Trailblazing pilot Eugene Burton Ely performed the first flight from the deck of an airplane on November 14, 1910—and followed it up by landing on one two months later.

Aviation was only a few years old when men began to wonder whether an airplane could take off from and land on ships. The potential benefits were plain to see. Aircraft would exponentially increase a naval vessel’s scouting capabilities and possibly offer a new means of attacking enemy ships or shore installations. Civilian ships could also benefit from an airplane’s scouting abilities, and provide options in case of emergency.

In 1910, the aircraft carrier was still only a vague concept. The United States Navy wouldn’t commission CV-1, USS Langley, its first purpose-built aircraft carrier, until 1920. But on November 14, 1910, a self-taught pilot named Eugene Burton Ely would prove the basic concept.

Eugene Burton Ely: A Pioneer of Early Aviation

Eugene Ely was raised in Davenport, Iowa, and earned a degree from Iowa State University. Like many early aviators—notably Wilbur and Orville Wright, who ran a bicycle shop before their foray into aviation—Ely had a keen interest in machines, and took to driving and racing automobiles. Racing took him to San Francisco, where he became a car salesman. He met a local girl named Mabel Hall, married her, and moved to Portland, Oregon.

Ely’s life in aviation began in early 1910 at around age 24, when a local car dealer purchased a used Curtiss biplane as part of a plan to become a Curtiss dealer. After the dealer bought the aircraft, he discovered that he was afraid to fly, so Ely volunteered to try, despite having no flight training at all. Predictably, Ely crashed the plane. He was so embarrassed that he bought the plane, repaired it, and taught himself to fly—all in the span of a month.

Ely was soon flying his plane around Portland, proving himself a naturally gifted pilot. He soon left his job and began touring as an exhibition flyer. Ely met Glenn Curtiss, the founder of the Curtiss Aircraft Company, at a flying show in Minneapolis, where Curtiss recruited the pilot for his sponsored exhibition team. Only a few months after teaching himself to fly, Ely was a professional pilot—and becoming a minor celebrity, competing with the leading names in American aviation.

In November 1910, Eugene Ely Became an Impromptu Naval Aviator

US Navy Captain Washington Irving Chambers is often called the “father of naval aviation,” thanks to his pioneering work in the field. Chambers essentially began the Navy’s aviation service, recruiting the initial “naval aviators” (to distinguish them from Army pilots); purchasing the Navy’s first aircraft; designing the first catapult to launch naval aircraft; and leading the board that recommended the establishment of the first naval air station at Pensacola, Florida.

Soon after his appointment in 1910, Chambers spoke with Glenn Curtiss about the new program. Curtiss was enthusiastic, as was Ely, who apparently offered to fly a plane from a Navy ship. Chambers could provide no funding for the effort, but made a ship available.

So it was that, on November 14, 1910, Ely warmed up the 50-horsepower engine of a Hudson Fulton Flyer, preparing to takeoff from an 83-foot platform installed on the bow of scout cruiser Birmingham. The fledgling US Aeronautical Reserve (USAR) paid for the platform’s installation, which cost $500 (about $18,000 in 2026 dollars); in addition, it offered a $500 prize for the first ship-to-shore flight.

Unlike future aircraft carriers, which turned into the wind while underway, creating lift to aid launching aircraft, the Birmingham was anchored in Hampton Roads, off the Virginia coast. That meant Ely had to generate takeoff speed all on his own. Furthermore, Ely’s aircraft’s length meant that for practical purposes he had only 57 feet of actual runway space.

Unsurprisingly, Ely’s plane dropped precipitously as soon as it cleared the platform, as the pilot fought for airspeed. Ely righted the plane, but not before its wheels dipped in the water, spraying Ely and covering his goggles with salt water. The near-crash also reportedly damaged his craft’s propeller. Even so, the aircraft remained in flight. Ely had originally planned to circle the harbor and land at the Norfolk Navy Yard; unsure of the damage to the aircraft, he opted for a much shorter flight, making a beeline for a nearby section of beach and landing safely.

Though the flight was only partially a success, Chambers was delighted and contacted USAR head John Barry Ryan, claiming the prize for Ely. Ryan reportedly obstructed Chambers, since the prize had been specifically offered for USAR members, which did not include Ely. To solve the impasse, Ryan eventually agreed to make Ely a lieutenant in the USAR and presented him with the prize money. Ely gave Ryan his damaged propeller in return.

Two Months Later, Ely Landed on a Navy Ship, Too

But Ely wasn’t done. Two months later, on January 18, 1911, he made history’s first powered landing on a ship when he alighted his Curtiss pusher biplane on a specially-constructed platform on the armored cruiser Pennsylvania, anchored in San Francisco Bay.

The landing platform was 127 feet long and 32 feet wide, which was not long enough to receive Ely’s plane and give it room to stop. That problem was solved by a simple design from circus performer Hugh A. Robinson, who had used a system of ropes to slow a car during a circus act. Robinson adapted the setup to the jury-rigged aircraft carrier, stretching ropes across the platform and fixing a special hook on Ely’s aircraft to catch them as he landed. Today, we would call these devices arrestor gear and tailhooks, and the system is basically the same as it was in 1911.

Ely landed successfully, causing a sensation across the aviation world. The San Francisco Examiner editorialized the feat, writing, “Eugene Ely Revises World’s Naval Tactics.” The Examiner was correct, even if those tactics would not fully mature for another two decades. The Navy, however, had its proof of concept, which it would later hone and perfect aboard the Langley and her successors.

For his part, Ely seemed to downplay his accomplishment, telling reporters that “It was easy enough. I think the trick could be successfully turned nine times out of ten.” He did acknowledge, however, that it perhaps meant more to him, revealing that “For the first time in my life, the feeling that I had actually done a great thing came over me.”

Of course, not everyone was convinced. The British magazine Aero opined that the feat amounted more to “trick flying” than an actual naval accomplishment: “A naval aeroplane would be of more use if it ‘landed’ on the water and could then be hauled on board. A slight error in steering when trying to alight on deck would wreck the whole machine.” The writer was, of course, correct that seaplanes would prove useful, but he proved short-sighted indeed regarding the future of naval aviation and the prospects for projection of air power via the aircraft carrier.

The Navy did not, however, forget about Ely’s landing on the Pennsylvania. Interwar ship designers labored long on a workable “flight deck cruiser” that would replace a cruiser’s rear gun turrets with a truncated flight deck. Despite their efforts, the flight deck cruiser concept did not materialize until the advent of helicopters, which the Navy began deploying aboard cruisers in 1949, though the design and mission had changed.

Ely Didn’t Live Long to Celebrate His Accomplishment

Ely followed up his work with the Navy by trying to land a position as an experimental pilot. But in those early days of aviation, the Navy was operating its flight programs on a shoestring; it had no budget for a real experimental program or pilots to work in that role.

So Ely necessarily continued his exhibition flying, despite Chambers’ growing concerns for his well-being. He traveled from air show to air show, dazzling audiences with his skill and daring. Even though he had amassed “a comfortable fortune” by mid-1911, according to an interview with the Des Moines Register, Ely felt he was driven to fly. When asked about retiring that year, at the tender age of 24, Ely responded, “I guess I will be like the rest of them, keep at it until I am killed.”

Ely’s dismal prediction came true on October 19, 1911. During a performance for 8,000 people at the Georgia State Fair Grounds, Ely evidently misjudged his altitude when diving his aircraft, and the plane crashed directly into the ground. Ely jumped clear, but the impact broke his neck. He died a few minutes later.

From start to finish, Ely’s flying career had lasted a mere 18 months—yet was among the most consequential in history. His work pointed the way toward what aviation, especially naval aviation, would become. Congress posthumously awarded him the Distinguished Flying Cross in 1933, “for extraordinary achievement as a pioneer civilian aviator and for his significant contribution to the development of aviation in the United States Navy.”

The Navy also honored Ely with a granite monument in Newport News, Virginia, overlooking the waters where Ely flew from the Birmingham in 1910. Navy Commander Bob Coolbaugh commemorated the flight’s 100^th anniversary by flying a replica of Ely’s aircraft from the runway of Naval Air Station Norfolk. Coolbaugh built the aircraft himself. An exhibit of retired naval aircraft at NAS Norfolk is named for Ely, recognizing his contributions to naval aviation.

About the Author: William Lawson

William Lawson is a military historian focusing on World War II and 20^th century conflicts and the American Civil War. His specialty is operational level warfare, especially American amphibious doctrine. He writes on history, politics, and firearms for multiple publications and historical journals. He serves on the editorial advisory board for the Saber & Scroll Journal and Military History Chronicles and is a member of the Society for Military History and the American Historical Association. Lawson is based in Virginia.

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