Lucky Lindy

Lindbergh landed in Paris on this date in 1927, 33½ hours after take off.

From the take-off in New York, he flew north over Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts, navigating by checking maps against the landmarks he could see on the ground. He reached Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, and then flew in toward the city of St. John’s because he wanted people to know he’d gotten at least that far. People who saw his plane said they could almost read the serial number on the underside of the wing. It was the last land Lindbergh would see until he reached Ireland.

He turned east toward Europe just as night was falling. For the next 15 hours, no one would know if he was alive or dead. People across America would later say that they stayed up thinking about Lindbergh that night, praying for his safety. The humorist Will Rogers wrote in his column, “No attempt at jokes today. A … slim, tall, bashful, smiling American boy is somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, where no lone human being has ever ventured before.”

After reaching the halfway point of his journey, Lindbergh began to hallucinate, and even saw a coastline before his calculations said that he should. When he flew toward it, the coastline vanished. After more than 24 hours, Lindbergh spotted fishing boats on the water. He reached Ireland a few hours later, and turned south toward Paris.

From a longer essay at The Writer’s Almanac from American Public Media.