In the early morning hours of May 10, 1912, a budding young aviator by the name of Glenn Luther Martin scanned the skies above Newport Beach and frowned. Above him and all around him as far as he could see was that most common of Southern California weather phenomenon known as “marine layer.”
Martin was disappointed not because he was planning a day at the beach, but because he was planning a day in the sky; a day that was destined to propel him into the annals of aviation history.
In the early morning hours of May 10, 1912, a budding young aviator by the name of Glenn Luther Martin scanned the skies above Newport Beach and frowned. Above him and all around him as far as he could see was that most common of Southern California weather phenomenon known as “marine layer.”
Martin was disappointed not because he was planning a day at the beach, but because he was planning a day in the sky; a day that was destined to propel him into the annals of aviation history.
While Martin’s greatest years were still ahead of him, by 1912 he was already well-known within aviation circles. Martin is credited with the first airplane flight in the state of California, a 12-second jaunt on Aug. 1, 1909, at the James Irvine Ranch that reached a dizzying altitude of 8 feet.
But on this overcast morning it was Martin’s intention to become the first person to fly from the mainland to Catalina Island, more than 30 miles across the San Pedro Channel. Only the night before, he had hastily prepared for the flight after receiving news that a competitor was planning on flying to Catalina from Long Beach the following day. If Martin was going to accomplish his aerial feat, he would have to act quickly.
No one at that time had ever flown such a distance over the open ocean. Frenchman Louis Blierot and American Hariet Quimby had already conquered the English Channel, but the flight to Catalina represented another 10 miles of open ocean.
The equipment Martin would use was his own gossamer “pusher” biplane—complete with bamboo struts—that he had built in an abandoned church in Santa Ana.
On the morning of the flight, Martin donned an inflated bicycle tube for flotation (if needed) and strapped a barometer to one leg and a compass to the other. As a last thought, he handed his gold watch to a friend for safekeeping. That friend was Charles Healy Day, the man who went on to develop the process of using laminated wood in propeller construction.
After Martin lifted off the waters of Newport Beach, he made one pass over the small group of friends and well-wishers—including his mother Minta—and slowly climbed into the mist and out of sight of the gathered crowd.
Once above the marine layer, Martin strained to see any hint of Catalina Island. But the cloud cover was complete and Martin had only his compass with which to steer by. For more than 30 minutes he skimmed the tops of the clouds at about 2,000 feet until his instincts told him it was time to descend. He slowly began his descent, re-entering the marine layer as he did so.
At this point, Martin had no idea if he would find empty ocean beneath him or if he would plow straight in to the peaks of Catalina. But upon emerging from the mist he found Avalon Bay nearly directly below him. By this time, an eager crowd had gathered on Avalon Beach, having been appraised of Martin’s incoming flight.
Martin gracefully landed his plane on the still waters of the bay and taxied up to shore, where he beached the craft among a throng of applauding and appreciative Catalina Islanders. There, he received a hero’s welcome and was whisked away to the Glenmore Hotel to give a speech at a luncheon held in his honor.
When Martin returned to his plane, he learned that over-eager members of the welcoming crowd had “helpfully” pulled his craft higher up on the beach, puncturing the plane’s only float in the process. He was not amused and he was even less amused when he learned that a visiting Shriner had “autographed” his plane.
Because of the punctured float, Martin knew that once his plane was in the water again it would start to sink. Because of this, he changed his return flight plan to a course that would take him first to Long Beach and then down the coast back to Newport.
The new course would not only mean he would spend less time over the water, but should he have to ditch he would find himself in the middle of a much busier shipping lane.
After filling his fuel tank from a pitcher he borrowed from the Glenmore and accepting a sack of mail to deliver to the mainland (one of the first airmail deliveries in U.S. history), Martin fired up his craft and lifted off the waters of Avalon Bay.
Although the new course would be safer it would also add an additional 45 minutes to the flight. But the return trip went without a hitch and at 5:17 p.m. Martin landed once again in the waters of Newport Harbor. Predictably, the plane began to sink as Martin struggled to get the craft ashore. When his friend Charles Day began wading into the surf to help, Martin reportedly yelled at him, “Go back, Charley! Go back! You’ll ruin my watch!”
Martin’s historic flight was not only the first flight to Catalina Island, it was also the longest over-water flight in world history to date and the first time in history that a plane had taken off from water and landed on water in the same flight.
Martin was a true pioneer among aviation pioneers and is credited with not only teaching men like William Boeing, Donald Douglas and Lawrence Bell to fly, but—perhaps just as important—teaching these men how to design and build aircraft.
He also mentored other significant pioneers in aviation such as Jack Northrop. The same year as his Catalina flight, he founded the Glenn L. Martin Company, the first in a line of aerospace companies that would bear his name. On Dec. 5, 1955, Martin passed away in Baltimore, Maryland.
