Sinopsis

"Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea,Where, underneath, the restless
waters flow,Silver and cold and slow...."
—The Dawn Patrol.
Somebody shakes me by my shoulder, and I wake to the consciousness of a
dark room and a determined steward.
"Four o'clock, sir!"
I get out of my warm bed, very unwillingly, and dress lightly in a white
cricket shirt, grey flannel tros, and a blue pea-jacket and a muffler, and
go out of the hut to the garage. Dawn is just breaking. The sky is still bright
with stars, and a moon is drowsily hanging like a golden gong in the southwest.
The air is extraordinarily fresh and cold, and soon I am tearing
joyfully through it on a clamorous motor-bicycle....