A WEATHER MAP OF THE ROUTE FROM CASABLANCA TO BÔNE
Courtesy of Phoenix Graphix
CASABLANCA
A CROWD OF people at the Santa Maria airport greeted Jerrie. They spoke Portuguese, a clear reminder that she was really far from home, in the Azores, volcanic islands west of Portugal. Tired and stiff from sitting for more than thirteen hours, Jerrie nearly tumbled from her plane. The day was chilly and rainy, but her feet were on the ground and she felt thankful that both she and Charlie were in one piece after the icy flight. She posed for photos and then followed the air force representatives to the terminal building. Jerrie had been awake for twenty-four hours, so, after a snack of tropical fruit and coffee, she was taken to the only hotel on the island of Santa Maria, The Terra Nostra.
At the hotel, Jerrie wrote to the newspaper, “Airplane brakes are a weak point, and this is not serious. It won’t take more than an hour or so to correct and is not too important in any event since I am using excellent airports everywhere in route.”1 When the article was finished, she plopped down onto the bed. Jerrie craved some sleep after being awake both day and night.
After a couple of hours of sleep, Jerrie woke to the sound of a piercing bell, so loud that the walls of her room trembled. She didn’t know why the bell had sounded, but she was now wide awake, and too excited to go back to sleep. After all, there was an island to explore! She went to the restaurant to have some lunch and was joined by the airport manager, Alexandre Negrao. She informed him of her failing brakes, so after lunch he took her to the home of Jack Duffield, the Pan American manager, to see if he could help. Jerrie also mentioned to Duffield that her compass might be a few degrees off. Duffield told Jerrie that the small airport did not have a compass rose on the field in order to check the accuracy of the compass, but he had a mechanic at the airfield who would look at Charlie’s brakes. Unfortunately, the mechanic had bad news. The brakes needed to be replaced. This news puzzled Jerrie since she had understood Charlie had brand new brakes installed before they left Columbus. To make matters worse, there were no parts for her plane on the island. The only brakes Duffield had in stock were for a 707, a much larger airplane. His parting advice was, “Try not to hit the brakes.”2
With no options for getting her plane repaired, Jerrie spent the rest of the day touring the mystical island. Away from the airport, Alexandre drove Jerrie down roads partly covered with fog, which wound around the mountain ranges. Oxen pulling carts traveled down the dirt roads in place of cars. Peasants trudged along the side of the road with packs on their backs. The people of the island lived off the land by growing crops in the fields and catching fish in the sea. Jerrie remembered, “Almost as Alice dropped into Wonderland, I stepped into the past. The people, their clothes, their tools, their houses, all belonged in a history book.”3 After touring the island, Jerrie went back to her room to write letters and get some rest. That evening she enjoyed dinner with Jack Duffield, her FAI observer, and members of a flying group called Wings of the Atlantic. Jerrie made certain to get a few recipes for the wonderful dishes before she left.
When dinner was over, Jerrie went to a radio station for an interview. Upon her return to the hotel, she joined some people sitting by a cozy fire in the lounge. After a while she went to her room, finished writing a letter to Russ, and fell fast asleep. The next day, she awoke to icy winds and dark skies. At the airport, she was handed a flight plan with the word, “RISK” written across it. Jerrie didn’t want to postpone the flight after being delayed in Bermuda for a week, but the combination of bad brakes and high winds worried her. She didn’t want to take the chance of spinning out again. After all, she had her reputation at stake, along with the reputation of “lady pilots” in general. Some airport men recommended that she take off from a large ramp that had been used for military planes. Crosswinds were blowing across the runway, and the air seemed calmer by the ramp. Jerrie agreed it was the best choice and gathered her things together for her departure.
Before Jerrie boarded her plane, Alexandre Negrao handed her sandwiches and tomato juice. He explained it was sent from Pedro, a sixteen-year-old boy she had met on the island. Jerrie appreciated the boy’s kindness, and felt sad to have to leave so soon. Along with many wonderful recipes, the local people had given Jerrie a souvenir doll to take home to her little girl, Valerie. Jerrie shook her head. “My dream was to see the world, not to be the first woman to fly around it.”4 But along the way her trip had become a competition, one she wanted to win. She thought of all the folks back home, counting on her success, and boarded her tiny plane.
Jerrie buckled her seat belt, anxious to begin the one-thousand-mile flight to Casablanca. She took off down the runway and flew over choppy waters before ascending to the 9,500-feet cruising level. The fierce winds pushed Charlie from behind, and the plane bumped along in the stormy air. Jerrie tightened her belts and kept a keen eye on the instruments, as well as on the angry purple and orange sky. Charlie was set on autopilot, but the single-engine plane slowed. Something was not right. On autopilot, a plane goes the speed designated by the pilot. Why was Charlie slowing down? Jerrie looked out of the window only to realize her worst fears had come true. Once again her wing struts and wings were covered with ice.
She called the tower controller, explained her grim situation, and asked permission to go to a higher altitude. The controller calmly told her to wait. Once again, Jerrie tensed, being forced to stand by while the ice on Charlie thickened. After much back and forth, she finally was cleared to ascend to 11,500 feet, out of the freezing mist, out of danger. Her tension, along with the ice, melted in the warm sun above the clouds. Five hours later, she began her descent to Casablanca, a city of clean, white houses.
Jerrie landed at Anfa Airport and was met by a large crowd of people with armloads of flowers and plenty of photo requests. The control tower operator, Henri Richaud, helped her get through customs. Before they left the airport, Jerrie sat down with a group of reporters in a huge room and answered all their questions. Jerrie could understand how animals in a zoo felt by the way everyone stared at her.
Back home in Columbus, Ohio, Jerrie made front-page headlines in the local newspaper with her world-record-breaking flight. The article read, “Jerrie Mock flew into aviation history books Saturday afternoon when she completed a flight from the United States to Africa. No other woman has ever piloted a plane over this route according to the international aviation record keepers, the National Aeronautics Association in Washington, D.C. Total time in the air was twenty-five hours and fifteen minutes.”5
While in Casablanca, Jerrie toured the city. She had pictured Africa as full of jungles and deserts, so she was surprised to see beautiful beaches. That evening, Jerrie’s hosts, Henri Richaud and his wife, took her to the city to enjoy a nice dinner. Jerrie shared the story of her night out with the Dispatch. She wrote, “We drove through parts of the Old City with its narrow, jammed streets and passageways. We stopped at a fabulous restaurant for dinner. . . . One of the main courses was ‘cartilla,’ which is a poultry pie. The top layer under the crust is pigeon meal, and beneath are hunks of chicken, turkey, goose, and, I guess, various other types of food birds.”6 Dinner began with Ramadan soup, followed by the pigeon pie, and couscous. “It was wonderful,” she said, “delicious and spicy.”7 The sights, the sounds, and the tasty meal made the entire evening feel like a magic carpet ride.
The following day Jerrie received a call from her husband, Russ, asking about her plans. “When are you leaving?” he asked.
“Not today. Henri just got the weather report and it’s pretty bad: thunderstorms, low ceilings, icing. After flying with ice for the last two days, I don’t want any more for a while.”8
Russ confessed he had been worried about her. General Lassiter from the Pentagon, who had helped Jerrie chart her course in preparation of her journey, had been keeping Russell Mock informed of her whereabouts. Jerrie and Russ chatted for a while, and he updated her on family events. It was Easter Sunday, and they were oceans apart. She sent her love to Val and the boys. After the phone call, Jerrie decided to spend the rest of the day sightseeing. Turbaned men and veiled woman rushed about on the city streets; some of the women rode on the backs of motor scooters. While she strolled around the shops, Jerrie purchased a baby doll for Valerie.
A COMMUNICATION MAP FOR THE EUROPEAN MEDITERRANEAN REGION
Courtesy of Phoenix Graphix
For Easter dinner that evening, Jerrie feasted on a meal of snails and roast leg of lamb. Dancers with exotic flowing dresses, gold jewels, and bangle bracelets performed at the Richaud house. They danced to the melody of the flute and the tambourines. After the celebration had ended, Jerrie wrote for the newspaper before going to bed. She described her evening and added, “My first stop in Africa is all that you could want for romantic atmosphere.”9
The next day Jerrie had help with a compass swing, a method used to check the accuracy of a compass. At the airfield they had a compass rose, a design painted on a taxiway or ramp that shows all four points of a compass. The compass swing revealed that for the entire trip her compass had been ten degrees off. For the remainder of her around-the-world flight, Jerrie made a mental note to always subtract ten. She left Casablanca with a feeling that flying through Africa might have more surprises on the way.
DID YOU KNOW?
The city of Casablanca is one of the largest financial centers on the African continent. It sits on the site of the medieval town of Anfa, which was built and settled by the Berbers in the twelfth century. In the early fifteenth century, the town became a safe haven for pirates. In 1468, the Portuguese attacked the pirates and destroyed Anfa. They returned to the area in 1515 and built a new town named Casa Branca, meaning “white house” in Portuguese.
In 1755, an earthquake destroyed Casa Branca, leaving it abandoned. After its reconstruction in the late eighteenth century, the town was named Casablanca, meaning “white house” in Spanish. As Jerrie Mock approached Anfa Airport in Casablanca, she marveled at how white and clean the city looked from the air, and quickly understood the city’s name.