When Douglas Corrigan climbed out of his weather-beaten Curtiss Robin at Baldonnel Airfield near Dublin on 18 July 1938, he claimed to have made a simple navigational error. He had departed New York the previous day, supposedly bound for California, yet after twenty-eight hours in the air he found himself on the opposite side of the Atlantic Ocean. Few believed his explanation, but the public loved the story and he earned the nickname “Wrong Way” Corrigan.
The flight was the culmination of a dream that had begun more than a decade earlier, when Charles Augustus Lindbergh’s historic solo crossing of the Atlantic in 1927 inspired a generation of would-be aviators. Corrigan, who had helped build Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis, was among those determined to follow in the famous pilot’s wake, though his own journey to aviation fame would take a far more unconventional route.
Douglass Corrigan stands before his Curtiss Robin that took him across the Atlantic. Credit: History Net
Douglas Corrigan was born Clyde Groce Corrigan, in 1907 in Galveston, Texas, before he changed his name to Douglas. Like many young Americans enthralled by the rapid advances in aviation during the 1920s, he developed an early fascination with flight. That fascination became a lifelong passion when, at the age of eighteen, he paid $2.50 (about $46 in 2025) for a sightseeing ride in a Curtiss JN-4D Jenny at a Los Angeles airfield near his home.
Within a week, Corrigan had begun taking flying lessons. Even after his instruction ended for the day, he often remained at the airfield, spending hours assisting mechanics and learning everything he could about aircraft. On March 25, 1926, he completed his first solo flight.
Later that year, Corrigan joined Ryan Aeronautical, a San Diego company that would play a pivotal role in aviation history. In 1927, the firm received an order to build an aircraft for a little-known airmail pilot named Charles Lindbergh. Corrigan was among the mechanics assigned to the project.
For two months, Ryan Aeronautical's employees worked around the clock to complete the aircraft. Corrigan played a significant role in its construction, assembling the wing and installing the fuel tanks and instrument panel. The finished aircraft, christened the Spirit of St. Louis, carried Charles Lindbergh on his historic non-stop flight from New York to Paris in May 1927. The achievement electrified the world, ushering in a new era of aviation and transforming Lindbergh into one of the most celebrated figures of his age.
For Corrigan, the flight had a more personal impact. Having helped build the aircraft, he became convinced that he too could one day cross the Atlantic.
When Ryan Aeronautical relocated its operations to St. Louis, Corrigan chose to remain in California. He found work as a mechanic with a new flying venture known as the Airtech School, operated by the San Diego Air Service. Flying soon became more than a profession. During lunch breaks, Corrigan would take one of the company's aircraft aloft and entertain himself with aerobatic manoeuvres. Management eventually prohibited the practice, so he began flying to a small airfield near the Mexican border, where he could continue performing stunts away from the watchful eyes of his employers.
In 1933, Corrigan purchased a used Curtiss Robin, a high-wing monoplane that was already approaching a decade in age. The aircraft was far from ideal for long-distance flying. Nevertheless, he decided to refurbish his Curtiss Robin to pursue his dream of flying across the Atlantic.
Corrigan fuels his plane with 320 gallons of gasoline before taking off from Floyd Bennett Field, N.Y., supposedly for California, on July 17.
Corrigan spent years rebuilding and modifying the Curtiss Robin, performing much of the work himself. He replaced the original engine with a Wright J6-5 radial engine producing 165 horsepower and added a series of auxiliary fuel tanks to provide the range required for a transatlantic flight. The modifications left the cockpit cramped and uncomfortable. Fuel tanks occupied so much space that visibility from the pilot's seat was severely restricted. To see ahead, Corrigan sometimes had to lean out of the side window.
In 1935, he applied to the Bureau of Air Commerce for permission to make a non-stop flight from New York to Ireland. The request was swiftly rejected. Federal inspectors concluded that the aircraft was certified only for domestic cross-country operations and was unsuitable for a transatlantic journey.
Corrigan refused to give up. He returned to work on the aircraft, convinced that further improvements would eventually win official approval. Each time he reapplied, however, authorities reached the same conclusion. Inspectors cited concerns about the aircraft's condition, its unconventional modifications, and the risks of attempting such a flight in a machine they regarded as inadequate for the task.
The situation became even more difficult in 1937. In the aftermath of Amelia Earhart's disappearance over the Pacific, aviation officials adopted a more cautious approach toward long-distance flights. Corrigan's aircraft licence was not renewed, effectively grounding the Robin and bringing his ambitions to a standstill.
Undeterred, Corrigan flew toward New York, planning to head for Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. He decided to land at night, after aviation officials had gone home for the day, refuel his aircraft, and quietly set off across the Atlantic before anyone could intervene.
The journey east proved far more difficult than he had anticipated. Adverse weather repeatedly disrupted his progress, forcing numerous unscheduled landings along the way. What should have been a relatively straightforward cross-country flight stretched into a nine-day ordeal. By the time Corrigan finally reached New York, autumn was giving way to winter. Faced with deteriorating weather conditions over the North Atlantic, he reluctantly abandoned the attempt and turned back for California. As soon as he landed, the feds confiscated his plane and grounded it for the next six months.
At Adams Airport, he spent months tinkering with the Robin, overhauling the engine and refining the aircraft once again. Eventually, he succeeded in obtaining an experimental licence and permission to make another non-stop flight to New York, provided that he returned to California rather than attempting a transatlantic crossing.
On 7 July 1938, Corrigan departed Long Beach and headed east once more. The flight tested both pilot and machine. Turbulence buffeted the Robin as it crossed the desert, followed by thunderstorms and lightening. With the Robin cruising at 85 miles per hour for maximum fuel efficiency, the eastbound journey took him 27 hours. Fuel efficiency became critical toward the end of the flight, and a gasoline leak developed, filling the cockpit with fumes.
Upon his arrival at Floyd Bennett Field, Corrigan began making preparation for is transatlantic flight. One problem, however, remained unresolved. He decided not to do anything about the gasoline leak that had plagued him during the journey from California, as repairing it would have delayed his departure by more than a week. Corrigan chose to leave it alone.
Officially, he filed a flight plan for a return journey to California. Then, in the pre-dawn hours of 17 July 1938, he climbed into the cockpit of the Curtiss Robin, started the engine, and took off from Floyd Bennett Field. As the aircraft disappeared into the morning haze, he turned his aircraft towards the east.
Mirrored banner headline on August 5, 1938 New York Post. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
For the next twenty-eight hours, he flew alone over the North Atlantic. The Robin carried an enormous load of fuel, pushing both aircraft and pilot to their limits. Before long, the unrepaired leak returned. Barely ten hours into the flight, gasoline began spilling into the cockpit, soaking Corrigan's shoes and pooling on the floor beneath him. The fumes were overpowering, while the fuel itself chilled his feet as it sloshed around the cramped cockpit.
With gasoline accumulating inside the aircraft, the risk of fire was ever present. Corrigan took a screwdriver and punched a hole through the cockpit floor, allowing the fuel to drain outside the aircraft on the side opposite the exhaust system and reducing the danger of an explosion.
Corrigan had originally intended to conserve fuel by running the engine at a modest power setting. Now he realised that that would only give the fuel more time to leak out. He decided to run the engine fast instead, using the precious gasoline while he had it. Despite the leak, the Robin carried more fuel than he ultimately needed. When he finally landed at Baldonnel Airfield near Dublin on 18 July 1938, he still had fuel remaining in his tanks.
Corrigan had achieved the dream he had pursued for more than a decade, but he knew he had also broken more than a few rules along the way. What happened next and how convincingly he could explain his unexpected arrival in Ireland might determine whether he returned home as a celebrated aviator or spent the next few years dealing with the consequences.
When officials questioned him about his arrival, Corrigan replied that he had got mixed up in the clouds due to a faulty compass and had flown the wrong way. The officer told him that Irish authorities had already been warned that an unidentified pilot might be attempting to fly across the Atlantic from California. The news had reached an Irish newspaper, which had published a report about an unknown pilot who had disappeared over the Atlantic. Corrigan was shocked when the officer showed him the newspaper.
Corrigan mobbed by autograph hunters in Dublin.
Word of Corrigan’s daring flight quickly spread. The area around the American legation was swarming with reporters, photographers and newsreel cameramen by that evening. Congratulatory phone calls, telegrams and cablegrams started pouring in for the pilot from other famous folk such as Henry Ford and Howard Hughes.
Corrigan steadfastly maintained that the journey had been a mistake. He never publicly abandoned the story, no matter how often journalists questioned it. Of course, nobody believed his story, but the public loved it.
When he returned to the United States, he was greeted by cheering crowds and ticker-tape parades. Newspapers across the country celebrated his adventure. The nickname "Wrong Way" Corrigan followed him everywhere and quickly became part of the American vocabulary.
He capitalised on the fame by publishing a memoir, That's My Story, whose title playfully echoed his improbable explanation. In 1939 he appeared as himself in the film The Flying Irishman, a dramatised version of the events.
Corrigan retired from aviation in 1950 and bought an 18-acre orange grove in Santa Ana, California. He lived there with his wife and three sons for the remainder of his life. He died on December 9, 1995, at age 88.
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