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"123'

day. The sky was a perfect bowl of cloudless blue and hardly a breath of wind was stirring. I took off, reached the required height, went into the dive and when I was to pull out, gunned the motor. My only response was a rather unhappy and unsatisfactory gurgle. My carburetor had flooded and the motor wouldn't start.   The plane, in its dive gathered a great amount of speed...the ground kept getting closer and closer. My Gardian Angel must have been out having an anchovy pizza and choked on an oversized backbone for it sure looked like this was the end of the road.   Then as so often happens when one is put through great strain and stress, he accomplishes the almost impossible, or more likely, my Guardian Angel returned from lunch. A mental note of the length of the plane came into my mind. When I was within ten or 12 feet of the ground, I pulled the nose up sharply, hoping to drag the tail of the plane and come to a stop.  The idea was good but the execution turned out a little faulty. I dragged the tail all right but the entire rear of the plane cracked up behind me. I got out of what was left, walked over to the inner rail of the track and started climbing over it. Suddenly I was engulfed with a rush of newspaper men and dozens of others who had started on the run toward the wreck.

I sat on the tail, so mad I was [[crossed-out]] balling [[/crossed-out]] bawling my eyes out when I heard one of the newsmen call out, "Blanche, Blanche, are you hurt?"

Now I don't know why it is, but whe  I'm scared I swear. Maybe I inherited it from my father 

"No," I replied, wiping the tears from my face with the back of my hand encased in a dirty flying glove and brushing wood splinters off my sweater with sharp slapping motions, "No, I'm not hurt, but would you look at that damn machine.."

After my disasterous experience, no one would lend me his plane. Since there wasn't another to be had, I was through for the week. I had just one idea in mind..to get back to San Francisco, where I had met