from the Farallon Beacon With all the splendor of our majestic bird we were lowered to the runway. By Dick Farr The evening had been cool and the air revived us as we strolled from the stuffy briefing room. We were able to relax now. We knew our first destination and had the long awaited sealed orders tucked in our flight kit. Several of us wandered across the ramp to our monstrous, long, sleek B-29. It seemd to be sleeping soundly in the fresh, moonlit, California evening. For months we had been anticipating this night. I had held it as the night which would begin an adventure that would carry me through events I had never dreamed of until the day I took my oath of enlistment. My anxiety had forced me to neglect the feelings and thoughts of the other fellows. Those who were married thought of this night only as one of cruelty and despair. They could probably see more clearly into the future than I. There were no wives to give them a lasting embrace, no children to give a cheery wave goodbye; for them there was nothing but to leave. Their hearts must have ached through every bit of tissue. As we neared our plane, these men could not see the beauty of the silvered bird perched on its two big fet and resting its neck. The bird's wings were outstretched to catch each little twitter of the April breeze. Slowly around us the world began to live again. The switch was thrown and as though an alarm clock had been tripped, our bird awoke, flashing its bright yellow eyes. In a very short time it was running down the runway, gathering wind under its wings, and then we were floating westward in the chilled, star-brightened sky. Gracefully up and up we rose. Each blade of each propeller stretched forward to bite its mouthful of air and hurtle it back to the smooth wing where every ounce of lift could be grasped from it before it would be let go, to settle down again in its peaceful sleep. Soon we were high enough to see the specks of light clustered together forming the outlines of cities, streets, and buildings. Each city was surrounded by an inky blackness broken only by the silver spiderweb highways running in every direction from the metropolitan areas. Slightly to our left and far out toward the horizon we could see a glow which seemed to be emanating from a pool of molton gold. Across the pool was a headband of sparkling diamonds, adding to the brilliance by reflecting in the yellowed water. The combination of the moon, stars, and millions of city lights had transformed the bay into this molten jewel box. We could not resist additional glances at the striking beauty of it all; especially when all that lay before us was the night blackness of the Pacific ocean. All that would pierce the vastness now would be the few short flashes from the Farallon beacon. Tired and bewildered by the striking contrast between the beauty of the land and the emptiness of the sea, I settled down in my seat and tried to think of what was ahead of me. I hoped so much that someday again soon I might behold the thrilling array of artistry that I had just witnessed, praying that I might have an inbound trip. Page Fourteen The instrument lights dazzled my eyes and I was quite content to close them. The minutes lingered momentarily until approaching sleep sealed my brain from outside disturbances. I was at peace, with only the loveliness of the preceding hour to scurry back and forth through my mind. Hours later I awoke. The sun had come up behind us in its race across the sky. To look below made my heart flip over; nothing but clouds and water were impressed as images on my eyes. This scene fled in panorama past us for hours and hours, broken occasionally by the white, foamy wake of a navy convoy. We could find tall, thin clouds; short, fat clouds; clouds that looked like old men, and clouds that looked like anything we could imagine; but eventually even a child becomes tired of a simple game. The authoritative feeling we gained over the convoys from our superiority of speed was readily subdued by our insecure feeling from the fear that an engine might fail to perform properly. Our bird could easily gobble up a mile of hard surfaced runway in a landing. Out here we had the miles, plenty of them, but no hard surface could be found. The uneasy feeling that had been with us for the past eleven hours was slightly eased when we were informed that we should be on the island of Oahu in about an hour. As we neared the islands, a noticeable increase in both air and water traffic became apparent. We felt as though we were in a funnel that stretched eastward to the mainland and directed each convoy, sea or air, on into its ever narrowing cone and emptied us all upon the small rock which barely pierced the surface of the blue ocean. Oahu was truly a priceless emerald with a few patches of ruby-colored dust showing through its rugged coating. As we floated down, we swung toward the south, rounded Koko head, and then gradually our wing covered Diamond head, and then north again until Pearl Harbor slipped under our nose. With all of the splendor of our majestic bird we were lowered to the runway of this often called tropical paradise. The early spring brownness that we had seen in the States the day before was replaced now by the rich, well-watered green of the tropics. Clouds hovered on the nearby peaks and quite often emptied their load of moisture onto the earth, trees and people below. The air was moist and hot, and the beating sun forced out the water that was in us and then licked it off, leaving our skin begging for something cool and refreshing. The cars and modes of living were just like the ones we had known at home; so we were soon in Honolulu, enjoying everything that we could see. The streets were narrow, not like our spacious western plan, and jammed with cars, natives and sailors. Only a few department stores contained merchandise not to be seen at an amusement park. Shooting galleries lined the streets. Novelty shops were everywhere. Open-front lemonade stands were on every corner. Honolulu was not like a city full of the beauty and grace of the native girls, but like a "Coney Island" deluxe, infested with white uniformed men of the sea. The girls were outstandingly attractive, smart, and alluring when they were approached from the rear. Their faces had deep rooted features that had been left to the islanders by their Japanese ancestors. Upturned slitted eyes, rounded cheeks, high cheek bones and flat noses; these features could not be discounted. The beach was narrow but the water was warm and swimming was very refreshing. Surf board riding is an art not to be scoffed at. The ease and grace with which the natives pilot these boards is of admirable quality. After a nearly sleepless night, a day under the potent Hawaiian sun tramping up and down the hot pavement, and a strenuous dip in the ocean, we crawled into our beckoning beds and cuddled up with the cool sheets. A silent, stealthy breeze cooled the salty tropic air and wafted moonbeams and starlight around us. We must rest, for tomorrow we would wing our big bird farther west to solve more of the mysteries of the islands of the great Pacific. All that would pierce the vastness now would be the few -short flashes from the Farallon beacon. Page Fifteen