On the evening of August 11, 1978, as twilight descended over a quiet potato field in Presque Isle, Maine, an extraordinary moment in aviation history was quietly taking flight. The massive helium balloon Double Eagle II, a towering 11-story envelope of gas above a reinforced gondola, began its slow and graceful ascent into the darkening sky.
Below, a crowd of nearly 8,000 onlookers watched with bated breath, their cheers fading into the distance as the balloon drifted into the Atlantic night. Onboard were three American menBen Abruzzo, Maxie Anderson, and Larry Newman each prepared to risk everything in pursuit of a dream that had eluded humanity for nearly two centuries: crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a free flying balloon without stopping.
For centuries, men and women had stared across the sea with longing and determination, dreaming of bridging continents through the skies. Since the Montgolfier brothers launched the first successful hot-air balloon in 1783, balloonists had imagined a future where such craft could traverse entire oceans.
Yet attempt after attempt to fly across the Atlantic ended in heartbreak, wreckage, and, in many cases, death. Fourteen such missions had been tried, and all had failed. Some had come agonizingly close; others had never even made it out of sight of land. Yet none had completed the perilous journey until these three pioneers in the Double Eagle II achieved the impossible.
The seeds of this monumental flight were planted in the fertile skies of Albuquerque, New Mexico, a city known for its ballooning culture and clear, expansive vistas. Ben Abruzzo and Maxie Anderson, both residents of the city, had already tried once before. In 1977, their first effort aboard the Double Eagle I had ended prematurely with a frigid ocean ditching near Iceland.
It was a near-catastrophic experience that might have deterred lesser men. But Abruzzo and Anderson were not deterred; they were galvanized. They returned from the ocean not as defeated dreamers, but as seasoned adventurers, ready to refine their design, gather a stronger team, and try again.
In planning the second attempt, they brought aboard Larry Newman, an accomplished pilot and glider expert from California. Newman brought both technical skill and a daring mindset to the mission. He was also one of the rare aviators at the time who held multiple types of pilot licenses, including glider and fixed wing aircraft. The trio formed a powerful blend of resilience, knowledge, and complementary skills that would be crucial in their days suspended between sky and sea.
The Double Eagle II was engineered with meticulous precision. Its envelope, crafted from a heat-resistant polyester film coated in Mylar, contained 160,000 cubic feet of helium, making it one of the largest balloons ever constructed. Suspended beneath was a fiberglass gondola they named The Spirit of Albuquerque, measuring fifteen feet long, seven feet wide, and four and a half feet tall. This capsule was to be their entire world for nearly a week. Every inch of space was utilized, packed with over 6,000 pounds of ballast, food, water, oxygen, medical kits, cold-weather clothing, navigational gear, and a remarkable array of communications equipment. The gondola's interior, although cramped, was insulated and reinforced to withstand high-altitude pressures and temperatures. It was not built for comfort; it was built to survive.
The launch on August 11 was timed to coincide with favorable wind patterns known as the prevailing westerlies, high-altitude air currents that could propel the balloon eastward over the ocean. As they ascended into the clear evening, the crew was immediately faced with the unforgiving reality of their situation.
Days of continuous flight over open water lay ahead. They would face harsh conditions, oxygen deprivation, sleep deprivation, and the constant risk of catastrophe. Yet from the very first hours of flight, the mission began to proceed with an almost eerie smoothness.
Each day of the journey presented new challenges. At night, the absence of the sun caused helium to cool and contract, reducing buoyancy and lowering the balloon's altitude. During the day, sunlight heated the gas, expanding it and sending the balloon soaring.
These temperature-driven shifts meant the balloon was in a near-constant vertical dance, swinging between altitudes of 4,000 and 24,000 feet. At higher altitudes, oxygen levels thinned dangerously, necessitating the use of oxygen masks. Meanwhile, the gondola's walls froze with condensation, and ice often formed on the balloon’s envelope.
One of the most harrowing moments occurred on August 16, in an episode the crew would later call the “Big Drop.” At around 23,500 feet, the balloon unexpectedly began a rapid descent. Something in the balloon’s internal equilibrium had shifted, and the loss of altitude was sudden and terrifying.
To regain control, the crew jettisoned virtually all available ballast including food supplies and even Larry Newman’s personal hang glider, which had been brought as a last resort escape option. It was a gamble born of desperation, but it worked. The descent was arrested, and the balloon stabilized just above the waves at around 4,000 feet.
While the crew navigated the elements above the ocean, an international network of amateur radio operators, aviation authorities, and weather forecasters tracked their progress. The mission became a global event, with people from New York to Paris tuning into news updates, radios crackling with the latest position reports.
Transatlantic flights diverted their routes to pass near the balloon, offering sightings and relays of information to ground stations. The Double Eagle II had become a symbol of adventure in a modern world that often seemed devoid of mystery.
At around 11 p.m. GMT on August 16, the balloon entered Irish airspace, finally making landfall after five grueling days over the Atlantic. A sense of triumph swept through the crew, but caution remained their guiding principle. They were offered the chance to land at the historic Le Bourget Airport near Paris the very same place where Charles Lindbergh had completed his solo flight across the Atlantic in 1927 but concerns over urban congestion and insufficient ballast convinced them to choose a quieter, safer location.
The landing came just before 8 p.m. local time on August 17, in a barley field near the village of Miserey, about sixty miles west of Paris. It was a soft, controlled descent, and as the gondola touched the earth, the gathered crowd of curious locals rushed to meet the crew. The moment was electric, three weary men emerging from a fiberglass capsule, their faces lined with exhaustion and triumph. They had done it. They had succeeded where so many before had failed.
Their journey had lasted 137 hours and 6 minutes nearly six days and covered a distance of 3,099 miles. Their average speed hovered around 22 miles per hour. But the numbers alone do not capture the magnitude of what they achieved. They had redefined the limits of what was possible in human flight. They had resurrected a romantic ideal from the age of enlightenment and brought it roaring into the modern era.
The accolades came quickly. The United States Congress awarded each of the three men the Congressional Gold Medal, one of the nation’s highest civilian honors. The Fédération Aéronautique Internationale bestowed upon them the Gold Air Medal, while the National Geographic Society gave them the LaGorce Medal for exploration. The gondola of the Double Eagle II was enshrined at the Smithsonian Institution’s Udvar-Hazy Center, a monument to ingenuity, courage, and perseverance.
The success of the Double Eagle II did not mark the end of ballooning feats; it marked the beginning of a new era. Abruzzo and Anderson would go on to win the prestigious Gordon Bennett Cup the following year aboard the Double Eagle III. In 1981, Abruzzo and Newman completed another historic flight, this time across the Pacific Ocean aboard the Double Eagle V, becoming the first to accomplish such a feat.
These flights pushed not just the physical boundaries of ballooning, but also the conceptual limits of adventure in a world increasingly ruled by automation and commercial aviation.But with triumph came tragedy. In 1983, Maxie Anderson was killed in a balloon crash during a competition in Germany. Two years later, Ben Abruzzo perished in a small plane crash in Albuquerque.
Larry Newman lived until 2010, when he died of cancer, having spent his later years building ultralight aircraft and advocating for aviation education. Though their lives were cut short, the legacy they left behind endures in every long-distance balloon flight, every record-setting attempt, and in the annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta a gathering that draws thousands of balloonists from around the world.
The Double Eagle II flight is remembered not merely as a technical accomplishment but as a human story. It is the story of three men who committed themselves to an improbable vision, who withstood danger and discomfort, and who emerged victorious not because of luck, but because of discipline, courage, and unrelenting belief. Their journey was not just across the Atlantic; it was across the boundary between what had always been and what might yet be.
In many ways, the spirit of the Double Eagle II still drifts above us. It resides in the child who looks skyward and wonders what lies beyond the clouds. It lives in the engineers and dreamers who challenge the limits of flight, and in every person who dares to risk failure in pursuit of greatness. It is the echo of a moment when three ordinary men became legends not because they conquered the sky, but because they embraced it, with open hearts and unwavering resolve.
As we look to the future of flight toward space tourism, supersonic travel, and autonomous aircraft the legacy of the Double Eagle II serves as both a foundation and a beacon. It reminds us that progress is not measured solely in speed or technology, but in the boldness of vision and the courage to chase the horizon, even when it stretches endlessly before us.
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