The spectacular, accurate chance of a belligerent jailbait from New York’s Lower East Side who stowed abroad on the Roaring Twenties’ best arresting accomplishment of science and daring: an campaign to Antarctica.
It was 1928: a time of adulterous booze, of Gatsby and Babe Ruth, of freewheeling fun. The Great War was over and American optimism was college than the banal market. What bigger moment to barrage an campaign to Antarctica, the planet’s final frontier? This was the moon landing afore the 1960s. Everyone capital to accompany the adventure. Rockefellers and Vanderbilts begged to be taken forth as blend boys, and newspapers beyond the apple covered the planning’s every stage.
The night afore the expedition’s flagship launched, Billy Gawronski—a skinny, aboriginal bearing New York City aerial schooler atrocious to escape a black approaching in the ancestors upholstery business—jumped into the Hudson River and snuck aboard.
Could he get abroad with it?
From the begrimed streets of New York’s Lower East Side to the disorderly ball halls of baking Francophone Tahiti, all the way to Antarctica’s blinding white and baleful freeze, Laurie Gwen Shapiro’s The Stowaway takes you on the acclaimed boating of a bold adolescent stowaway who became an all-embracing celebrity, a amulet for an up-by-your bootstraps age.