A Bet on Flying Fish
Deep in the alps, a luxurious passenger train sped through wind and snow battered peaks, sending up a veritable storm of its own with the smoke from its funnel, while inside the passengers, heirs; royalty; businessmen and other peoples of considerable fortune, whether made or held, relaxed in peace uncaring for any maelstroms other than that in the fine Dupois wine. One of these was Fredrick de Roths-Recht, proprietor of the famed Parisian hotel of the same name, who in enjoying a whisky and fruit tart read the newspaper with particular consternation. For, therein was news of the upcoming Schneider Trophy race to be held on the twenty-eighth of September, nineteen-twenty-three; a mere three and a half months away.
Eight and a half months earlier, de Roths-Recht had attended the previous years event in Italy with his occasional business partner and (at least as far as businessmen have them) friend, Hamel Dupois, heir and manager of France’s largest quality winery in the Bordeaux region. There, they had witnessed the sixth annual seaplane race, created by Jacques Schneider. And, even as the Itallians seemed ready to take their third consecutive win in their sleek, red machines, and thus gain permanent hold of the trophy, the British Sea Lion II, a sleek blue flying boat, soared by, and trailed a jet of water high into the air as it plunged into the water and skimmed across the finish line first, ensuring further races to come. At this unexpected conclusion Hamel had triumphantly pronounced that the British would no doubt take the next race, and Fredrick, not one to miss an opportunity, made the bet binding. He put his money, fifteen-thousand of it, in for France, who would return the following year, no doubt he’d thought, with a well developed machine.
Now, with the muffled tumble-rocking of the train wheels underneath and the streaking flakes outside, Frederick learned from his paper that the French team’s chief had walked out on the project. The aeroplanes entered in the race, were developed without government support, instead private companies were looked to, along with their country’s aero club, to form a team and outfit them with a craft. Alas it seemed one Allard Moncreif, wasn’t interested. It was horrendously rude, thought Fredrick, he had fifteen thousand francs on his bet and this plucky manager thought he could walk out over some—Fredrick glanced back at the paper, scanning the article for his query—over some “heart troubles.” Atrocious.
By the time the gilded carriages rolled into finer weather and stopped with a clunk at Marseille, he had given up on his vacation and resolved to do something about it; that's what Fredrick de Roths-Recht did, that was how he succeeded, how he won. Because he certainly never lost.
Arriving at the docksides he found them wet, and greased with a unique mixture of fish and machinery oil, along with several less identifiable substances, and upon them a flurry of seamen and workers sprinting around with practiced ease. He wore a velvet green suit, a fine waistcoat which stretched around him so much it threatened to break if he took a deep breath, and an expensive top hat, which he fiddled with nervously at the sight of so much activity and so little cleanliness.
The quaysides were a swarm of people, who moved here and there on a hundred different errands unfathomable to the uninitiated businessman who looked on in confusion at this, the place that made his fortune, which he nonetheless could not reduce to numbers or profit margins. There were large garages, and warehouses, and the quays of course, alongside which bobbed boats of all sizes, their rigging like a forest of pulleys, and lines. Cranes lined a few of the largest docks, many with steam flowing out of their stacks as their arms steadily moved up and down to lift the heaviest of loads from the deepest of holds and then scuttling along on rails which let them move back and forth along their quays. Trucks with round piercing lights and horrendous horns bustled about in danger of losing their loads at every little bump which resounded through their frame. And everywhere were piles, or stacks, even towers, of crates and bundles and nets and quite a lot of corrugated metal for some reason. While over everything lay a thin fog, sometimes natural and sometimes nothing more than exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke. Frederick’s chauffeur waited in his car but a few moments walk behind him, and it would not be difficult to return to his chaise lounge and strike up a cigar with a friend at his comfortable hotel. But, he reminded himself, then he would lose, both the bet and the fifteen-thousand francs. Therefore he pushed onward, through the crowd.
In time, he found a broken propeller lying forlornly against a warehouse, one end reduced to splinters, and in moving toward the warehouse door, swiftly collided with another man. He wore the oil-splattered garb of an engineer, from overalls worn from clambering under and around engines, to boots used less for standing on then for kicking stubborn parts into place with, therefore, sorely dented toes. And finally a grey cap holding back greasy hair made darker thereby, than his surprisingly trim beard. As they both returned to their feet, the engineer had a difficult time, and once up stood with a limp.
“W’o are you zhen?” He asked.
“Erm, oh, Frederick de Roths-Recht.” The hotel magnate paused, waiting for recognition to dawn; the engineer only nodded and extended a calloused hand, saying gruffly, but not unkindly:
“Hans Gretchel.”
A moment passed, Hans leaning on his good leg, and angling his head in similar fashion so as to give Fredrik a sort of appraising side-eye, while Fredrick held himself back lest he ruin his suit. In time the engineer huffed and rubbed his beard, turning to leave.
“Would—” Frederick said, Hans turned. “Would you direct me to the quarters of the Aéro-Club de France?”
“Vell, nowhere ‘round here. Paris or something I expect.”
“No, I mean, for the Schneider Cup? The Flying Flirt?”
“Ah!”
Hans barked a sharp, jovial laugh, gestured to the warehouse, and entered.
“Follow mich.”
Inside, there was yet more industrial paraphernalia cluttered around the edges, but most of the crates were old and empty, and there was a loneliness to the object that stood under a tarp in the centre of the space. Hans pulled a switch and a hazy light flickered on, dimmed by the dust that coated the bulb.
“What do you zhink of our fine bird?” He said, pulling the tarp back.
Fredrick stuttered, his mouth flailing about.
“Its-, I mean- sorry, are- are you a part? -of the team then?”Hans nodded.
“My engine.”
“Oh.” Frederick muttered. A pity he’d have to fire the nice fellow; he really couldn’t have the French team’s ‘plane serviced by a German engineer, not in a competition with so much national pride attached.
The craft was only partially constructed, but Fredrick found it no less impressive. Altogether a sleek flying boat, with slim lines and all the messy supports usual among ‘planes added together into a few strong, streamlined buttresses, the hull swung in a long curve, from the tail, over which arched the comma shaped rudder in a rounded curl, to the nose where the smooth topdeck was brought together with the sharp v-shaped hull and straight sides into a curving point that from the front gave the craft a look of content serenity; a slight smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s. The lower of the biplane wings was attached, just behind the small hole for the cockpit, they flung out their smooth edges about twenty feet on either side, and underneath each wing, were slim floats. Atop of the lower wing was the few supports for the second wing which was absent. And in a cone configuration, with two supports ahead of the cockpit, and two behind, were the engine mountings atop of which sat two half-built engines, one pointing backwards with a prop, the other forwards missing one; Fedrick presumed it was the poor thing he’d seen outside and wondered what had happened.
He gestured to the missing top-wing.
“Where are they?” Frederick asked.
Hans shrugged.
“We sent zhem out to get measured for the fabric last time we were here; I don’t know what has happened to them.”“Well, where is everyone? It’s barely four, you can’t be done?”
“Allard walked out last month—too much stress; without support we could not continue. I have returned only to help unmount the engine for the creditors—they want it in lieu of payment.”
He brought a stepladder over from the corner, and climbing it, began to unbolt the engine dejectedly.
“I am, zherefore grateful of you for stopping by, so I might show it off to someone at least before I leave it to it’s fate—but, why are you here?”
“I suppose you won’t have heard. I will henceforth be financing the… project. Admittedly I have not before ventured into the aero industry, but money is money and I have just been to see your “creditors” so be assured you are not finished.”
“Really?”
As the optimism rose in Hans’ face, Frederick regretted the “you” that had come out.
“I— Yes, I came simply intending to take a look and introduce myself, you know. Do you know where to find the rest of the team? Nevermind why don’t you contact them. Now I must go inform my secretary and make the necessary arrangements with the bank—tell me, where would the financial papers be?”Hans shrugged, and pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket, scrawled an address which he handed to Fredrick.
“Allard may have left but he’ll be able to tell you whatever you need.”
Three days later, the plague of activity at the port had once again infected the warehouse and Fredrick, bereft of jacket, and wearing now a grey waistcoat, with bowler hat held at his side, leaned over a table to pear over the design Jacques Latham placed before him.
“I feel dreadfully behind.” He said. “We have wasted much time.”
Latham wore a beret, and thick black leather jacket which was much too large for him, but which he insisted on because of the pockets he’d sewn into it that allowed him to carry all his papers, compasses, rulers, and on occasion cutting boards about with him. He was a passionate little fellow who had begun in fashion before the great war, during which time he’d turned to designing flying machines and hadn’t stopped since. With fervent care he directed Fredrick’s eyes to each area of his drawings in quick succession while letting out an endless monologue of reasoning and explanations for every curve and straight edge.
The C.A.M.S 38, and 36 flying boats which hadn’t been able to make it to the last race, were too fragile for the harsh British weather they could expect and thus, they were building a new ‘plane. Initially, he had envisioned a single winged monoplane design, with a sleek trim wing reminiscent of a hawk's expansive featherings. But, they had not the time to develop such a thing, and Fredrick, being new to the industry, was having trouble getting them even the most simple resources.
“Nonetheless, I am confident.” The designer pronounced, “For constraint creates innovation, and I am yet more confident in my new design, which you see partially constructed before you.”
Jacques deftly rolled up the paper and procured a second fine sheet from his coat which he laid before Fredrick. The revised design was more conventional, and has already been visually described. However, through his drawings Latham revealed what was underneath the fine stretched fabric that concealed its frame. He was particularly proud of the specially contoured struts that supported the engines and the wings while causing as little drag as possible; but, alas he said, despite this he wondered if in the end they would still need a few taut lines between the wings. Internally, the wings were reinforced with a technique consisting of multiple lines of laminated wire stretched over the frame, a feature which Latham had patented. And for more power the two engines would be mounted inline with one propeller “pushing” and the other “pulling.” He called it the Latham L.1
Fredrick nodded.
“It is very good, I am sure, I only wish we had something more; we need an edge over our opponents. That supermarine somehow housed the engine in the fuselage. Could you do that?”Latham shook his head, and wrung his hands out as though to banish the foul thought from the air.
“It would not fit in our hull; and besides it would make it far too bulky. No, the engine is good where it is and our cowling will help with the drag.”“Nonetheless, no one ever won something without being creative.”
Latham’s face reddened in annoyance, and he sighed before saying, with expressive gestures.“First, my design is the very height of creativity. Second,” And he softened. “You are far too intent on winning, that may suffice to motivate the crowds and the financers, but we must not be so focused. What does it matter if we are not the fastest, if we have made something beautiful? Where art and technology come together? It is a wonderful thing when you are finished, and you see your creation take to the air. The spectators miss out, they do not feel the craft, they only see it rush by, we have become friends with it. I have lost friends before, they are far better than races.”
As Frederick mulled over this, their pilot, overhearing, shouted across the room jovially.“But races are pretty good too.”A few months later, he would not be in such a good condition.
They were doing tests on a blustery afternoon, at a small pebbled beach near the docks, where the wind came strongly from up the channel and buffeted them all so that only Jaques in his great jacket was safe from its bite. Yet, despite this, and a few clouds, the sun shone with a splendid energy that highlighted the new green paint on the L.1, as it gently bobbed in the shallow water like a swan. Fully finished, Frederick was feeling proud of the sleek craft, which wobbled back and forth as every small cresting wave lifted the outer wing floats on its way to crash against the beach, making the ‘plane see-saw with the hull as the axis.
Their pilot, William de Surt, was well suited to the role. He’d begun in car racing, but after what had appeared to be a lumbering mass of spindly wood framing, held together by string and fabric, had overtaken his screaming Alfa Romeo with ease, he’d taken to the air and eventually volunteered at the aero-club to be their pilot.
Now, he climbed into the small cockpit, while Jacques and Hans waded alongside the floats to point him into the wind.
“Freddy!” Latham shouted over the wind. “Come out here, we need to start ‘er up.”
“What, me?” Fredrick replied. “Out there?”
“Oh come on.”
“Alright…”
Wading hesitantly into the water, he held back a screech as it soaked through his shoes, and made his feet far colder than they ought to be. The chill stung him as the water climbed up his stockings, then his pants, finally Jacques urges compelled him to hurry on and he splashed ahead, cursing under his breath. On reaching the L.1 he was abruptly aware of its size. Having viewed it mostly from above as it sat in the warehouse, where only the upper wing and engine could match his height, he was surprised when now, its v-shaped hull hoved up to his nose on a wave.
Jacques grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the wing float—
“Why didn’t you roll your pants up? Take off your shoes?”“I—”
“Nevermind, ‘hold this.”
—and placed his hands against it. His clothes were soaked now, as every wave seemed to splash higher, harder, and colder against him. Jacques clambered up upon the L.1 and, reaching up to grasp it with both hands, held the prop.
“Ready?” He yelled.
“Ready!” De Surt replied, and Jacques yanked it downward in a smooth motion before leaping free himself. The prop ripped around in faltering beats, as the engine sputtered and started turning over, making horrendous cracking noises like a whip, which began to crescendo into a steady, din as the prop turned into a hazy circle, and Fredrick suddenly found the float he’d been holding, coming toward him. he saw Hans wading back to shore, and Jacques thereon shouting at him. Letting go as it bumped against his chest and threatened to topple him into the water, he sprung off to the side, clear of the float, only to be dunked under by the wing that stretched beyond instead.
When he came to, he lay uncomfortably upon the rocky beach, stone polished by the waves pushing into his back, and the tumultuous noise of the engine was nothing more than a distant hum.
“Look!” Jacques said, as he got up, pointing to the sky.
The Latham L.1 was soaring gracefully by, tilting towards the sun whose reflections turned its graceful silhouette a glowing white. They watched intently as it levelled out, and turned again, circling around before coming in low the other way toward the water. At the last second it reared its head and a terrific shower of spray shot up around it.
Then something horrible happened. It began to turn, the rudder shot out to one side, leveraging the wind against the tail so that the nose came towards them, when a large wave rose before it and they lost sight of the craft for a moment. Appearing again, all was not well, for it spun uncontrollably as it rode over and down the wave, the small figure of William inside making desperate, panicked tugs at the controls, hoping to right it. Despite his efforts it continued sideways down the wave and then a sharp snap broke the air, and sucked Fredricks breath away as he saw the wing break away and the green swan pitch over into the sea.
What followed was a flurry of events punctuated by Fredricks quickening heart beats. Latham ran off to commandeer a fishing boat docked nearby; Hans whipped out a pair of binoculars and, mounting the crest above the beach, began scanning the waves for de Surt, shouting out when he’d caught sight of the pilot, who scrambled atop the wreckage of the ‘plane. Frederick, shuffled on the beach, wringing his hands, and looking this way and that for a course of action to take. His breathing was short, and quick. He had to do something, he couldn’t just stand and watch William foundering out there. Seeing his rising panic, Hans shouted for him to go talk to the two fishermen who were running up in confusion to the quay where Latham was tossing free the lines from their boat. Frederick made for them, keeping an eye on the hectic situation on the water. The wind had picked up and the air felt cool and stale in anticipation of rain; Latham’s boat bobbed near the ‘plane often obscuring its wrecked form and lending uncertainty to whether it was sinking or not. Suddenly de Surt appeared atop the boat, but Latham was not there. Joining the fisherman Fredrick pointed out to their boat—
“Our— the—the ‘plane; it crashed— we— it crashed out there and—”
As he stammered on the fishermen’s faces turned from confusion to anxiety as they too joined the growing vigil that kept a watch on the two drifting craft. For a crowd was forming on the beach, and along the quay, of people who had noted the ‘plane, or heard the crack.
But Fredrick saw them not, for the first time in his life he was stricken with worry, his face drawn in long vertical lines, his eyes sore from staying open for fear he would miss something, and his heart pounding louder than the surf against the quay. Presently the boat seemed to be drifting from the wreckage. But he could not be sure until— Yet, yes! He thought. The crowd shouted too; he wasn’t imagining it the boat was building speed, and behind it the last vestige of the L.1, it’s pleasant, round little tail, now with stripped paint either from the impact, or the boat that had butted against it, slipped in and disappeared amongst the frothing blue drink.
When the boat came up to the dock, close enough for its puttering engine to drown out all noise except the storm, the surf slammed it against the stone blocks as Latham tried to safely come alongside them, compelling the fisherman to quickly leap into their boat and help him manage their poor craft. Soon de Surt was half-carried over the edge of the quay and bustled to and fro in a number of hands which eventually brought him sitting, strewn with blankets and continually offered more steaming coffee, against a crate of whisky. Frederick turned from him in time to see Latham slink up, equally soaked, without his jacket, and with a shadow over his features darker than his slick salt-soaked hair. Yet before he could comfort or congratulate the designer, he had slunk off into the crowd, and when Hans appeared neither he nor anyone else knew Jacques whereabouts.
By the next day the rain was hailing in full force, pouring down in sheets which drenched the most stalwartly covered traveller, and easily penetrated Fredrick’s inadequate coat as he hurried with bowed head through the cobbled streets, which once Roman cohorts had marched, that were now worn smooth and filled with puddles. Slogging through these, he finally made it to a pub with a sign above the door that had withstood similar rainstorms for nearly a hundred years so the owner said. Inside this boast was bolstered by the hardy sanctuary the small place provided. For inside was a warm cave lit by an old chandelier, underneath which a few tables were scattered about, and a bar was at the end. But in the cramped booth by the only window, which looked out over the street, Frederick found Latham glumly sipping a beer which had sat so long it was no longer carbonated.
“Why’re you here?” he mumbled as the hotel owner took the other seat.
“This was the last of your haunts on the list Hans gave me. I’ve gotten horribly soaked on your account you know.”
Frederick was trying to jest but Jacques deigned to take it another way.
“You are not the first.”
“Oh…”
At length Latham mustered a question.
“Did— how is Will?”
“He is doing fine. Mild hypothermia but he seems to like all the reporters pestering him. Says it’s all part of being a test pilot —I —I hope you don’t believe he thinks ill of you?”
Latham didn’t answer. He shifted his glass slightly and looked out at the streaming droplets which raced each other down the window-pane. His hair was still ruffled and only partially dry from the other day.
“How long have you been here?” Frederick inquired.
“I’m not going to keep working on it. You should leave the race. Sorry about your bet.”
“Jacques? What do you mean? We must keep working on it; nevermind the ‘plane we can build another there’s still time.”“I’m going back to fashion.”
“We’ll get a C.A.M.S thirty-eight, it may not be as good as your design, but we’ll brace the wings some more—might even be able to fit in two engines, I’m sure Hans can figure something out.”
“No.”“We may only have a slim chance of winning but we have to try.” Frederick pleaded.
“I’m not an aircraft designer anymore. I never was—I shouldn’t have been.”“Jacque…”
Frederick almost walked out. It would have been so much easier, safer, and far less responsibility to shelve the project, lose a bit of cash, and get back to that vacation which looked to never be happening. But, regardless of the money, when he thought of the waves crashing over the ‘plane and soaking de Surt, an energy built in him. William had survived, he’d known the risks all along and gave every indication of returning to the air when they’d built a new ‘plane. And they had to build a new one.
“Nevermind the money Latham; the sea can’t win.”
September twenty-eighth, of nineteen-twenty-three dawned clear and calm in the idyllic town of Cowes, on the isle of Wight. With only a light autumn chill in the air.
In deference to this, Hamel Dupois paced the beach in annoyance, his lanky figure contoured by a trim jet black suit that swung back and forth as he stalked across the rough sand. Frederick’s hastily upgraded thirty-eight would have no trouble from the weather. Worse than this, he noted, farther down the beach, the shape of two flashy new float-planes moored to the dock. Each aircraft had to spend six hours before the race unattended in the water to prove their seaworthiness. These, were the American Curtiss planes he’d only just discovered were racing, doing just that. Their noses were rectangular, save for a large propellor that jutted out at the bottom, and then they swept back to a slim tail. They had staggered biplane wings, and behind the upper one was the cockpit. But most notably, these were no flying boats that lay low in the water. The Curtiss C.R.3’s were mounted on slim floats, and their sleek lines threatened to mess up Hamel’s bet. Specially funded by their government, they appeared leaps and bounds ahead of the Sea Lion II that the British had marginally upgraded.
He found Fredrick a few hours before the race, far more jovial, and wearing a sunhat, yellow waistcoat, and white jacket.
“Awfully nice for this side of the channel.”“Indeed.” Hamel replied. “So, you’re keeping our little bet?”
“On my honour I would not try to call it off.”
“Well I hope you are ready to see that beautiful Sea Lion sweep across the finish line—again.”
“Perhaps. But, have you seen the Americans?”
“They’re… quite the surprise.”“My designer, Latham, is quite interested in their floatplanes.”
“Ha! A traitor is he?”Fredrick blistered unexpectedly.
“Not in the least. He rather hopes he can incorporate the principle into his own designs. Sadly we couldn't make the craft we’d initially planned.”
“Yes I heard—Oh, there goes Biard, the Sea Lion’s pilot you see, I must go give him some… encouragement.” Hamel said, before swiftly escaping. The sun was ever so bright and it reflected off the shiny new Curtiss’s and their streamlined all-metal fuselages harshly.
Finding his way to the thirty-eight's mooring, Hamel noted no one nearby. The ‘plane sat benignly in the water. Similar to the original , only with an upgraded engine and some of Latham’s special wire bracing. It wasn’t as good as the L.1 could have been, but nonetheless Hamel was taking no chances. Doubly-checking that no one was around, he slipped across the dock and lay down near the ‘plane. Taking out his knife he stretched his arms underneath the hull, and finding the very bottom, jabbed it several times with force, before rising, flicking the water off his hands, and slinking off.
When the race was set to start, Hans was too preoccupied thinking about some last minute engine tweaks to notice how low the thirty-eight sat in the water, and neither did de Surt who took up the controls a few moments later. Frederick climbed aboard and yanked the prop down, and the engine puttered into gear as he jumped free. Then they let go the lines, and pushed the ‘plane outwards. Latham hazarded a cautiously optimistic smile as their craft built speed and slipped away across the waves.
Before the starting line were four aircraft. The two American C.R.3s, glistening as they bobbed high up on their floats, with their fancy metal propellers, and cantilever wings. Next was the British Supermarine Sea Lion III, painted a lovely pure blue, with a long cylindrical fuselage that swept together into the tail at the end, the designer, R.J. Mitchell had adjusted the cowling around the propeller mount, giving it a cleaner look, and on the nose was painted a sea lion face. Finally, Frederick’s CA.M.S 36, which was similar to the L.1 but with a straight, rather than curved rudder, and only a single prop on the front of the engine. It was painted white above the waterline and blue below.
A vast crowd leaned over the railings on the harbour, or sought a better vantage on the grassy meadowland that covered the land jutting around the bay; excitement filled the air and none could resist it.
Then the race began, first they took off and flew across the starting line. The collective whir of all their engines filled the air, as each ‘plane sped up, and lifted out of the water “on step” so that they were just skimming the surface, throwing up a steady stream in their wake which abruptly vanished as they ascended into the air. Each ‘plane was staggered out to avoid crashes, and their times would be taken to find the winner. Yet, even so, Fredrick could see both the Curtisses steadily enlarging the gap, much to the joy of the American sailors who’d brought it over, and who leaned over the gunwales of their Navy ship anchored nearby.
Next the ‘planes had to land, and navigate the rest of the way across the water to Portsmouth. The Curtisses touched down with a small splash, and quickly spanned the distance, before turning toward the next point. The C.A.M.S touched down miraculously ahead of the Supermarine, creating a massive spray as de Surt maintained all the speed he could across the waves. But, soon he had to slow more as he reached Portsmouth, so as to be able to turn with the rudder. Yet, as he did so, Fredrick had to procure Hans’ binoculars for himself and get a closer view.
The thirty-eight was slowing down, and beginning to rock vigorously in the waves, pitching from side to side, yanking one wing float out of the water one moment, only to slam it back down again. De Surt seemed to struggle to keep it steady. Meanwhile the Sea Lion was catching up and threatening to pass him.
“He’s sprung a leak.” Jacques said. “There’s water sloshing about in the hull—he won’t be able to keep it steady—he needs to get it back on step before he sinks.”William must have realised this as well, for as just as the rudder finally coaxed the ‘plane around, the engine let out a high pitched whine and he surged ahead. However, with the extra weight it still could not get up on step, and only waded through the waves, building up a heavy wave ahead, causing yet more difficulties for William.
It was in this state of frustratedly skipping along the water, breaking free from one wave simply to plunge down into the next, unable to take off, that the Supermarine tried to pass. Having just gotten up onto step itself, only the bottom tip of its hull cutting through the water as it accelerated suddenly, creeping up alongside de Surt. A blue streak eating up the sea ahead, passing a white log that shuddered and shook at every impact with the sea. For a moment, a wave sent him into the air, and it seemed William might have the thirty-eight up, yet again, it slammed down in a cloud of froth.
Frederick, with Latham in tow, was running down to the docks in search of a boat, to go and flag down the over-zealous William before he hurt himself, when they heard another tremendous snap, followed by more cracks, bangs, and snaps. The sloshing fluids had thrown the thirty-eight’s right wing down again, so hard that the float broke off and the wingtip drove under the water. Unable to come up again, William found his craft sliding into the passing Sea Lion whose pilot, Henri Biard, only turned for a moment to see the white dart come across him and, just missing the wing, plow into the Sea Lion’s tail. As this happened, de Surt suddenly felt a floating sensation, there was a flash of darkness, then he felt water in his nose uncomfortably, before latching on to something and pulling himself up onto his craft’s wing which was floating free of the rest of the craft awkwardly stick out of the Supermarine in a mangled mess lacking an engine; it had flung itself free of its mounts and the spectators on shore had seen the hulking, whirring, thing dive into the waves like an overweight flying fish. Then a bright red hull abutted de Surt, and two sets of arms grabbed him and hauled him over the gunwales of a classy speedboat one of the wealthier islanders had offered to take Fredrick and Latham out in.
When they got back, the Curtisses had just roared overhead, and out at the point they could see a blue glimmer of the Sea Lion, which was, miraculously, still in the race, trying desperately to make up time. Some other boaters had helped Biard—who, we should mention was very gracious about the whole thing afterwards—rip the poor French craft from his tail leaving a gaping hole that was fortunately above the waterline, and thus he had sped off, climbing on step, and leaving the bounds of gravity: In the race once again.
Latham watched the Curtisses meanwhile, from a grassy knoll, laying on his back with his head in his hands regardless of the soaked cuffs, with all the investment of an inspired creative. De Surt sat beside him, fairing far better then after his previous dip, with a blanket and hot tea—the Americans were on their ships and the islanders didn’t know what coffee was other then second rate to tea—Hans was a little farther down the hill nearer the water, with his binoculars. Frederick came up and joined them.
“What are you thinking?” He asked.
“Floats.” Replied Latham, sitting up, grabbing William’s coffee impulsively, and taking a drink without realising. “Floats are the future—we should do floats.”
The End
Just a few notes at the end:
First, I've written plane, as 'plane (with an apostrohe) as a stylistic choice. I've seen it written like this an old book (the apostrophe is due to "plane" being an abbreviation of "aeroplane") and I liked it. Second, the I've tried to be as historically accurate as possible. The 1923 schneider race did happen similarly to how I've described (I cut out some of the more finicky details which would have pointlessly bogged down the narrative), with the exception of the sabotage and crash which was made up (although the real C.A.M.S 38 did fail to finish the race). Also, Latham, and his design the L.1 were real, however the character's personality and backstory in my story are made up as I could find almost nothing about the real person. Most of the other characters are also made up (Henri Biard was a real, and the avid historians reading might have noticed R.J Mitchell mentioned, he is better known for designing the Spitfire). Also I cannot be sure how accurately I represented the development of the plane, there was very little information on the particulars of how the teams operated, so I just figured they'd probably build their plane near the water, and I kept the team small so I'd have less characters to deal with. I believe there are some books on the schneider trophy races which presumably go into more detail about them, so perhaps I'll get one of those sometime and redo the story.
It immediately drew me into the story, and it foreshadowed the challenges the setting they will face.
Points: 9484
Reviews: 114
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