Wrong Way Corrigan and the most deliberate accident in aviation history

Douglas Corrigan flew a patched-together 1929 Curtiss Robin from Brooklyn, New York, to Dublin, Ireland, on July 17, 1938, claiming his compass malfunctioned. Nobody believed him. The flight, which lasted 28 hours and 13 minutes, was almost certainly deliberate — the culmination of years of preparation and repeated denials from federal regulators. It became one of the most celebrated stunts in aviation history and earned him the permanent nickname “Wrong Way” Corrigan.

Who Was Douglas Corrigan?

Corrigan was no amateur. He started working at Ryan Airlines in San Diego in 1925, at just eighteen years old. That job put him on the assembly team for one of the most important airplanes ever built — the Spirit of St. Louis. Corrigan worked on the wing assembly and fuel system of the aircraft Charles Lindbergh flew solo across the Atlantic in 1927.

Watching that airplane take shape under his own hands, and then watching Lindbergh claim the glory of a transatlantic crossing, lit a fire in Corrigan that never went out. He resolved to make his own ocean crossing.

The $900 Airplane That Crossed an Ocean

Corrigan bought a 1929 Curtiss Robin monoplane and spent years modifying it in his spare time. The original 90-horsepower OX-5 engine — a water-cooled V8 barely adequate for barnstorming — was replaced with a Wright J-6-5 radial producing roughly 165 horsepower.

He installed five extra fuel tanks wherever he could fit them: in the wings, in the cabin, and one directly in front of the instrument panel. That last tank blocked most of his forward visibility. He could only see ahead by leaning to the side and peering out the small side windows.

The rest of the airplane matched the fuel tank situation. The fuselage was reinforced with whatever materials were available. The wings were patched repeatedly. The cabin door was held shut with baling wire. Some fuel lines ran through the cockpit, sealed with old rags and a wrench used as a plug.

Why the Government Kept Saying No

Starting in 1935, Corrigan applied to the Bureau of Air Commerce for permission to fly across the Atlantic. The answer was no. The airplane was deemed unairworthy for an ocean crossing, and no regulator would sign off on it.

He applied again. No. And again. No. Year after year, the same response. The bureaucrats weren’t wrong — the Curtiss Robin was genuinely dangerous for a transatlantic attempt. But they did grant him a license to fly cross-country within the United States.

The “Wrong Way” Flight

Corrigan used that domestic license to fly nonstop from Long Beach, California, to Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn — a 27-hour flight with no radio and no beam navigation, just a compass and a clock. That flight alone was remarkable, but it served a second purpose: a proving run to confirm the airplane could handle a long nonstop haul.

On the morning of July 17, 1938, Corrigan filed a flight plan listing his destination as Long Beach, California. The field manager cleared him for a westbound departure.

He took off heading east.

Twenty-eight hours and thirteen minutes later, he landed at Baldonnel Aerodrome in Dublin, Ireland. When the stunned ground crew asked where he’d come from, he said New York. When they told him he was in Ireland, he replied: “I flew the wrong way.”

He claimed his compass malfunctioned, that heavy clouds obscured the ground and stars, and that he didn’t realize his mistake until spotting land after 26 hours of flight. He maintained this story for the rest of his life.

What He Was Really Sitting On

The courage behind the stunt is easy to overlook beneath the humor. Corrigan flew over the North Atlantic carrying 320 gallons of fuel in an airplane held together with patches. He had no radio, no life raft, and no survival equipment. If the engine failed over open ocean, no one was coming. He would have disappeared without a trace.

He had been calculating fuel burns and weight limits for years. Everything about the flight was meticulously planned — every modification, every gallon of fuel, the proving flight from California. This was not an impulsive stunt.

America’s Folk Hero

The press went wild. The nickname “Wrong Way Corrigan” stuck immediately, and he wore it proudly. He returned to the United States by steamship, and New York City gave him a ticker-tape parade — the same route, the same celebration Lindbergh had received eleven years earlier. A million people turned out.

He appeared on the cover of newspapers nationwide and starred in a 1938 Hollywood film called The Flying Irishman, playing himself. In the middle of the Great Depression, a scrappy mechanic with a junk-heap airplane who had thumbed his nose at the bureaucrats became an instant folk hero.

The government suspended his pilot’s license for five days — then backdated the suspension to cover the days he spent on the ship home. By the time he reached American soil, the penalty had already expired.

What Happened to Corrigan and His Curtiss Robin?

Corrigan lived to be 88 years old, passing away in 1995 in Orange, California. He never once admitted the flight was intentional. Near the end of his life, a reporter asked him directly whether he flew to Ireland on purpose. Corrigan smiled and said: “Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

His Curtiss Robin survived as well, passing through various hangars over the decades. It was last reported at the Orange County Airport in California, where preservation efforts have been intermittent.

Key Takeaways

Douglas Corrigan helped build the Spirit of St. Louis in 1925, then spent over a decade pursuing his own transatlantic dream.
After years of denied applications, he “accidentally” flew from New York to Dublin on July 17, 1938, in a heavily modified 1929 Curtiss Robin with blocked forward visibility and no safety equipment.
The flight lasted 28 hours and 13 minutes over the North Atlantic with 320 gallons of fuel, no radio, and no life raft.
He received a ticker-tape parade in New York, a Hollywood movie deal, and a pilot’s license suspension of just five days (backdated so it was already served).
Corrigan never admitted the flight was deliberate, maintaining his “wrong way” story until his death in 1995.