The Lonely Sea and the Sky

"The Oakshaft never gained much popularity with those who prized agility over safety, though it will always be remembered as the broom used in the first ever Atlantic broom crossing, by Jocunda Sykes in 1935."

-- Kennilworthy Whisp, Quidditch Through The Ages

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For the last few hours, the palette in which my world is painted has been reduced to a smattering of colours, drawn across the canvas in broad strokes of green and white and grey. Here amid this splendid isolation, high above the deep, deep water, my glance down at the broom that carries me is an anchor for my mind - a reminder of the grand task I have set myself, and that I have barely begun.

The weather, overcast and chilly, is doing its best to dampen my mood - but the wind is in my face, clean and fresh, my name a portent, as I cannot restrain a laugh from the sheer joy of living. The solemn ocean rolls on beneath me in waves of green, the clouds drift on above me as tufts of white, but my eye is fixed on the cold grey sky and the distant horizon where my destination lies, far away beyond the curve of the earth.

*

It all began in the summer of 1919.

Of course, at the time I had no true awareness that something of great moment had occurred. I was four years old, and knew little of events outside the grounds of my family home. My parents and brothers were my world.

I remember the day as the one where my father flew me around the paddock on his old Oakshaft 79 as a treat. I was thrilled beyond words, and squealed with disappointment when the sight of my mother excitedly waving a newspaper at us made him come in to land. But because things that will profoundly affect one's world often mean little to a four-year-old, all I understood of the news that had so impressed my parents was that two Muggle men called (as I learned subsequently) Alcock and Brown had flown over the 'Atlantic'.

Puzzled - and disappointed because my time in the air had ended too early - I sulkily asked what an 'Atlantic' was. Told that it was an ocean, I asked what an 'ocean' was. Told that it was a great body of water, I asked what was so special about flying over it. Told that no-one had ever done this before, I complained that it didn't sound very hard, I'd flown further than that with Daddy.

I have no recollection of what I actually had in mind when I thought of the Atlantic Ocean on this occasion, but I imagine that it must have been something like a slightly larger version of the river near our house - which seemed mighty to me at the time, but was nevertheless a simple crossing on a broom. At that age, one has little sense of scale.

My parents still like to tease me about this.

*

I find the ocean below strangely soothing, in constant motion yet somehow unchanging, as one wave replaces another in steady procession. A great sense of peace steals over me, the sound of the water beneath merely a low rumble that fades into the background of my consciousness.

I check my watch and note with surprise that I have been flying like this for some hours without noticing the passage of time. I know that I am far from land now, and the realisation comes that more than a hundred miles of ocean have passed underneath me as I flew, lost in a private little world of my own - and yet I have covered only a small fraction of my journey. Sometimes even an adult finds that their sense of scale has deserted them.

*

Flying has always come naturally to me.

I was a capable broomstick handler by the age of seven - to the great annoyance of my elder brothers Osbert and Montague, who found that they could not fly rings around their little sister in impromptu games of Quidditch, as they would have expected. Nevertheless, at school they were strong proponents on my behalf. My house captain contacted me in the summer before second year to urge me to attend team trials, and although my ability to catch and aim did not reach the same standard as my flying, nevertheless I had a very enjoyable six years in the side.

That summer before my second year was remarkable in other ways. It was the summer in which a man called Lindbergh was the first to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean - a term that I now knew and understood - and yet he too was not a wizard, a fact at which I marvelled. Even the Daily Prophet reported the story, and fired by this tale I sneaked down to the village and obtained all the Muggle papers as well. That summer I learned all that I could about this historic flight and the earlier flights by their airships - and when I learned of the pioneers of 1919, I finally understood what had so excited my parents when I was a child.

It seemed remarkable that the Muggle technology could do things that we could not, and in its own way unsettling. And as a practical matter, I remember my father lamenting that broomstick flying had become riskier and more complex since he was my age. Now, unless one exercised caution, there was always the chance of encountering a Muggle aeroplane or dirigible - with the twin threats of a collision and a breach of the Statute of Secrecy.

Once upon a time, we had shared the skies with only the birds.

*

After a while, the monotony of the surroundings begins to pall. It is too easy to lose track of time, the only indication of its passing the slow movement of the sun across the sky. There are few companions here under the canopy of the sky. Seabirds go by from time to time, regarding me with mild curiosity before continuing with their own business; they are an occasional but a comforting presence.

It is safest to fly far above sea level, just below the clouds, where there is little chance of being sighted or swept away by a stray breaker. But still, I find myself periodically swooping low to feel the ocean around me at close range, almost touching the waves, the splash of spray around my feet as exhilarating as the knowledge that no other human being has ever been in this position.

Schools of fish are frequently visible just below the surface, and once I have the great good fortune to see a whale rising to breathe. The ponderous beast is as fascinated with me as I with him, and I fly more slowly for a while as he follows me along for a good twenty minutes before losing interest and submerging.

On a few occasions I see - or perhaps I just imagine that I see - a Muggle ship on the distant horizon. I rise swiftly into the protective cover of the clouds and hope that they did not have a telescope pointed in my direction. Of course, I can take comfort in the thought that they would be unlikely to believe what they had seen even if they did.

*

The late 1920s were a time of great excitement for those who had a fascination with flying.

Developments in both our world and the Muggle world continued at a startling pace. When the Ollertons launched the Cleansweep range, I spent the next year cajoling my parents to buy me one, until they finally capitulated when I won my place on the house team. It was a revelation, faster and more manoeuvrable than anything that had come before, demonstrating what a broom could truly be. The brothers became my heroes - until, that is, my fourth year, when they were replaced in my fickle schoolgirl estimation by Horton and Keitch, and my cajoling was now all for their new Comet 140. I have many happy memories of Quidditch matches and recreational flights on this fine broom.

My heroines were, however, almost all Muggle. There were, of course, Quidditch stars I idolised - but this is the case for all of us in our teenage years, and these witches were not breaking new ground. But in the summer before my third year, an American called Earhart became the first woman to cross the Atlantic in an aeroplane. As a thirteen-year-old and therefore (at least in my own opinion) practically a grown-up, I wished that it had been me and was deeply envious. By this time, I was devouring anything I could find on the subject of achievements in flight, whether magical or Muggle. In my fourth year, a British woman called Johnson flew her aeroplane all the way from England to Australia, and for a while I wondered if there was any way that I too could learn to fly such a craft. I am sure the foundations of my later ambitions were laid here, even though at the time I regarded them only as the wildest of dreams.

I remember that on one occasion I asked the flying instructor at Hogwarts if any of our people would attempt to emulate the feats of these Muggle pilots and cross the Atlantic. He just smiled and asked: would even you be willing to spend several days on a broom? I smiled back and agreed that no, this was probably far too long even for me.

How little we know sometimes ...

*

I have always known the length of my journey in abstract numbers - a distance in miles, a speed at which to travel it, a time required in hours - but it does not truly register on an emotional level until the first nightfall. My broom is old and sturdy, but even with the improvements we have made, it is not fast. I cannot expect it to average more than forty miles an hour, and that means that my journey across the wide ocean will require some seventy-five hours of flight time. With the necessity of taking time out for sleep, that means that I will be airborne for four days and four nights, reaching landfall during the following day.

Learning to sleep on a broom was a challenge I had never previously considered. Although I have trained for this moment, flying at night over water, it has always been within at most a hundred miles from the shore, within range of Apparition in an emergency. It is only now that it fully hits me just how far from land I am. This first night, I fly on for some time as the darkness closes in around me before tiredness helps me overcome my fears.

I set a course and slow the broom down to a speed of a few miles per hour, and the howl of the wind falls to a soft murmur. I Conjure thicker clothing around me for extra warmth - but I approach this first night out in the open with trepidation, unable to suppress a foolish dread that the special enchantments added to my broom might somehow have failed. I tell myself that the Warning Whistle we have developed will alert me to an approaching storm, lie back on the invisible pillow that is the extended Cushioning Charm, and allow my training to help me overcome my instinctive fear of the apparent nothingness beneath me.

I wake up in the morning still gliding serenely into the dawn. My whoop of joy and relief goes unheard by all but a few stray terns.

*

My family always seemed to assume that I would play in the Quidditch League when I left school.

I must confess that this had indeed been a longstanding dream from a very young age. However, by the time I had completed my N.E.W.T.s, I had come to the sad realisation that while my overall talent for the sport was adequate for school level - where my outstanding flying was able to cover a multitude of sins - it was not sufficient to succeed as a professional player.

It was at this point that an idea suddenly seemed to crystallise, although I have no doubt that it was something that had lurked in hidden and unacknowledged corners of my mind for a long time. Why would it not be possible to fly across the Atlantic on a broomstick? Why had no-one ever tried it before? And why should I not be the first person to try? Surely it could be only a matter of time before someone else thought of the idea. And there could be practical benefits, too. In time, this could become an acknowledged form of transatlantic travel, once trailblazers had shown it was possible, and discovered what was necessary for success.

A Muggle ship or aeroplane is of course far more comfortable for long journeys, and the latter at least is faster - but they always carry the risk of detection, especially as so many of our people are ... well, let us say less than perfect in their ability to blend in to the Muggle world. The magical alternatives are far from ideal. Flying creatures need much careful training and handling; Transatlantic travel by Apparition is virtually impossible for any but the most skilled, as many splinchings attest; and it is no small matter to set up a Portkey for travel over such a distance - the few who can do so with accuracy charge heavily for their services, and a journey of thousands of miles by such a method is far from pleasant.

In the first flush of my enthusiasm, I put the idea to my parents - who were, naturally, horrified by the potential dangers to their barely-adult daughter. As my flying teacher had pointed out, an Atlantic crossing on even the fastest brooms available would be a journey of more than two days duration. And much as I loved my Comet 140, and as promising as the rumoured Cleansweep Two sounded, both were sporting brooms, built for speed and manoeuvrability - neither seemed ideal for a journey where endurance, stability, and accurate functioning of the charms over a long, continuous flight was all-important. I had flown both for extended runs at high altitudes before, and based on these experiences did not wish to risk them over an ocean.

My parents pointed out to me the severe consequences of a fall in mid-Atlantic, hundreds of miles from the nearest land, far worse than in a Quidditch match or even a recreational flight. A fall from fifty feet, even a hundred feet, is survivable for a witch or wizard. A fall from three thousand feet, even into deep water, would be highly dangerous.

But surely, I argued, these problems could be solved?

*

I lean forwards to get the maximum possible speed from my broom, my concentration fierce, and the wind buffets me as it rushes past. One slip could be disastrous. I am determined not to fall, but still, after three days and three nights on broomback it would be so easy to lose concentration and doze off as I fly over the remorseless seascape.

I have made sure to attach the seat of my robes to the broom with a Sticking Charm throughout (uncomfortable, but practical), and every twelve hours, I have to remember to reinforce the strong Pennifold Charms placed on both the broom and myself, to slow our fall towards the water in the event of an emergency.

My wand is strapped tightly to my arm, and I carry a spare in my pack just in case. This is the one true necessity for the flight, and I use it throughout in many ways. The pack I carry on my back is by now beginning to chafe, light as it is. The supplies I have brought are limited - a fundamental decision as to what is a necessity and what a luxury.

A straightforward Aguamenti charm supplies me with as much fresh water as I require, and when I feel the need for sustenance, I supplement the little in my pack by Conjuring basic foodstuffs. Of course, such ephemeral meals are nutritionally unsatisfactory over the longer term, but providing they satisfy basic needs during the flight, that is all that is necessary. Although I do find myself daydreaming of the substantial dinner I intend to order as soon as possible upon reaching America, I refuse to let such a trivial consideration as mild hunger deter me from my task.

*

Stubbornness - or, as I prefer to call it, persistence - has always been one of my more noticeable features.

I took note of my parents' objections - but even after further reflection, there seemed to me to be no reason why a broom could not be constructed or adapted for the purpose of a long-distance flight. My brothers had immediately taken to my idea with enthusiasm, and were keen to assist in any way they could. I began to sketch out plans for adjustments I thought would be required; they seemed fiddly, but not beyond a skilled Charmer.

Fired with my ideas, I managed to secure an appointment to talk to my hero Basil Horton of the Comet Trading Company. I reasoned that if they had tested a hundred and forty models before coming up with the broom on which I flew to Falmouth to meet him, as well as developing the patented charms which made it such a runaway success, surely they might be willing to help produce a special endurance broom? Unfortunately, Horton explained that while the partners were interested in the concept, they were in the middle of developing their next broom for the racing market, to counter the rumoured new Cleansweep model. Although he was polite and wished me every success, his company declined to involve itself with my project.

Bitterly disappointed and somewhat piqued, I decided to find out if their bitter rivals at the Cleansweep Broom Company would take greater interest. I thus approached the Ollertons, pointing out what a publicity coup it would be for the company if a Cleansweep were used in the first Transatlantic crossing. Regrettably, although I was eventually granted an interview, I was unable to convince them that my ability as a flier would make it worthwhile to develop a broom for the attempt. All the brothers' attention was directed towards the imminent launch of the Cleansweep Two, and Barnaby Ollerton expressed the trenchant opinion that it would be a publicity disaster for the company if I tried and failed.

Failure was not something I was willing to entertain as a possibility, but I was forced to return home and reconsider my options. It was then that Montague reminded me of the old Oakshaft 79 I had once flown. To be sure, this model was more than fifty years old - but it had been designed for endurance and stability, and there was no reason why it could not be pressed into service. It was slow by comparison with the Comets and Cleansweeps, but when I brought it out for testing it flew faultlessly over a run from Norwich to Newcastle, and all in all it seemed like an excellent basis for a solution.

Sadly, experiments showed that it was no more than a basis. I began to attempt increasingly long-distance flights over Britain as a test of my own endurance; an attempted flight around the coast from Land's End to John O'Groats established that a day's continuous flight brought me perilously close to the stage where tiredness reached danger point, and this was a mere fraction of the time needed for an Atlantic crossing.

Moreover, flying over open water proved to have its own special problems ...

*

I smile to myself as I remember the private worries I tried to conceal from the hoped-for sponsors - that the special precautions I had drafted so many months before might, in fact, be inadequate when confronted with the reality of the flight. By and large, the problems I have faced have been those I anticipated, and the solutions I proposed have proven feasible. My judgement has thus far been reassuringly sound, although at this thought, I make sure to touch the handle of my broom specifically to propitiate the fates.

At nightfall the comforting warmth of the sunlight fades away. Here, high above the world, flying into the bitter wind, I start to shiver as I feel the slowly encroaching cold begin to bite. Ice slowly forms on the broom, and I have to take out my wand at intervals to melt it. I have quickly learnt not to hide in the clouds; while it is soothing to be surrounded by their pale softness, the clammy moisture soaking into my clothes is uncomfortable.

By this stage, the hours and the miles pass by monotonously. I had not realised quite how disorienting four days of solitude would be, with no communication whatsoever with my fellow creatures, not how it could be possible to slip into boredom under these circumstances, but this is what happens. From time to time I stave off these feelings by laying smoke trails, planning in my mind how I will tell the tale of my adventures, and on one occasion Summoning an unusual and very surprised fish for closer inspection. I check the compass regularly; it is set to point directly towards my goal, and together with a rough map on which my route is shown, I have warning if I drift off course.

But every one of those hours and miles brings me closer to the far side of the Atlantic, and each time I think of that I feel a steadily growing excitement.

*

It seemed increasingly unlikely that my grand project would ever get off the ground, in either the literal or the figurative sense.

I was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that it was not something I and my brothers could do on our own. The modest speed of the Oakshaft meant that the flight would take considerably longer than the originally anticipated two days. I had not yet solved the problems involved in snatching sleep on a broom, or postponing the necessity. And while I was willing to trust my spellwork for general use, the preparation required specialised work - it would be unwise to rely on my own amateur efforts here.

Most importantly, there was the matter of finances. Equipment and supplies would require gold, and I would need to be able to cover living expenses for perhaps as long as a year while I trained for the flight. I had been offered a good position in the new Broom Regulatory Control, made necessary by the increasing speed and sophistication of brooms and the growth of Muggle flight - it seemed that this might be the best that I could do, a steady and worthwhile career to pursue while I attempted to put together what was necessary in my leisure time. But it was not what I wanted at this juncture.

It was now that as a last resort I turned to Horace Slughorn, one of my old teachers. At Hogwarts he had run a kind of club for those of us he considered might go far, and had always been keen to forge contacts between those he knew. Since it was my intention to go far quite literally, farther indeed than any witch or wizard had previously gone, I hoped to take advantage of our recent acquaintance to interest him in the project.

To my elation, he listened with great concentration as I outlined my plans, discussed the results of my test flights, and described what steps I thought would be necessary to make the attempt. He asked penetrating questions throughout, and at the end of my talk pointed out a number of flaws in my analysis. My heart sank at the prospect of another disappointment; but then, to my amazement and exhilaration, he told me that he considered the idea an excellent one, well worth my time. What was more, he made an immediate Floo call to an old crony named Hugo Bobbin, owner of the 'Pestles & Powders' chain of apothecaries, in order to discuss the possibility of his assistance.

I made an appointment with Bobbin for the following week, and awaited it with bated breath.

*

By the time night begins to fall at the end of the fourth day, I am within a few hundred miles of the New England coast. I marvel at how strange it feels to have travelled so far and yet still have so far to go. I steady my broom, and point my wand well away from it to send a lightning bolt flying into the sky from its tip - a natural-seeming phenomenon to any Muggle sailor who may see it, but a clear signal to those watching for the use of magic. It is oddly reassuring to realise that there are people on land who now know that I am still alive, still flying, still expected to reach their country within the next day.

As I continue into the gathering gloom, the wind suddenly starts to blow more fiercely, and rain begins to spatter my face. I realise that charmed lightning may not be the only kind I have to worry about as the Warning Whistle starts to blow continuously. I Conjure a small shield for the front of the broom in an attempt to divert the winds, but they continue to blow around me in no fixed direction, and I am forced to lessen my speed somewhat. I dare not slow it too far; without forward momentum of its own, the broom - and more importantly, its passenger - will be tossed about like a leaf. In a strange way I actually welcome this development, both as a challenge to my flying ability and as a break from the growing ennui of the preceding two days.

I fly on through the early hours of the night, unwilling to risk sleep as the storm builds. I had been warned of the power of storms at sea, without ever experiencing one, and as the winds batter my broom I have to make a decision whether to fly high or low to try to avoid them. One glance at the stormy sea below is enough for me, and I rise as fast as my broom can manage, my hands clutching the handle tightly as the gales pummel me, pulling against the Sticking Charm and nearly unseating me. It takes all the skill I possess to keep the broom pointed in the right direction, and once or twice I have to wrench it back on course as the wind spins me around. I thank my lucky stars that I chose the Oakshaft for this flight. A lighter and less sturdy broom, not designed to withstand such conditions, would have been blown away.

As I reach a pocket of relative calm I send another lightning-bolt into the sky from my wand to join its brethren below, and pause for a moment or two before the storm hits again to evaluate my options. It becomes clear after very little thought that there is no possibility of sleeping under such conditions, and that even the attempt would be extremely dangerous. I do not have the speed to temporarily reverse course and outrun the storm - far better to try to fly through it to reach safety on the far side as soon as possible. It is time for some of the emergency measures that I had hoped I would not need to use.

*

I had no idea what to expect from Bobbin, but he turned out to be exactly the sponsor I had been hoping to find.

A lifelong Quidditch enthusiast and a leading collector of antique broomsticks, he was now semi-retired after a long career, had more money than the Ministry, and was willing to use some of it to back a promising venture related to his hobby. The only requirement he laid down in exchange for his assistance was that if the flight was successful, he would be presented with the broom used as a prize specimen for his collection - something to make all the other broomstick collectors envious. This was a condition I was only too happy to agree to.

Bobbin's assistance proved to be invaluable in ways other than the purely financial, as he too had many contacts. Discreet words in the right ears at the Ministry smoothed the path for completion of the necessary paperwork. The American authorities, once notified, consented to track me as soon as I came within range of their ability to detect magical activity. And best of all, Bobbin turned out to have a friend who was an expert on flying spells and broomstick construction and was more than happy to join our 'team'. He examined my old Oakshaft 79 in the light of modern knowledge of sorcery and made a number of useful improvements.

Buoyed by this, I began to practice for the flight. Our small team succeeded in greatly refining my original ideas over the course of the next six months, every test flight bringing new information and new suggestions, while I embarked on a rigorous personal training programme to build up my endurance. I made several Channel crossings during this period to prepare myself for extended periods of flying over water, in addition to long flights out into the North Sea. Slughorn visited once to offer his encouragement, and as a parting small gift provided me with a bottle of the Draught of Wakefulness in case fatigue overcame me, although I hoped I would not need it - our complex experiments with extended charms to allow me to spend nights asleep in mid-air had finally succeeded.

Eventually, the day towards which all these preparations had been aimed came. Once a definite date had been announced, the attempt had caught the fancy of the editor of the Daily Prophet, which devoted many column inches to publicity and comment - a welcome touch of celebrity for us all, even if the experts interviewed to discuss my chances were four to one in favour of the opinion that I was mad, and would undoubtedly get myself killed en route. And thus on the summer morning when I finally stepped out onto the Holyhead Harpies ground in Anglesey, accompanied by my friends, family and sponsors, a curious crowd had assembled to watch me take flight.

The weather was unseasonably dull and chilly, but I did not care in the slightest about either the weather or the risks - I was about to make my personal bid for a place in history. As I kicked off from the ground, waved to the crowd, and then watched the land recede rapidly behind me, I was overwhelmed with sheer joy.

For the next few hours, I felt as if I could have made the flight without any need for a broom.

*

Although the moon is gibbous, the clouds allow little light to shine through to illuminate my path. I take out my spare wand with great care and fix it to the broom handle with another Sticking Charm. Working now with increasing speed as a fresh phase of the storm rapidly approaches, I touch the wand and mutter Lumos; it produces merely a little cocoon of light around me, but at least I can see what I am doing. Next, I take out Slughorn's potion and quickly drain it, letting the bottle slip from my hand as the winds whip it away towards the ocean far below. Wakefulness is something I shall have need of. Sleep is something I can catch up on once landfall is reached.

With this done, I press on through the storm, weaving and diving to try to avoid the worst, although the winds are as unpredictable as the movements of a Snitch; on a number of occasions a sudden squall causes me to lose my grip on the handle and sends me into a spin that costs me several hundred feet of height before I can steady the broom and climb again. After the third or fourth such event I find myself calculating the distance to the American shore and seriously considering if I will need to attempt a desperate Apparition to save myself - or even whether it would be best to attempt one right away, and not take the risk of trying to make it though the storm.

However, stubbornness - or rather, persistence - has always been one of my more noticeable features. I have flown the better part of three thousand miles through day and night, heat and cold, calm and storm, and have no intention of giving up now when my goal is but a few more hours away. So I set my jaw, cling tightly to the broom, and call upon all my experience and training as I fly into the teeth of the buffeting storm, taking the worst it can throw at me but pressing on, on, every passing minute a little closer to riding it out, every passing hour a few more miles nearer the coast.

Finally, as the dawn breaks, the storm begins to abate. The weather remains overcast and chilly, but cannot now dampen my mood. There is but a mere breeze is in my face, clean and fresh, and I cannot restrain a laugh from the sheer joy of living. The solemn ocean rolls on beneath me, but my eye is fixed on the horizon where my destination lies, so close beyond the curve of the earth.

I need no potion now to keep me alert as I speed across the remaining distance, elation building as I watch the land advance towards me. I have signalled every hour and do not know what to expect from the Americans; but as I approach the designated landing spot, suddenly I no longer share the sky only with the birds. Wizards and witches on brooms surround me, yelling congratulations, and they form a guard of honour for me as I dive towards the field below. As I wave to the cheering crowd and touch down on the ground the noise is overwhelming, and I realise that I have come full circle - I have now matched the feats of my own heroines, and become a heroine to others.

The palette in which my world is painted has become a rainbow of colours, drawn across the canvas in broad and narrow strokes of every hue. Here amid this splendid confusion, high on the deep, deep emotion of success, my glance down at my broom that has carried me is a anchor for my mind - a reminder of the grand task I had set myself, and that I have finally achieved.

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Author's Notes:

Originally written for for this year's , and originally inspired by hearing a talk on the flights of Australian pioneer aviator Charles Kingsford Smith. The title comes from Francis Chichester, I believe. The name 'Jocunda' means 'joyful'.

For the record, the chronology is as follows - the HP dates are mostly from Quidditch Through The Ages, although Jocunda Sykes's birth date comes from JKR's website. Assumptions about when in the year an event took place are in [italics inside brackets].

1879 - first Oakshaft 79 brooms made

1915 - Jocunda Sykes born [spring]

1919 (June 14/15) - Alcock and Brown make first non-stop Transatlantic flight

1926 - Jocunda Sykes starts first year at Hogwarts

1926 - Ollerton brothers found Cleansweep Broom Company [autumn]

1927 (May 20/21) - Charles Lindbergh makes first solo non-stop Transatlantic flight

1928 (June 17) - Amelia Earhart becomes first woman to fly across Atlantic

1929 - Keitch and Horton establish Comet Trading Company [autumn]

1930 (May 5/24) - Amy Johnson makes first solo flight from England to Australia by a woman

1932 (May 20) - Amelia Earhart makes first solo non-stop Transatlantic flight by a woman

1933 - Jocunda Sykes completes seventh year at Hogwarts

1934 - Cleansweep Two launched onto market

1935 - Jocunda Sykes crosses Atlantic on Oakshaft 79