The business of long-distance flying must be made to pay like any other business, otherwise when funds run out the work must stop.
A successful flight may bring in some thousands of pounds almost oxernight—or rather might have done in the past; that era is over—but one must not forget the reverse side of the balance-sheet, Expenses are multitudinous even On success, while tHe debit columns of failure are usually long and heavy.
Let us take a flight in pound, shillings, and pence.
Imagine you suddenly sit up in bed one night and decide you would like to fly to Australia.
First you must learn to fly, at least £50. Next you want a plane. If you decide to try to break o record you must obviously have a better and faster plane than the last record-holder. (We must pretend this is between the years 1930 and 1935, as it was only at this time that there was really any big money in flying).
Suppose we decide to fly solo in a Puss Moth or a Percival Gull. With long-distance special tanks fitted, special oil-tanks, radio, special blind-flying instruments and other spares and equipment, the cost would be something between £2,000 and £2,500, depending on how elaborate is your material. With luck you would get sparking plugs free, and you might get a discount off the cost of the machii Next comes the cost of petrol, oil, maps and permits, in all totalling at least another £1,000, een more it you decide on some out-of-the way route which means sending supplies of petrol and oil specially.
Permits must be obtained for about ten countries on the way to Australia. Each has to be paid for, end a substantial deposit has to be left with the Air Ministry to cover the cost of telegrams, in case of troubles or difficulties.
It is fairly reasonable to say that the total expenditure for your flight will be in the region of £3,000.
The approximate cost of my own flight 10 Australia was about £1,200, but I paid only £900 for a secondhand gipsy moth, and my petro, oil, Parachute and plugs were free.
Now for the more interesting side. You have made a successful flight, After eight or ten days of hard work, utter fatigue, terror and constant fear of a violent death, or worse, some slow, lingering death of thirst the desert, starvation in the jungle, torn to pieces by wild beasts or sharks, you arrive at your journey's end, weary but triumphant, You sink off to sleep with the cheers of the people still ringing in your deafened ears, and your overwrought brain still struggling with storms and fright in your fitful dreams.
To what do you wake next morning?
Thousands of strangers all want to see you, to shake your hand, ta have your autograph, to wine and dine you, clothe you, provide you with everything you do and do not want.
Newspaper men wait with their notebooks and cameras, producers wait with their contracts for personal appearances, charity orgenizors wait to grab your subscriptions, and every one waits to bask in your limelight. first fight by being given £10,000 and personally was very lucky on
getting £2,000 for my story, but this is unusual.
Hed I known the ropes I could have perhaps doubled this—by such things as personal appearances at £200 a time, lecture tours at enormous sums, and so on. But I made about £14,000
had made, cern us of thousands bel Nery, different from the
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.