Days leading to the flight

The train to Elizabeth City, then the boat across. The camp stands as we left it, though the sand has climbed halfway up the door. We spent the short day sweeping and taking stock. The machine traveled badly in its crates; two ribs will need re-lacing before we think of the rail.

The wind tonight is from the northeast and strong. Wilbur says it is a good sign. I say it is a cold one. We are both correct.

Worked by lantern until past ten. The new lacing holds a tuning fork's hum when tapped, which is my own test and not in any book. Orville laughed at it, then tapped every rib himself.

Spruce shavings everywhere. The camp smells of a carpenter's shop and of the sea, and I cannot decide which is finer.

Set the engine on its blocks and turned it over by hand. Compression true on all four. The crankcase welds from October show no weeping. I confess I ran my hand over the seams the way one greets an old dog.

Fuel line froze once in the night air and cleared by morning. Noted: keep the tank wrapped in felt henceforth.

Wilbur reads us a letter from his brother. Telegrams have gone out to the papers in Dayton. The world will know of us whether we fly or fall. I find I do not care for the world's opinion, only for the wind's.

Rebalanced the rudder cables. Starboard side ran two ounces heavy. Corrected.

No work today. The wind takes the sand sideways and the roof complains like a ship. We play at dominoes and argue the value of ballast. Orville is a poor loser, which is to say a good brother.

I re-read my notes from the tunnel work of '02. Eighty wing sections and I would test eighty more. The numbers are the only companions that never complain of the cold.

Laid the launch rail on the level sand below the big hill. Sixty feet of straight pine, and it must be straight, for the machine knows no forgiveness. Sighted along it at dusk and it ran true as a rule line.

The lifesavers from the station came down to watch. Good men. I have asked them to come Thursday, whatever the weather.

We fired the engine at dawn. The four cylinders ticked true and the propeller held speed. Wind is coming up from the sea — if it holds, we try the rail.

Sunday, and the brothers will not fly on the Sabbath. The machine stands ready under its canvas like a horse at the gate. I oiled the chain drives twice out of restlessness alone.

Wilbur won the toss and stalled her off the rail — three seconds, a broken skid, a sprained wing tip. We mend tonight. The machine flew; only the landing argued.

I should be dispirited and am not. She left the ground under her own power, and no one alive can take that sentence back. Repairs by lantern. The rib stock holds out. Hands cold, heart otherwise.

Rechecked every joint twice. The rib lacing holds. I am not a man of words, but I confess my hands will not be still until the machine is in the air.

Wrote to Mother. Told her the weather is fine and the work goes on. Neither is precisely true, and a son is permitted this much.

We turned the blades until they run straight. The engine coughs but holds. I have written the pitch for the record. Tonight we do not speak of failure.

Flag hung for the lifesavers. Five came: Daniels, Dough, Etheridge, Moore, and a boy of sixteen whose name I did not catch. Tomorrow we will need their shoulders and their witness.

Four flights this morning. Ten thirty-five, Orville first — twelve seconds against a wind of twenty-one miles. Then Wilbur, then Orville again, and at noon Wilbur flew 852 feet in 59 seconds. My hands will not stop shaking.

I stood at the rail and noted times and distances, and once — I admit it only here — I did not look at my watch at all but simply watched.

We have, at last, lifted the weight of the world. A gust tumbled the machine after dinner and she will fly no more this year. It does not matter. The sand does not lie, and today the sand says: flown.