THE AIR AGE: The Little Ditch

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In the minds of plain people, if not of geographers, the width of the broad Atlantic has been measured less in miles than in the hours, days and weeks it has taken men to cross it. In Columbus' day, the other side of the ocean seemed as far away as the other side of the moon. His caravels crawling painfully across the Atlantic for 71 days brought it very little closer. The gap (67 days) put between themselves and their homeland gave the Mayflower pilgrims a sense of freedom they could never find on King James's side of the water.

Twentieth century liners shrank the Atlantic almost to lake-size, but travelers could still relax in a deck chair and feel suspended in time for a week—on the older, sedater liners (the S.S. United States last month crossed in 3 days 10 hrs. 40 min., barely enough time to make friends with the deck steward). In 1927, a daring young man in a flying crate, name of Lindbergh, made his way from New York to Paris in 33½ hrs. Millions who have followed his route since then—immersed in mystery stories, poker or the semistupor of Dramamine—have scarcely bothered to note the once-broad Atlantic beneath them on their 18-hr. hop.

Last week Britannia, who has never hesitated to claim mastery over the waves, reduced the Atlantic to mere ditch-size. The three-man crew of a sleek, black & silver British Canberra Mark V jet bomber took off from Northern Ireland's Aldergrove Airport one morning, crossed the Atlantic, had lunch in Gander, Newfoundland, and were back at Aldergrove in time for tea. Flying time: 7 hrs. 59 minutes.

Wing Commander Roland Beamont, the pilot, reported that he saw the sun coming up over Ireland as he took off. As he landed at Gander, the sun was just over the horizon: the plane had come within an ace of keeping pace with the sun's own transatlantic crossing.*