The Stuntman, Part II: Headless

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Over the latter half of 1910, Lincoln Beachey struggled to make the transition from dirigible virtuoso to heavier-than-air aviator. During the first two months of 1911, however, apart from his near-crash into the Cuban president’s automobile, Beachey flew competently. In February he beat the far more experienced J.A.D. McCurdy in a five-mile race. News reports reflect that he routinely charmed spectators at Palm Beach, Florida.

As spring neared, Beachey worked his way slowly up the East Coast. Around the time he arrived in North Carolina, in early March, descriptions of his flying began to reflect an increased confidence. He produced “straight line effects, circles, curves and almost everything else,” thrilling the crowds who came to see him. “Instead of the large audience being excited or fearful that Beach[e]y would fall,” though, “the majority of them watched with eager eyes the graceful flights and perfect control of the machine displayed by the aviator.” His name recognition grew to such an extent that at one point he became a pitchman for the Cape Fear Oil Company.

Curtiss business manager Jerome Fanciulli appointed Beachey as the resident instructor at a temporary “aviation school” set up at the luxury resort in Pinehurst, North Carolina. Beachey’s wife, Minnie, joined him for the three weeks he worked there; the “instruction” consisted of giving paid rides. Commander Saito of the Japanese Navy, who had arrived to learn about American flying machines, rode twice as a passenger. In short, Beachey appeared to have developed into a conventional flyer for Curtiss.

Then, early in May, Beachey and McCurdy arrived at Washington for a meet at the Benning race track; Curtiss team member Hugh Robinson was there as well. The event was billed as a series of races—aeroplanes against one another, motorcycles against one another, and aeroplanes against motorcycles—but there would also be passenger-carrying flights.

On opening day at the Benning meet, however, Beachey abandoned the announced program. No doubt remembering the adulation that had greeted him five years earlier when he circled the Washington Monument in his dirigible and landed on the White House lawn—or perhaps to prove that he had become just as good at operating a heavier-than-air machine—he impulsively flew his Curtiss pusher biplane to nearby Washington, circled the dome of the U.S. Capitol, and might have gone on to the Washington Monument as well, had the winds not been too strong.

Beachey qualified for his Aero Club license (No. 27) at Benning. Fulfilling the various requirements “seemed to be an easy matter for Beach[e]y, and, as the last number on the program, he made his aeroplane do every antic known in the world of the air.”

[D]riving his aeroplane to a height of 600 or more feet, [he] glided in a spiral fashion almost to the earth, and as the machine was about to touch the ground he pointed its nose upward, and a few minutes later was again near the clouds. This was done repeatedly.

It was a return to the glory days of his “gas bag doings.”

Curtiss arrived in Washington the day after the Capitol circumnavigation, and it would not be surprising to learn that he was horrified by reports of what had happened, aware as he was of the dangers attendant on flying over populated areas—to say nothing of the risky spiral glide, which is what Beachey appears to have been doing. But it was about to get worse.

Lincoln Beachey lacked an engineering background. In 1914 he would famously assert: “You can fly a kitchen table, if your motor is strong enough.” Accordingly, when he crashed into a fence on June 2 at Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and damaged his front elevator, he simply removed it. The next day he flew “without any front canvas surface,” and on the day following that he used only a small front control. Beachey eventually found he could fly in a much freer manner after creating the “headless” configuration (pictured above), although at first he reportedly found it “difficult to operate his machine with this makeup.”

That the change to his machine drew scant comment was perhaps attributable to something more marvelous that occurred at the Wilkes-Barre exhibition: with a motion picture camera strapped beside him, Beachey managed to fly while he himself cranked the camera, producing what is believed to be the first movie footage ever shot from an aeroplane. But it’s also true that the headless configuration was not an innovation.

The Wrights had introduced their headless Baby Grand at Belmont Park in October 1910, and Lieutenant Ellyson had already anticipated removal of the front control for experiments with Curtiss hydroaeroplanes. As Captain Chambers, the Navy’s aviation expert, noted two months before Beachey first appeared as an amateur flyer:

The aviators of both the Wright and Curtiss schools seem to think this [headless configuration] is logical progress, but the performances of the Wright biplanes in comparison with the Curtiss and Farman biplanes, both of which [retain] the front control, . . . indicate that if this is so, the new position of the elevator planes [at the rear] requires more skill, as in the monoplanes, to handle the machines while landing.

Chambers even speculated that the deaths of John Moisant and Arch Hoxsey on New Year’s Eve could be attributed to loss of balance, “thus causing the machines to revolve suddenly about their centers of mass situated near the front ends” instead of near the middle of the aeroplane, as would be the case in a machine with a front elevator.

Whether Beachey was further emboldened by the acquisition of a formal license or for other reasons, the switch to a headless configuration allowed him to fly in a manner that Curtiss, traveling with him in Connecticut while searching for a suitable factory location, considered utterly reckless. As Curtiss wrote to Fanciulli in mid-June: “So far, we have been extremely fortunate in not having any accident happen to the men or spectators, but we cannot hope for this good luck to continue long when we consider how Beach[e]y is flying.”

At Bridgeport, Beachey again flew over a city, and he later made a short cross-country flight to New Haven to perform at Yale’s aviation meet. In a visit to Mineola, Long Island, where he wasn’t scheduled to appear, he reportedly accepted an invitation to fly a Baldwin “Red Devil.” Even though he had never operated such a model, he was soon demonstrating “[e]very spectacular stunt known to aviators.” At the end of the month he took a passenger, Miss Mae Wood, up to a reported thousand feet.

In mid-June, Beachey appeared unannounced at a meet in Waltham, Massachusetts, flying over from his own nearby exhibition. He was described as shooting down “in a spiral curve, with his machine dangerously near the perpendicular, banking right and left, and shutting off his power at just the right moment, when the machine seemed to straighten out and land on the field like a feather.” Spectators had seen this kind of flying before. Of all the Curtiss aviators, it was Beachey who came closest in his flying style to that of another former trick bicycle-rider, the ill-fated Ralph Johnstone.

While Eugene Ely was grinding out performances in Montana, advertisements erroneously included him among the aviators scheduled to appear at a “Great Aviation Meet” to be held at the Fort Erie Race Track in Buffalo from June 20-22. That exhibition, when it took place, was notable mostly for Beachey’s willingness to fly his headless pusher in winds estimated at 40-45 mph gusts. He then upstaged himself by announcing his intention of flying over Niagara Falls, down into the gorge, past the whirlpool, and below the suspension bridge downriver. If Curtiss had been previously apprehensive about Beachey’s flying, this news must have prostrated him.

Promoters were constantly ballyhooing the sensational as a means of driving up ticket sales. This time was different; the occasion for Beachey’s promised flight was the second annual International Carnival at Niagara Falls, which marked the formal opening of the summer season and was filled with legitimately sensational attractions. Other anticipated performers were Robert Leach, who expected to shoot the whirlpool rapids in a steel barrel, and the Great Houdin (not to be confused with Harry Houdini), who proposed to slide across the gorge on a tight-wire while holding on by his teeth alone. Some three hundred thousand spectators were said to be heading to Buffalo for the carnival.

How much money Beachey was promised for attempting the Niagara Falls stunt is unclear—obviously it was not an engagement of which Curtiss approved—nor is there a way to discern the extent to which Beachey was motivated by the search for “new thrills in aviation.” But he was certainly game to try. He electrified the crowd with the effort he made simply to get there, racing a storm from Fort Erie over the housetops of Buffalo, “barely two minutes ahead of the downpour and going like the wind.”

On June 27, an estimated 150,000 spectators watched Beachey rise from a baseball diamond on the Buffalo side of the river, roughly a mile north of the cataract, and cross over the American Falls. He circled around once and shot toward the rim of the Horseshoe (Canadian) Falls but pulled up abruptly. He then made two more circles, dropping to an estimated two hundred feet above the river. Suddenly he dove down over the falls and into the gorge.

Keeping barely above the turbulent surface of the river, Beachey flew through the mist—one report said he had to shut his eyes against the stinging—and under the span of the Upper Steel Arch Bridge, also known as the Honeymoon Bridge. He continued down along the river almost to the whirlpool rapids, “mounted again, and, shaving the wooded cliff, landed safely and unconcerned on the Canadian side.”

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With that one spectacular flight, Beachey effectively ended the “exhibition” era. No longer were crowds content to watch a flying machine circle a track, just to see with their own eyes that man could really fly. As one editorial writer cogently explained:

With all due respect to Glenn Curtiss, the Wrights and other pioneers whose achievements will ever be remembered, the ordinary aeroplane flights such as they now give, even with the new hydroplane device, no longer satisfy the public. And this is no compliment to the public, either. Recent events are demonstrating that the people want thrillers and, in plain terms, this means an extreme risking of human life. The ordinary flights have become so common as no longer to attract crowds . . . .

Beachey promised to repeat his stunt on the following day, confident that he could fly even closer to the water. But conditions on June 28 proved too unstable, and he was thereupon said to vow never again to attempt to fly under the Honeymoon Bridge. Indeed, his successful flight on June 27 was the only time he tried it.

It hardly mattered. His Niagara Falls stunt far eclipsed the most sensational of his dirigible flights and, by July 1911, Lincoln Beachey was once again the talk of America.

 

Part I: Gas Bag Doings

Part III: Precipice

For much more on Beachey’s life and career, please visit historian Carroll Gray’s excellent Lincoln Beachey website.

 

 

 

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The Stuntman, Part II: Headless

The Stuntman, Part I: Gas Bag Doings

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June 14, 1906. Washington, D.C. Nineteen-year-old dirigible pilot Lincoln Beachey culminates a year of increasingly daring exhibitions by circling the Washington Monument, landing on the White House lawn in the hope of meeting President Roosevelt, and proceeding on past the U.S. Capitol building. “It is safe to say,” reports the Washington Evening Star, “that there was not a full hour’s work put in by any of the employe[e]s of the government or any of the other offices within view of the flight from 10 a.m. till after 12.”

Lincoln Beachey, the man popularly (if wrongly) thought to have had the most profound influence on Eugene Ely’s flying career, was born in San Francisco in March 1887. Around the turn of the century, he developed an interest in spherical gas balloons. By the time he was seventeen Beachey was winning motorcycle races in the Bay Area. At some point he and his older brother Hillery met Captain Tom Baldwin, who was attempting to build a dirigible airship; although there is no direct evidence of this, they were also likely acquainted with Baldwin’s collaborator, balloonist Bud Mars.

When Baldwin exhibited his first successful airship, California Arrow, at the St. Louis Louisiana Purchase Exposition in October 1904, he employed as his pilot Roy Knabenshue. After additional exhibitions at Los Angeles, Baldwin planned to fly a new airship, equipped with a more powerful Curtiss motor, at the Lewis and Clark Exposition in Portland, Oregon. Before that could happen, a rift with Knabenshue led Baldwin to hire Lincoln Beachey as his new pilot. Beachey headed for Portland in 1905 with plenty of nerve but virtually no experience in motorized airships.

Knabenshue was known as a cautious dirigible operator. Beachey, in contrast, quickly gained fame as an aerial acrobat who could make an airship “do practically everything but turn somersaults.” He flew high and low over Portland. He landed on the roofs of office buildings. And he felt supremely comfortable in the sky. “Even when I first went up in a balloon,” he told a journalist, “I was not nervous. I really liked the sensation. Some people instinctively like certain things, and I guess that is the way it is with me and the airship. I don’t know what fear is when I am in the air.”

Following the Portland exhibition, Beachey left Baldwin and joined up with Knabenshue in Toledo, Ohio. Taking a cue from their former employer, the partners relied on Curtiss engines for their airships. If Beachey hadn’t previously met Glenn Curtiss in person through Baldwin, he certainly did so in partnership with Knabenshue.

Having established a truly national reputation with his dramatic flight over Washington in June 1906, Beachey went on to dazzle spectators in cities along the East Coast for the next two years. His flights were advertised as “the Utopian pinnacle of modern sensationalism.” He dropped paper “bombs” on the forts of New York Harbor to demonstrate the ease with which aerial attacks could be carried out. He won the $2,000 first-place prize ($50,000 in today’s dollars) at a dirigible race against, among others, Baldwin. He exhibited in Mexico for three solid months. While the Wright brothers steadfastly declined to fly their aeroplane in public, and heavier-than-air flight was widely believed to be impossible, Beachey helped to make 1907 “The Year of the Airships.”

Beachey swiftly became, without doubt, a world-famous pioneer in aerial navigation, but by mid-1909 he and Knabenshue could see that aeroplanes were the flying machines of the future. Because (a) they did not know how to build heavier-than-air flying machines, (b) the Wrights declined to hire them, and (c) Curtiss had not yet started giving exhibitions, Beachey and Knabenshue were stuck operating dirigibles.

To generate greater enthusiasm at exhbitions, they spent the rest of 1909 staging dirigible match races. At a November exhibition in Cincinnati, where Curtiss and Charles Willard had difficulty getting their aeroplanes to fly, Beachey, Knabenshue, and teenage dirigible operator Cromwell Dixon were the stars/ They “swept around the track, intersected it, swept over and above each other, and finally came back to earth, each time within a few feet of  the spot from which they had started.”

America’s first international aviation meet, held at Dominguez Field meet near Los Angeles in January 1910, marked the permanent transfer of public enthusiasm from lumbering dirigible airships to nimble aeroplanes. “Gas bag doings have become commonplace,” wrote one journalist at the meet. “The aeroplane is the real thriller.” Indeed, upon seeing the speed and the ease with which Curtiss flew at Dominguez Field, Beachey reportedly turned to his partner and said: “Roy, our racket’s dead.”

Within a few months the Wrights had hired Knabenshue to manage their aeroplane exhibition team. Beachey and his brother Hillery, for their part, started experimenting with monoplane aircraft construction. Despite his unparalleled status as a dirigible aeronaut, Beachey was an amateur aviator. He was present at the Wright team’s inaugural exhibition at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in June 1910, but he was not a member of the team; although he brought a skeletal monoplane of his own design, he was unable to get it reliably into the sky.

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Within two weeks of the Indianapolis meet, perhaps hoping to learn by studying aeroplanes up close, Beachey secured a position as “chief assistant” to Charles Willard. In that capacity, he brought his primitive monoplane to the Curtiss team’s exhibition at Minneapolis in late June 1910. There is no record of his ever flying more than three feet high, however, apart from the curious report in one newspaper: “While it is not so successful in making curves, dips and other maneuvers as the Curtiss aeroplane, it has remarkable speed.” That conclusion appears to be nothing but puffery.

Beachey traveled with Willard to Kansas City as a mechanic but left him soon afterward to spend time with Curtiss. At an Atlantic City meet held over the Fourth of July weekend, Beachey rode as an ad hoc passenger; evidently without any safety restraint, he “stood on Curtiss’ seat behind the aviator and waved his hands to the cheering crowd.” He then left the team.

In October, while Ely was attempting to complete the first aeroplane flight from Chicago to New York, there is a suggestion that Beachey and his dirigible were the featured attraction at the Appalachian Exposition in Knoxville, Tennessee (this may have been a misidentification). He returned afterward to San Francisco, ostensibly for the winter. Indeed, at a November meet in Fresno that marked Mars’ final appearance for the Curtiss team, Beachey was specifically identified as a spectator rather than a participant.

But it seems he decided right around then to take another crack at the heavier-than-air “racket.” To do so he either bought, leased, or borrowed Whipple Hall’s old aeroplane and brought it to Los Angeles for the second Dominguez Field meet of 1910. On December 22, Beachey “made flights all afternoon to learn the intricacies of the Curtiss machine.” The press identified him and Hugh Robinson, the Curtiss mechanician and one-time aeroplane designer who was likewise learning to fly a biplane, as “replacements” for Mars on the Curtiss team.

Beachey continued teaching himself to fly during the final week in December 1910. Eventually he felt confident enough in his abilities to announce that he would take part in a scheduled “aviation derby”—multiple machines racing simultaneously, as opposed to serially against the clock. He was said to have made the fastest speed trials for that race, but ultimately he declined to compete against the professionals on December 27. Nor, on the following day, did he take part in the “air derby” for amateurs; before the race could even start, he crashed from a height of fifteen feet.

Beachey’s smashups at Dominguez Field eventually transformed into an apocryphal story regarding his first flights: supposedly he traveled to the Curtiss factory at Hammondsport, crashed twice, disgusted Curtiss, and was saved only through the good graces of manager Jerome Fanciulli. But it’s clear that Curtiss, who had known Beachey for years and had even employed him as a mechanic for a time, first saw him attempt to fly an aeroplane at Minneapolis in June 1910. When Beachey flew as an amateur six months later in California and crashed, moreover, Fanciulli was on the East Coast.

Beachey improved sufficiently to gain prominence in mid-January 1911 as the first novice to negotiate the half-mile course at a San Francisco international aviation meet. He also reportedly made precision landings that were said to have “surprised the professionals who were present.” At the end of the month he headed for Cuba, where Fanciulli, despite misgivings by Curtiss, had arranged a major exhibition at which J.A.D. McCurdy was to appear. Fellow flyer Hugh Robinson recalled later that “Curtiss discovered that the [Havana] contract called for two aviators. Whether or not the second aviator could fly did not matter, so Curtiss laughingly decided to send Beachey.”

Beachey might have been sent as a joke, as Robinson claimed, but his part in the Havana exhibition verged on disaster. On January 29, 1911, having narrowly avoided smashing the Curtiss Hudson Flyer into an automobile in which sat the President of Cuba and his family, Beachey couldn’t avoid crashing into another auto parked a few yards away. Luckily, no one was seriously hurt. Still, after a full month of flying in public, Beachey was performing at a decidedly amateur level.

That was about to change.

Part II: Headless

Part III: Precipice

For much more on Beachey’s life and career, please visit historian Carroll Gray’s excellent Lincoln Beachey website.

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The Stuntman, Part I: Gas Bag Doings

Eye in the Sky

 

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February 7, 1912. Manhattan. Frank Coffyn, former member of the Wright Exhibition Team, takes off from the ice-choked Hudson River in a hydroaeroplane and flies over New York Harbor. Coffyn’s passenger is Adrian C. Duff, “The Camera Kid,”a photographer for the American Press Association. Photos have been shot from aeroplanes before, but Duff takes the first aerial pictures of New York, including a shot of Castle Williams (above right), constructed as part of the defensive system for the inner harbor. After the flight, Duff opines that a man with a camera in an aeroplane “could take pictures of any fortification in the world, down to their finest details.” A New York World editorial optimistically calls the results of the flight “only a suggestion of what the aeroplane may do to make war farcical in its preparation and too deadly for indulgence in its actualities.”

 

Frank Trenholm Coffyn was born in South Carolina in 1878, the son of a banker. In March 1910 he was working in New York City, married and the father of two children, when he saw pioneer French aviator Louis Paulhan fly at the Jamaica race track on Long Island. Wilbur Wright was also present, having come with his lawyer to watch Paulhan, against whom the brothers had brought a patent infringement suit.

Coffyn does not appear to have had any mechanical or engineering background, but he was already “an ardent flying enthusiast.” His father knew Andrew Freedman, one of the directors of the Wright Company; through Freedman, Coffyn met Wilbur Wright shortly after the Paulhan flight, begged for a job in the brothers’ company, and managed to extract an invitation to visit them. Coffyn traveled to Dayton around April 1910 and was adjudged competent enough to begin flying lessons. He received one and a half hours of instruction from Orville Wright, followed by an hour of check flights with the brothers’ first student, Walter Brookins.

Roy Knabenshue, manager of the newly formed Wright Exhibition Team, had been working since early March on logistics for the team’s first public exhibition, to be held at Indianapolis in mid-June. The brothers themselves proposed to do no flying there, but Knabenshue had assembled a team of six aviators: Coffyn, Brookins, Arthur Welsh, Duval La Chappelle, Ralph Johnstone and Arch Hoxsey. On the eve of the meet the aviators were presented with two-year contracts, under which they would be paid $50 for every day they flew ($1,250 in current dollars), plus a $20 per week base salary and $6 per diem for expenses and transportation. The contract prohibited team members from flying on Sundays or taking passengers not approved by the Wrights. If they quit before the term of the contract, they agreed not to fly professionally for a year. All six signed the contracts.

In advance of the Indianapolis meet, the assembled Wright aviators spent two days conducting private trial flights that were closed even to the press. The public performances that followed were carefully scripted, safe, and uneventful. During Coffyn’s first solo flight he was bitten near the eye by a spider that had crawled unnoticed into his flight goggles while they hung in the shed. He landed safely.

Although Brookins, Johnstone and Hoxsey would soon be known more for corkscrews and other aerial stunts than for the placidity of their flying, Coffyn never developed a similar reputation. He appeared at meets in Atlantic City and Toronto over the summer of 1910 without drawing any particular attention and survived three crashes that he attributed to “structural failure,” one of which resulted in his swimming from the wreck.

Beginning in January 1911, Coffyn was in Augusta, Georgia, operating the Wrights’ aviation training school, which was reputed to draw millionaire students. While in Georgia, he set a new nighttime altitude record (800 feet) and experimented with cross-country passenger flights.

Concerns about the Mexican Revolution caused the U.S. Army to form a Provisional Aero Squadron in March 1911 and station it in San Antonio. The only aeroplane the Government owned at the time was an obsolete 1909 Wright Flyer, so millionaire Robert Collier loaned his machine to the Army until a new Wright Model B could be shipped to San Antonio. On April 19, Coffyn came to Fort Sam Houston to demonstrate the new Wright machine. Eugene Ely arrived at the same time to fly the new Curtiss “War Machine.”

Before formal acceptance tests began on April 24, Ely and Coffyn made trial flights. Ely twice took Lt. George Kelly as a passenger, while Coffyn gave a ride to Lt. Benny Foulois, the sole army aviator designated for training in the Wright machine. Coffyn stayed aloft with Foulois for ninety minutes in a steady rain, proving it was possible to do so. During a military parade held to celebrate the San Antonio Spring Carnival, Coffyn (again with Foulois as passenger) and Ely flew before the military reviewing stand and a large crowd of civilians.

Captain Paul Beck and his board of student military aviators devised a practical test: the Southern Pacific Railroad would be “theoretically blown up” somewhere between San Antonio and Galveston, and the aviators would have to find the point of destruction. While Ely and Coffyn waited to make the test, they took each other as passengers into the clouds in order “[t]o show there is such thing as c[ama]raderie of the air.” The railroad test never came off, but the Army soon accepted both aircraft.

In September 1911 the Wrights “loaned” Coffyn to a pair of wealthy Detroit brothers who wanted to learn to fly. Because they lived on the shore of Lake St. Clair, Coffyn added aluminum pontoons to his Wright B, possibly the first of their kind in the world. Coffyn had grown quite comfortable with the hydroaeroplane by the end of 1911, when the Wrights disbanded the exhibition team. He returned to New York and went into business for himself, securing a contract with leading motion picture company Vitagraph Company of America to provide aerial footage of the city.

The Camera Kid, Adrian Duff, had never previously ridden in an aeroplane, so Coffyn’s flight with him over the harbor was in the nature of a test run. On February 13 they flew again, this time with Duff operating a hand-cranked motion picture camera, but his hands were so cold that he found it difficult to film. (The low-resolution footage can be seen here.) Coffyn subsequently invented a chain drive to operate the camera, dispensing with the need for a cameraman/passenger. He ultimately produced a thousand feet of film for Vitagraph.

On the same February day that George Beatty caused a sensation by landing in Central Park, Coffyn made a lasting impression of his own by flying his machine under the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. The publicity from his various flights produced $50,000 worth of additional contracts, but an automobile accident in Central Park kept him from flying for nine months.

Coffyn appeared with his aeroplane in an early silent film drama in which ex-President Taft made a cameo. He also served as test pilot and chief instructor for the Burgess Airplane Company before returning to South Carolina, where he ran the Wright Flying School. Among his pupils was Norman Prince, who later organized the Lafayette Escadrille, a squadron of American pilots who flew combat missions for France from 1916-18. After the United States entered the World War, Coffyn was commissioned a captain in the Air Service and was responsible for flight instruction at Waco, Texas, and on Long Island. Just before he was to be promoted to Major and sent overseas with five squadrons, the war ended.

Coffyn resumed his film acting career until the Great Depression. He served as well as a freelance pilot or “aviation consultant,” a term he despised. He wrote articles urging the establishment of more flying schools, because “60 percent of what constitutes good and safe flying lies in the human element.”

With the advent of World War II, Coffyn registered for the draft at the age of 63. He sold aircraft and worked for a company that produced flight instruments. He obtained a helicopter license at age 66, the third person so licensed by the C.A.A.. Even well into his seventies, he continued to lecture on aviation history. Coffyn was an 82-year-old “semi-retired” consultant for the Hiller Helicopter Company when he died in in 1960 in Palo Alto, California, the last survivor of the Wright exhibition flyers who had flown half a century earlier.

 

Eye in the Sky