Jan 10, 2017 5 min read

The story so far: Wilbur Wright is traveling from Dayton, Ohio, toward the remote spot he’s chosen to test his glider: the small town of Kitty Hawk, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

? Chapter Eight

“Kitty Hawk,” the old fisherman said. “Of course I know where it is. I used to live there.”

“At last,” Wilbur said. He had meant to keep the thought to himself, but his relief was so great that he blurted it out.

Trains and a quick steamer ride had gotten Wilbur to Elizabeth City, North Carolina. Now he just needed to get across the Albemarle Sound to the Outer Banks. But the closer Wilbur came to Kitty Hawk, the harder it seemed to reach. Wilbur had paced Elizabeth City’s waterfront for three days before finding this sailor, Israel Perry, the first person he’d met who both knew where the town was and was willing to take him there. Perry agreed to take Wilbur in his schooner, the Curlicue, down the Pasquotank River, then east across the Sound to Kitty Hawk Bay.

Gulls wheeled overhead as Will brought his trunk and his unassembled glider to the docks along the river. Will watched the birds ride the ocean breezes, noticed the subtle movements of their wings, and thought with excitement about his coming experiments. He smiled. Everything seemed to be coming together.

Then he reached the Curlicue.

Wilbur was no seaman, but he saw immediately that the boat was trouble. Once on board his eyes wandered over rotten sails, frayed ropes, and a decaying rudder. With a sigh of resignation, Will hauled his trunk into the cabin. He nearly jumped right out again; there was a smell of decay there that not even the sea air could clear.

Perry stuck his head in the cabin. “Bite to eat before we head out?”

“No,” Wilbur said, more quickly than he meant to. “No, thank you.”

Then they were under way. The wind was light, and progress was slow. The sun was setting as the Curlicue at last made her way out of the Pasquotank and into the Sound. Then the wind began to stir, from the east, and the waves came higher and harder against the schooner, breaking against her bow with heavy flat slaps.

“It’s getting rough,” Perry said. Wilbur could sense a nervousness in the fisherman’s voice.

The gusts continued to increase, until each pounding wave sent a shudder through the ship. Cold spray shot over the bow and soaked Will. He noticed water – increasing amounts of water – sloshing across the floor of the schooner.

“You can bail, can’t you?” said Perry.

Wilbur, nodding quickly, found a bucket and bailed.

The gusts became a gale. Perry had to shout to be heard. “We have to get out of this!” he bellowed. “We’ll turn into the North River! We’ll have shelter there!” This was a maneuver of last resort, Wilbur realized. The Curlicue had been sailing directly into the wind. Turning would expose her broad side to the gale, and the wind and waves would want to spill her onto her side.

Suddenly Wilbur heard a roar: the ripping of canvas. The wind had torn loose first the foresail, then the mainsail. Perry had already been struggling to control the schooner. Now, with only the small jib sail remaining, the fisherman strained to bring the ship around, stern to wind and into the river channel. The gale pressed on the schooner, and she leaned hard into her turn. Wilbur dropped his bucket and held on to the boat as tightly as he could, until finally the turn was made. The Curlicue settled again in the water. Perry had gotten them into the river channel.

The wind was not exactly quiet there, but calm enough to set anchor. The two men were soaked to the skin, exhausted but relieved. Perry settled into the ship’s cabin, where a lantern threw weak light and weaving shadows onto the walls.

“Home for the night,” Perry said. “Come in, Mr. Wright. Make yourself comfortable. In the morning we’ll make repairs and head – Scat! Scat!” he shouted at something small and brown that darted across the cabin floor. “We’ll head for the Banks tomorrow. As for now, I’m starving. Ready for supper, Mr. Wright?” Perry dug around in the bobbing cabin until he found some cheese and jerky stored there.

Wilbur watched the rat position itself for another run. “I’ve – I’ve got some food that my sister packed for me. Some jelly. That will be – that will be plenty,” he said. “I’ll just – it’s not so windy here, in the channel, so I’ll just stay on the deck tonight, thank you.”

Perry fixed his flinty stare on Wilbur. “Suit yourself,” he finally said.

When the Curlicue finally pulled into Kitty Hawk Bay, it was nine o’clock the next night, well over twenty-four hours since the two men had started across Albemarle Sound. Eager as Wilbur was to be off the boat, darkness was falling. Wilbur accepted Perry’s decision to stay onboard for one more night; even the fisherman would have trouble finding his way in the pitch night.

Wilbur slept poorly. He was uncomfortable, and terribly hungry; he had eaten nothing but those few bites of jelly since leaving Elizabeth City. And his mind was racing. He wondered where he had landed, whether it could possibly be worth the journey, and what the deep black around him would look like come morning.

Kitty Hawk: September 1900