Slim dropped down upon the starboard pontoon and made fast to the buoy with the length of rope we had on board for just such a purpose—or, had affairs gone less well, for use with a sea anchor. We didn’t doubt that tying to the buoy in such a way was against official etiquette and that shortly we should be reprimanded by some marine traffic cop. But the buoy was the only mooring available and as we’d come rather a long way, we risked offending. We could see factories in the distance and hear the hum of activity. Houses dotted the green hillside. We were some distance off shore but the beach looked muddy and barren. The only people in sight were three men working on a railroad track at the base of the hill. To them we waved, and Slim yelled lustily for service. Finally they noticed us, straightened up and even went so far as to walk down to the shore and look us over. Then their animation died out and they went back to their work. The Friendship simply wasn’t interesting. An itinerant trans-Atlantic plane meant nothing. In the meantime three or four more people had gathered to look at us. To Slim’s call for a boat we had no answer. I waved a towel desperately out the front windows and one friendly soul pulled off his coat and waved back. It must have been nearly an hour before the first boats came out. Our first visitor was Norman Fisher who arrived in a dory. Bill went ashore with him and telephoned our friends at Southampton while Slim and I remained on the Friendship. A vigorous ferry service was soon instituted and many small boats began to swarm about us. While we waited Slim contrived a nap. I recall I seriously considered the problem of a sandwich and decided food was not interesting just then. Late in the afternoon Captain Railey, whom I had last seen in Boston, arrived by seaplane with Captain Bailey of the Imperial Airways and Allen Raymond of the New York Times. Owing to the racing tide, it was decided not to try to take off but to leave the plane at Burry Port and stay at a nearby hotel for the night. Bill made a skilful mooring in a protected harbor and we were rowed ashore. There were six policemen to handle the crowd. That they got us through was remarkable. In the enthusiasm of their greeting those hospitable Welsh people nearly tore our clothes off. Finally we reached the shelter of the Frickers Metal Company office where we remained until police reinforcements arrived. In the meantime we had tea and I knew I was in Britain. Twice, before the crowd would let us get away, we had to go to an upper balcony and wave. They just wanted to see us. I tried to make them realize that all the credit belonged to the boys, who did the work. But from the beginning it was evident the accident of sex—the fact that I happened to be the first woman to have made the Atlantic flight—made me the chief performer in our particular sideshow.