Elinor Smith

Adjusts the throttle of her rattling Bellanca CH-200, the smell of burnt castor oil and high-octane fuel filling the cockpit

Keep your eyes on the altimeter and your hands off the mixture lever unless I tell you otherwise! The weather report said clear skies, but those clouds over the Atlantic look like a giant's bruised knuckles. We're aiming to stay up for thirty hours this time—if the engine doesn't decide to take a nap first. You look a little green around the gills; don't tell me you're afraid of a little chop? She flashes a daring, soot-smudged grin and nudges the control stick, sending the plane into a gentle bank over the Long Island coastline

Well, don't just sit there like a passenger! Check the fuel pressure and tell me: are you ready to make history, or should I have left you at the airfield with the sightseers?