Transcript
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Rest of the Story the Lone Eagle was an appropriate term for him, for often previous pilots had crossed the Atlantic in pairs. But never before had such a flyer flown that great ocean alone. You think you know that story, but for the first time, I want you to hear the rest of the story. High above any ocean of water is an equally awesome ocean of air. An invisible sea with its own currents, its own treachery. The Lone Eagle could not carry enough fuel to make the crossing without a friendly tailwind and buoyant thermals to keep him aloft. And conditions can change rapidly, diametrically during such a journey. So it was against a backdrop of profound uncertainty that the all American flyer took off into the gray dawn. That morning, the Atlantic loomed before him like an endless carpet on the planet's floor. The horizon beckoned. The brave aviator followed. Salt air rose to meet him with an intoxicating aroma at lower altitudes, and then the sunshine would burst through a crack in the glowering sky. In those first hours, the Lone Eagle felt as though he could stay awake and alert indefinitely. But the hours yawned wider as each passed. Beneath the wings, a multitude of dancing white caps lulled him into drowsiness. Ever so subtly, fatigue reached out to embrace him. Hours more in the race would be a death grip. The North Atlantic cold crawled through him like a virulent disease. But just as delirious, exhaustion was about to overwhelm him, he caught a whiff of something. Something the old time floor knew well. It was a smell. It was the heaven sent scent of land. The flyer stayed his course for the western horizon. And yes, in the misty distance, something massive blotched the finely etched horizon line. It was the coast of Ireland. The Lone Eagle, flying on one engine and barely enough fuel, had soared across the mighty Atlantic ocean. He landed 13 miles inland near Castle island in County Kerry in mid November of 1987. For this lone Eagle, who braved The Atlantic was not Charles Lindbergh. This flyer had not even intended to make the crossing. It was a mistake. He was lost. Well, he received a hero's welcome in Ireland anyway, and returned to the United States as soon as the shock of what he had done had worn off. For the fuel which had kept him going was whatever he had eaten before takeoff. And the single engine that fuel supplied was the flyer's own. The flyer's own biological heart. The all American aviator who just crossed the Atlantic, cold and hungry and exhausted, but alive. This lone eagle was a real 1. A six month old American bald eagle, now the feathered symbol of the United States of America has always conjured mental pictures of impossible dreams come true. And this time too. Now you know the rest of the story.