Most assume the first transatlantic balloon flight was a sleek, modern affair. It was not. The Double Eagle II, a silvery, helium-filled polyethylene bag, came down clumsily in a field of barley near Miserey, France, at 7:47 p.m. on August 17, 1978. Its gondola was a cramped, unpressurized wicker basket reinforced with aluminum. The three Americans aboard—Ben Abruzzo, Maxie Anderson, and Larry Newman—had spent six days cold, sleep-deprived, and breathing through oxygen masks. They had run out of food the day before.
The voyage from Presque Isle, Maine, covered 3,100 miles in 137 hours. It was the eleventh attempt to cross the Atlantic by balloon since 1873. Previous efforts ended in disappearance, drowning, or fatal crashes. The team used a combination of helium for lift and ballast for control, navigating by catching different wind currents at varying altitudes. Their greatest danger was landing in the ocean at night, which they narrowly avoided by crossing the French coast with only minutes of fuel left for their burners.
The achievement is often lumped with later, more glamorous ballooning feats. Its context was one of persistent, amateur-driven failure. The team financed the attempt themselves. Their equipment was rudimentary; they tracked their position with a sextant and a radio direction finder. The flight proved that such a journey was possible with patience, favorable weather, and a tolerance for profound discomfort, not just technology.
Double Eagle II’s success broke a psychological barrier. It demonstrated that the jet stream could be harnessed for long-distance, lighter-than-air travel. It directly inspired the next generation of balloonists to attempt circumnavigation. The flight also marked the end of an era of exploration defined by simple vessels and immense personal risk. The basket now hangs in the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum, a testament to a strangely pastoral kind of courage.