The Night the Atlantic Shrank: Remembering the First Solo Nonstop Crossing
Picture Charles Lindbergh somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic, thirty-something hours into his flight, fighting sleep with his bare hands. He’s prying his eyelids open. He’s sticking his face into the slipstream through the side window just to feel the cold air bite. Beneath him: nothing but ocean. Ahead: an entire continent holding its…