TROPIC SEAS 



At a half mile elevation we flattened out and 

 took the first gap in the mountains at a gentle 

 angle, much as a thoroughbred rises to a three- 

 barred gate. Scattered wisps of cloud began tear- 

 ing past when we were near enough to see the 

 pines, and reminded me of the bits of floating cot- 

 ton which I use in sponge plugging. We just 

 brushed over the ridges, putting on extra speed as 

 we took off, so to speak. 



The whole trip was punctuated with air pockets 

 and we bumped and careened gloriously at the 

 will of the wind. Especially when we dived over 

 one ridge into a breathlessly deep valley, side 

 currents and unexpected eddies had great fun 

 with us. The clouds were of all colors — the thin 

 skeins cottony white, the more dense ones duskier 

 and browner, and the high ones spectrum painted. 



Shooting upward on the spout of air which 

 geysered over the farther rim of one sharp saddle, 

 I leaned far out and looked back and down, just 

 in time to catch three disjointed scraps of rainbow 

 in the auras of as many pillars of water pouring 

 straight down into dark depths from the same 

 knife edge. 



At each ridge I enjoyed a sensation which has 

 come probably to many of my passengers, but not 

 to me when piloting. It was looking steadily at 

 the silhouetted pines on the crest, ahead and some- 

 what higher than my eyes, to see them grown 

 larger and larger, rushing headlong at us — seem- 

 ingly with no alternative than to crash — and 



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