Wrong Way Corrigan and the flight to Ireland that nobody believes was an accident

Douglas “Wrong Way” Corrigan flew a patched-together 1929 Curtiss Robin from Brooklyn to Dublin in July 1938, claiming his compass was broken and he meant to fly to California. He maintained that story for the remaining 57 years of his life, never once admitting the transatlantic crossing was intentional. Whether it was the greatest navigational error or the greatest act of defiance in aviation history remains one of flying’s best unsolved mysteries.

Who Was Douglas Corrigan?

Corrigan was a mechanic and pilot from Los Angeles who grew up poor in Texas. His parents split when he was young, and he bounced between homes, but he found airplanes early and they became his life.

One detail most people overlook: Corrigan helped build the Spirit of St. Louis. He was one of the mechanics at Ryan Airlines in San Diego who assembled Lindbergh’s airplane. He was barely twenty years old, watching that machine come together under his hands — and then watching Lindbergh fly it into immortality. That lit a fire in him that never went out.

Corrigan wanted to fly the Atlantic himself. But he didn’t have Lindbergh’s money or backers. What he had was a 1929 Curtiss Robin monoplane he bought for $310.

How Did He Modify the Curtiss Robin?

Corrigan spent years turning that Robin into something capable of crossing an ocean — at least in theory. He pulled the original engine and replaced it with a larger Wright engine. He crammed five extra fuel tanks holding 320 gallons into the cabin, leaving barely enough room to sit.

The fuel tanks sat so close to his face that he couldn’t see forward through the windscreen. He had to look out the side windows to navigate — a detail that becomes significant later in the story.

He applied to the Bureau of Air Commerce (the predecessor to the FAA) for permission to fly the Atlantic. They inspected his airplane and refused. The wings had been repaired so many times they resembled patchwork. The doors didn’t seal properly. The fuel system was improvised at best. He applied again. Denied again. And again. Every time, the answer was no.

What Happened on July 17, 1938?

Corrigan had just completed a nonstop flight from Long Beach, California, to Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn — 27 hours in that same airplane, which arrived dripping fuel and running rough.

He filed a return flight plan to Long Beach. On the morning of July 17, 1938, with fog thick on the field, he fired up the Wright engine, taxied out, and took off.

He turned east.

Long Beach is due west. But Corrigan disappeared into the fog heading east over the Atlantic Ocean.

Twenty-eight hours and thirteen minutes later, he landed at Baldonnel Aerodrome in Dublin, Ireland. He climbed out of the Robin, looked at the stunned ground crew, and said: “I just flew from New York.” Then he added: “I guess I flew the wrong way.”

What Was His Explanation?

Corrigan’s story never changed. He claimed:

• The fog over Brooklyn was too thick to see the ground
• His compass was off by approximately 180 degrees
• He didn’t realize his mistake until 26 hours into the flight when he spotted land he assumed was California — but it was Ireland
• Cloud cover was so heavy the entire way that he never saw the ocean
• Fuel leaked into the cockpit so badly that his feet were soaked in gasoline for the entire flight

Why Don’t Pilots Believe Him?

The story falls apart under even basic scrutiny from a pilot’s perspective.

The sun. He flew for 28 hours. If heading west, the sun rises behind you. If heading east, it rises in front of you. He would have seen at least one sunrise in the wrong position. A pilot who had just navigated nonstop from California to New York couldn’t have missed that.

The compass. A 180-degree compass error is not a subtle malfunction. Corrigan was a licensed mechanic who built and rebuilt his own airplane. He had flown cross-country days earlier with the same instruments.

The charts. When authorities in Dublin inspected his airplane, they found detailed navigation charts for a transatlantic crossing — not for a trip to Long Beach. Corrigan claimed they were leftover from a previous plan he never executed.

The one element that holds up: unbroken cloud cover over the North Atlantic in July is genuinely plausible. The North Atlantic can stay socked in for days.

What Were the Consequences?

The American government could have thrown the book at him. He flew an uncertified airplane on an unapproved international flight without clearance. His pilot certificate could have been permanently revoked.

Instead, the Bureau of Air Commerce suspended his license for 14 days. By the time the suspension was formally issued, it had already expired. He was free and clear.

The leniency made political sense. The American public had already fallen in love with him. A ticker-tape parade down Broadway drew a million spectators — the same route and scale given to Lindbergh eleven years earlier. Corrigan appeared on the cover of every major newspaper. Hollywood made a film titled The Wrong Way Corrigan.

He became one of the most famous pilots of the era by claiming incompetence. The genius was structural: if he had announced his plan to fly to Ireland, authorities would have grounded the airplane and possibly arrested him. By insisting it was an accident, he gave the government no good option. Punishing a man for getting lost would have been a public relations disaster.

Did He Ever Admit It?

Never. Reporters asked him for decades. Interviewers tried every angle. He never cracked, never flinched, never broke character.

Douglas Corrigan died on December 9, 1995, at age 88, still insisting he meant to fly to California. As far as anyone knows, he never admitted the truth to his family either.

Why the Flight Mattered

The crossing was genuinely dangerous. That airplane had no business over the Atlantic. The fuel system alone could have killed him several times over. If the engine had quit two hours off the coast, there would be no story — just another name on the long list of pilots who attempted the ocean and lost.

But the engine didn’t quit. He landed in Ireland with gasoline on his shoes and delivered the greatest straight-faced lie in aviation history. He wanted to cross the Atlantic, had the skill and the courage to do it, and the only thing in his way was a denial letter from someone who had never sat in that cockpit. So he went and did it, and played dumb afterward.

Key Takeaways

• Douglas Corrigan flew 3,100 miles from New York to Dublin in a $310 Curtiss Robin in July 1938, claiming it was an accident
• He helped build the Spirit of St. Louis as a young mechanic, which inspired his own transatlantic ambition
• The Bureau of Air Commerce denied him permission multiple times, citing the airplane’s dangerous condition
• His 14-day license suspension had already expired by the time it was issued — effectively no punishment at all
• He never admitted the flight was intentional, maintaining the story until his death in 1995 at age 88

Primary sources: Corrigan’s own published account, Bureau of Air Commerce records under T.P. Wright, and reporting by Air & Space Magazine.