January 26, 1911 - When Flight Met The Sea

The morning mist hovered over San Diego Bay, soft and silver, as Glenn Curtiss tightened the last bolt on the biplane’s wooden frame. The aircraft—an ungainly creature perched on a pair of experimental pontoons—rocked gently with the waves.

Glenn stepped back to take it in.

“This is either going to fly,” he muttered, “or it’s going to make me the laughingstock of aviation.”

“Mr. Curtiss,” called Lieutenant Ellery Stone of the U.S. Navy, striding down the dock with several officers at his heels, “the men are ready, and so are the photographers. If you succeed today, you realize this changes naval strategy forever.”

Glenn gave a nervous smile. “Then let’s hope the water cooperates.”

Behind them, dozens of sailors, reporters, and curious San Diego locals gathered—hands tucked into coats against the cool California breeze. Word had spread quickly: Curtiss planned to fly from the water.

Some whispered, some laughed, some shook their heads.

But all were watching.

As Glenn climbed into the pilot’s seat, his chief mechanic, Charlie Kirkham, leaned close.

“You tested the pontoons in the lagoon yesterday. They held. Don’t overthink it.”

Glenn chuckled. “Charlie, all I do is overthink.”

The engine sputtered to life, coughing and shaking until the propeller spun in a steady rhythm. Waves slapped the pontoons as the aircraft began drifting away from the dock.

Lieutenant Stone cupped his hands and shouted over the roar, “Remember, Curtiss—if you pull this off, the Navy will be able to scout places no runway can reach!”

“I’m counting on it!” Glenn shouted back.

He pushed the throttle.

The seaplane surged forward.

Spray erupted on both sides. The pontoons skimmed the surface, bouncing violently at first. The hull rattled. Glenn gripped the controls so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Come on… lift… lift…

The vibration grew lighter. The bouncing softened.

And suddenly—

The water fell away beneath him.

He was airborne.

“Ha!” Glenn shouted into the wind, a grin splitting his face. “She’s flying!”

The crowd on the shore erupted in cheers—tiny dots waving hats and hands. The Navy officers pointed skyward in disbelief. Newsmen scrambled to capture the moment, cameras clicking furiously.

Glenn climbed higher, feeling the aircraft steady itself with every second. The bay spread below him like a sheet of polished glass.

He could hardly hear the engine for the pounding in his chest.

“Water takeoff: successful,” he murmured. “Now let’s see about the landing.”

After a gentle circle over the bay, Glenn eased the throttle back. The aircraft descended toward the water. For a moment he feared the pontoons would dig in too sharply—but no, they kissed the surface, skipped once, twice—

Then glided smoothly to a stop.

He had done it.

The world’s first successful U.S. seaplane flight.

Waves lapped softly at the pontoons as Glenn sat motionless for a moment, letting the reality sink in.

Then the shouting reached him.

Boats raced toward him from the shore—sailors cheering, hats tossed in the air, the Navy officers nearly tumbling over each other in excitement.

Lieutenant Stone reached him first, leaping onto the pontoon with a splash. “Curtiss! You magnificent genius!” he shouted, grabbing Glenn’s arm. “Do you understand what you’ve just accomplished?”

Glenn laughed breathlessly. “I think I’m starting to.”

“This means reconnaissance from the sea,” Stone continued. “Landing near enemy coastlines. Resupply missions to ships without needing harbors. Entire flights launched from water. This—Curtiss, this changes everything.”

Reporters crowded the dock as Glenn returned, shouting questions.

“Mr. Curtiss, what does this flight mean for aviation?”
“Do you foresee military application?”
“Will the Navy commission a fleet of these machines?”

Glenn stepped onto the dock, soaked but glowing.

“It means,” he said proudly, “that the sky is no longer limited by land. Where there is water, there can be flight.”

The applause was thunderous.

Charlie Kirkham grabbed him in a bear hug. “You did it, Glenn! You actually did it!”

Glenn looked back at the seaplane floating gently on the bay, golden in the afternoon sun.

“It’s not just a flight,” he said softly. “It’s a doorway. Today, we proved that aircraft can go where runways cannot. One day, planes will land in remote villages, bring help to stranded sailors, and serve the Navy from any inlet or ocean they choose.”

Lieutenant Stone clapped him on the shoulder. “History will remember this day.”

Glenn smiled, feeling the weight of the century shift—just a little—on the wings of his fragile, floating craft.

“So will I,” he whispered.

As the crowd dispersed slightly, more officers approached, their stiff collars and gold-trimmed caps gleaming in the sunlight.

Commander Chambers, head of the Navy’s budding aviation interests, shook Glenn’s hand firmly. “Mr. Curtiss, you’ve just given us what no other nation has. Europe has experimented, but none have achieved what you did today. The implications are enormous.”

Glenn wiped saltwater from his brow. “I only hoped to prove it possible.”

“Possible?” Chambers laughed. “Curtiss, you have just opened the Atlantic.”

Hours later, back in the makeshift hangar beside the bay, Glenn sat on an overturned crate while Charlie inspected the pontoons. A few reporters had followed them inside, sketchpads ready.

“How did she feel?” Charlie asked, tapping the wood to check for cracks.

“Light,” Glenn replied. “Almost too light. But once she broke free of the drag… she settled. The water wanted to hold her, but the wings wanted to rise.”

One reporter leaned in. “Mr. Curtiss, do you believe seaplanes might one day make long journeys?”

Glenn glanced at him thoughtfully. “Perhaps across whole oceans,” he said. “Or from ship to shore. Imagine scouting icebergs, delivering medical supplies to a stranded vessel, or mapping regions without a single landing field. This is only the beginning.”

The reporter scribbled furiously, likely unaware he was recording history in real time.

That evening, Glenn walked along the quiet dock, the sky tinged pink with the last bit of sunset. Fishermen mended nets nearby, throwing him a salute as he passed. Word of his flight had spread even faster through local gossip than through the official reports.

One fisherman called out, “Mr. Curtiss! They say you rode the air like a gull today!”

Glenn laughed. “More like a very nervous albatross.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the man replied. “You left the water behind. That’s somethin’ no one here’ll forget.”

Glenn paused, touched by the admiration of people who understood the sea even if they didn't quite grasp the mechanics of flight.

Later still, Glenn sat in his small room at the Coronado Hotel, a notebook resting on his lap. He replayed every second of the flight, jotting down what worked, what didn’t, what surprised him.

Lift improved quicker than expected.
Landing smoother with nose slightly up.
Pontoons stable—consider reinforcing front joints.

Then he wrote a final line:

Today proves the future has more than one runway.

He closed the journal and set it aside. Outside, he could hear faint waves lapping against the shore—the same waves that had lifted him into the sky that morning.

Glenn Curtiss smiled to himself.

Tomorrow, he would refine the machine.
Next month, he would build a better one.
And one day, the world would fly across oceans the way a child skips stones across a pond.

But tonight?

Tonight belonged to the sea, the sky, and the man who joined them.

Historical Synopsis

On January 26, 1911, aviation pioneer Glenn Hammond Curtiss successfully conducted the first seaplane flight in the United States at San Diego Bay. Curtiss had been experimenting with attaching pontoons (also called floats) to his biplane so that it could take off and land on water—an important innovation at a time when runways were scarce and military aviation was still emerging.

During the test, Curtiss taxied across the bay until the plane gained enough lift to rise from the water’s surface, remaining airborne for several minutes before landing smoothly back on the bay. His success demonstrated that aircraft could operate in areas without landing fields, expanding the potential of aviation for naval reconnaissance, coastal defense, and rescue operations.

The U.S. Navy, which had been closely observing Curtiss’s experiments, immediately recognized the military value of the achievement. The flight directly contributed to the development of naval aviation, the eventual creation of seaplane tenders, and later the advent of amphibious aircraft. Curtiss’s work earned him the title “Father of Naval Aviation” and positioned the United States at the forefront of maritime aviation innovation.

^{This story is based on documented historical records and contemporaneous accounts}

Works Cited

Boeing. Glenn Curtiss: Pioneer of Naval Aviation. Boeing Historical Archives, 2011.

Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. “Glenn Hammond Curtiss.” Encyclopaedia Britannica, 10 July 2024, www.britannica.com/biography/Glenn-Hammond-Curtiss.

U.S. Naval Aviation History Office. United States Naval Aviation 1910–2010. Naval History and Heritage Command, U.S. Navy, 2010.

United States Navy. “The First Seaplane Flight.” Naval History and Heritage Command, 2011, www.history.navy.mil.

Yenne, Bill. The Pioneers of Flight. Greenwich Press, 2009.