67 seconds to get off. We bank, swoop down and with gathering speed zoom over the tug. I hope the cameras [those on the tug] registered, for the ship looks beautiful in flight. * * * * All that was written in the first part of the journey after leaving Boston. It was less than an hour out when the next entry in the diary is recorded. * * * * _Log Book:_ I can see fifteen little fishing vessels. Probably they can’t see each other. 96 miles out (1 hour). 7:30. 2500 ft. Bill shows me on the map that we are near Cash’s Ledge. We cannot see anything (if there is anything to see), as the haze makes visibility poor. The sun is blinding in the cockpit and will be, for a couple of hours. Bill is crouching by the hatchway, taking sights. * * * * The drift indicator was on the floor by the hatchway which had to be opened each time speed and drift calculations were made. * * * * _Log Book:_ Hooray! Nova Scotia at 8:55. Fear Island. We are flying at 2000. I can look down and see many white gulls flying over the green land. A few houses are clustered together, and a dory is pulled up on the shore. There is a rocky ledge around the islands which makes a ruffle. They look very flat and the trees are foreshortened. We are making good time with the wind’s help. I have in my ears some little rubber ear stops which Mrs. Byrd sent. She said Commander B. had used them in his trans-Atlantic flight, and was the only one who could hear when the plane reached the other side. I am eager to see whether they work, as both the men are without them. Pubnico Harbor is below. Bill figures 114 m.p.h. since we left Boston. What a jagged coast. There are few roads. Many little houses nestle in the woods seemingly out of communication with anything for miles. One can see deeply into the water and mark shoals and currents. What an easy way to see what are bugaboos for surface craft. The haze is not so marked now and the wind is rougher. This ship flies smoothly, but I know a smaller one would be tossed about. The color of the sand about the edges of the water differs; some is white, some rusty. I cannot see any breakers, except far out—the sea is calm with sparking ripples. Our shadow skims over the treetops. The people whom I cannot see are probably used to the sight and sound of strange planes. * * * * During the last two years this remote country has had many visitors from the air. These people, I think, have come to feel a real intimacy with the flyers. There have been Lindbergh and Byrd, de Pinedo, Mrs. Grayson, possibly Old Glory, and in the old days, the N. C. 4’s, disregarding the incidental flights which doubtless have winged over this territory. * * * * _Log Book:_ What makes people live on little jets of land like this one?