Today, I am thankful for those who have the courage and fortitude to fly solo from the nest.
A few months back during the President’s Day weekend, I embarked on an overnight trek to Washington DC with my wife and youngest son. Upon arriving to the National Mall, we visited my favorite Smithsonian museum, the National Air and Space Museum. Within those hallowed walls, my son laid eyes for the first time on the Apollo Lunar Module, the Mercury Spacecraft, and the Wright Brothers Flyer. Unfortunately, we missed viewing the Apollo 11 command module, which was on a nationwide tour. Despite this setback, my son and I reveled in the experience. We shared a good laugh when he learned that the Wright Brothers plane, The Flyer, was built smaller than originally planned, as the two bicycle owners ran out of wood. He also got a good chuckle when we learned that The Flyer only flew about 15 feet off the air and went all of 120 feet on its first test run in 1903. As we were departing the museum, I pointed out the Spirit of St. Louis, which hung from the rafters in the main exhibit hall.
That small plane got me reminiscing about the power of a dare.
Less than 25 years after that fateful flight by the Wright Brothers in Kitty Hawk, a young air-mail pilot named Charles Lindbergh decided to compete for the Orteig Prize, a feat that would require a flight just a tad longer than 120 feet. On May 22, 1919, a New York hotel owner named Raymond Orteig offered $25,000 to the first aviator to fly across the Atlantic Ocean from New York City to Paris. Many years passed without a successful attempt.
Then, Charles Lindbergh decided he’d give it a go. The problem was that Lindbergh had no financial backing. He also had no plane. But, he had one thing everyone else did not have. He had aviation experience as a pilot for the US Air Force. He knew it would be very problematic for a large plane with multiple engines and significant weight to make the treacherous trip. So, over a period of months, Lindbergh secured the financial backing of a few bankers in Missouri. He convinced a small company in San Diego, the Ryan Aircraft Company, to custom build a single-seat, single-engine, single-propeller, high-wing plane to his own liking. The plane was constructed in just 60 days in the late winter of 1927. Onlookers laughed as the small, 27-foot monoplane, dubbed The Spirit of St. Louis, landed at Roosevelt Field on Long Island. With no radio, no parachute, and no sextant navigational device, Lindbergh took off on the morning of May 20, 1927, from a muddy runway on a cloud-filled day. He barely cleared the power lines on his takeoff and then disappeared into thin air.
For the next 33 hours, Lindbergh navigated through clouds, fog, and the occasional wind. When he arrived in Paris a little past 10 PM on this day (May 21), he used the lighted Eiffel Tower and the headlights of the 15,000 cars that had gathered on the runway field a few miles north of Paris to witness his feat to navigate to the final landing site. He landed the plane as 150,000 onlookers gazed on, star-struck with awe. They literally pulled Lindbergh from the cockpit and carried him over their heads for the next 30 minutes. Exhausted and exhilarated, he finally corralled the plane into a hangar with the assistance of the French police and military.
Lindbergh’s life changed forever on this day nearly a century ago. He was immediately thrust into the limelight. He became an international hero, received a hero’s welcome in New York City, and he rightfully collected his prize. He even spurred others to push the limit of flight. In fact, on this same day in 1932, Amelia Earhart became the next person to ever fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean.
Lindbergh’s legacy as a daredevil pilot willing to ‘fly solo’ lives on. So does his tiny plane from the rafters of my favorite museum.
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