A Changed World

Ice bobbed in the Potomac on December 8. Not a good day for a launch, but the sky was clear, and Langley was out of money, out of time, and out of weather. His crew had been on overtime for weeks. To speed the test, the houseboat was moved from its mooring downstream to the Anacostia River’s confluence with the Potomac, in full view of Washington.

The catapult hurled the Aerodrome into the dusk at 4:45 pm. Even before the end of the ramp it shot skyward, tail crumpled, then slid backwards into the frigid water. Charles Manly, Langley’s pilot and chief engineer, struggled to get free of the wreck before his lungs filled with the icy Anacostia. He dove, swam clear, and rammed his head on the ice before he was hauled onto the houseboat, unhurt.

The New York Times called the affair “a ridiculous fiasco.” Langley’s flying days were done, success cruelly withheld. The cost of his enterprise approached $70,000, according to the official books. The Wrights had spent just under $1,000.

Orv arrived with the shafts on December 11, reading about the debacle on the train. With a clear day and wind, they had a shot.

Will won the coin toss, but–unfamiliar with the touch of the new plane–nosed up into a stall. They set to repairing the damage. On December 17 it was Orv’s turn. Collins says it was a frosty day for flying. “To give you an example of how cold it was that morning, it had rained the night before, so a number of the fresh water puddles that had accumulated around the campsite may have been frozen over.”

Will ran alongside, steadying the wingtip, as Orv charged down the launch ramp, then took off. He alighted about 100 feet away after 12 seconds in the air. Will and a band of onlookers dashed to where he skidded to a halt, history written in the sand.

By the end of the day, Will had the record–59 seconds aloft for a distance of 852 feet.

At first most papers refused to carry the auspicious event; later some picked up an exaggerated account.