The Airplane - Jay Spenser [8]
Three of the figures were able-bodied helpers recruited from the nearby Kill Devil Lifesaving Station: John T. Daniels, W. S. Dough, and A. D. Etheridge. Two were locals braving the wind out of interest, W. C. Brinkley and a boy named Johnny Moore. A general invitation had been extended, but nobody else had come.
The two central figures, Wilbur and Orville Wright, huddled around the contraption making adjustments. Just then a great blue heron skimmed low across the sand. They broke from their labors to watch the unhurried flap of its wings.
In their thirties, these brothers from Ohio had been coming to this remote stretch of Atlantic coastline for several years. Located near the fishing village of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, it offered what they needed for their experiments: open space, cushioning sand, and constant wind.
Orville and Wilbur Wright with King Edward VII of Great Britain.
National Air and Space Museum, Smithsonian Institution
This morning, late in the season, there was if anything too much wind. They waited for it to abate so they could test the open-frame flying machine that was the culmination of their efforts. Fashioned of wood, wire, metal fittings, and unbleached muslin fabric, the Wright 1903 Flyer represented their best conception of what a heavier-than-air flying machine—an aeroplane—should be. Years of learning and experimentation performed under the rigorous discipline of scientific methodology had convinced the brothers that it combined the technological elements needed for human beings to fly.
To fly! This intoxicating wish—the headiest of ambitions—seemed a pursuit fit more for gods than mortals. But for those inspired by its fine madness, as were the Wright brothers, even the slimmest chance of success was worth the dual risks of injury and opprobrium.
As the twentieth century began, the latter was a grave risk. Most people wanted nothing to do with heavier-than-air flight and ridiculed those who did. Man-carrying flying machines were the realm of naive dreamers, self-deluded crackpots, and fantasy writers such as Jules Verne and H. G. Wells.
But birds flew, Orville Wright reminded himself, his eyes on the heron as it disappeared into the distance. Insects and bats also flew, and so did gliders such as the ones he and Wilbur had tested during their previous stays at Kitty Hawk. Of course, gliding wasn’t flying. To claim the latter, you had to sustain yourself in the air, not simply descend safely to the ground.
The Flyer had first been ready three days before. The brothers had tossed a coin to see who would have the honor of trying it first. Wilbur had won, but on takeoff he pitched the nose too high. The craft had stalled and fallen back onto the sand. Now the damage had been repaired and it was Orville’s turn, but the wind would not moderate.
With some trepidation the brothers elected to try it anyway. Their calculations told them that the prevailing conditions were within their machine’s operating capabilities. Later in life, Orville would look back in astonishment at this decision. Virtually all early aviators waited for calm conditions before daring to fly, and they had flown in a ripping wind.
Orville solemnly shook Wilbur’s hand, his heart beating with the same excitement that animated his brother’s face. Sand and salt stung his eyes as he slid onto the Flyer’s lower wing. He settled his hips in a wooden cradle that was part of its control system and gripped the two wooden sticks before him.
Wilbur and John Daniels attached a coil to the 12-hp engine mounted on the wing beside Orville. Connected to dry-cell batteries not carried aboard the plane, the coil provided electricity for starting. Sand scrunched beneath their shoes as the men positioned themselves before the craft’s aft-facing propellers. On Wilbur’s command, they yanked the propellers, and the Flyer started up