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The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed
This is the fascinating story of the dream of a completely new aircraft, a hybrid of the plane and the rigid airship - huge, wingless, moving slowly through the lower sky. John McPhee chronicles the perhaps unfathomable perseverance of the aircraft's sucessive progenitors.
192 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1973
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342 people want to read
About the author
John McPhee
132 books1,864 followersJohn Angus McPhee is an American writer. He is considered one of the pioneers of creative nonfiction. He is a four-time finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in the category General Nonfiction, and he won that award on the fourth occasion in 1999 for Annals of the Former World (a collection of five books, including two of his previous Pulitzer finalists). In 2008, he received the George Polk Career Award for his "indelible mark on American journalism during his nearly half-century career". Since 1974, McPhee has been the Ferris Professor of Journalism at Princeton University.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 34 reviews
July 6, 2014
I remember when, years ago, long before I retired, a guy came into the library and wanted some really obscure information on Ferris Wheels. I got to talking with him and over the years we became friends. He had some kind of menial job, working at KFC or something, but he was absolutely obsessed with Ferris Wheels and knew just about everything you can imagine about their history and how they work. He was thrilled when we managed to dig up the arcane material he sought.
I've always secretly admired people like that. They have a singular, driven purpose and interest that I lack. I’m interested in many, many things, but rarely obsessed with one item alone at that depth, so I've had a bazillion hobbies.
I like John McPhee who so engagingly writes about these personalities. We have William Miller, a theology maven, who has sunk all his money and time into the development of a bizarre little craft, neither airship nor airplane; John Kukon, model builder extraodinaire who had won a ridiculous number of model plane speed records, one using a fuel of his own design that was so powerful it broke the world speed record and couldn't be shut off, the plane flew for six miles; and how Aereon, the company they built, fell apart.
For whatever reason, the obsession with airships resurfaces every few years. Just read Popular Mechanics for a periodic revival of interest as a way to haul huge loads cheaply over undeveloped wilderness. For Drew and Miller, the interest was tinged with religious fervor, but they sacrificed a great deal for their dream.
Wonderful story, laced with history, (the story of Andrew Solomons parallels that in John Toland’s The Great Dirigibles.) McPhee always manages to take something apparently mundane and turn it into a fascinating essay about people and their relationship to the world around them.
I've always secretly admired people like that. They have a singular, driven purpose and interest that I lack. I’m interested in many, many things, but rarely obsessed with one item alone at that depth, so I've had a bazillion hobbies.
I like John McPhee who so engagingly writes about these personalities. We have William Miller, a theology maven, who has sunk all his money and time into the development of a bizarre little craft, neither airship nor airplane; John Kukon, model builder extraodinaire who had won a ridiculous number of model plane speed records, one using a fuel of his own design that was so powerful it broke the world speed record and couldn't be shut off, the plane flew for six miles; and how Aereon, the company they built, fell apart.
For whatever reason, the obsession with airships resurfaces every few years. Just read Popular Mechanics for a periodic revival of interest as a way to haul huge loads cheaply over undeveloped wilderness. For Drew and Miller, the interest was tinged with religious fervor, but they sacrificed a great deal for their dream.
Wonderful story, laced with history, (the story of Andrew Solomons parallels that in John Toland’s The Great Dirigibles.) McPhee always manages to take something apparently mundane and turn it into a fascinating essay about people and their relationship to the world around them.
September 9, 2017
If you've ever dreamed of a steampunk universe this is the book for you. It tells the story of the attempt to redevelop an airship that combines an airplane and a zeppelin. Also some of the history of the airship, starting with the American Civil war.
August 14, 2023
"I shall never land short, for you, my Savior, have launched me, and you will surely bring me in."
- last line of W. Miller's Psalm contributed to the "Bulletin of the Officers' Christian Union of the United States of America", quoted in John McPhee's The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed
McPhee is a genius at landing the reader at a spot where interesting character(s), location, and an interesting subject (ships, canoes, etc) meet. This book focuses on the development and test of a vehicle that was not quite an airship, yet not an airplane either. "It was a hybrid of the two, trying to combine the benefits of heavier-than-air aerodynamics and lighter-than-air aerostatics," namely an Aereon (the name of the corporation trying to get the orange pumpkin seed to fly).
New Jersey, which at first blush doesn't seem a likely candidate for this type of endeavor/investment, contained history (think Manchester Township's biggest disaster), a surprising number of former Navy blimp pilots and engineers, Princeton-based engineers and model enthusiasts, and a surprising number of Presbyterian ministers with a hard-on for rigid airships, hot air, God, combined with a televangelical aptitude for raising money from fellow PC (USA) members. Bring these elements all together, along with a 30pg micro history of airships, and you've got John McPhee's 1973 book.
- last line of W. Miller's Psalm contributed to the "Bulletin of the Officers' Christian Union of the United States of America", quoted in John McPhee's The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed
McPhee is a genius at landing the reader at a spot where interesting character(s), location, and an interesting subject (ships, canoes, etc) meet. This book focuses on the development and test of a vehicle that was not quite an airship, yet not an airplane either. "It was a hybrid of the two, trying to combine the benefits of heavier-than-air aerodynamics and lighter-than-air aerostatics," namely an Aereon (the name of the corporation trying to get the orange pumpkin seed to fly).
New Jersey, which at first blush doesn't seem a likely candidate for this type of endeavor/investment, contained history (think Manchester Township's biggest disaster), a surprising number of former Navy blimp pilots and engineers, Princeton-based engineers and model enthusiasts, and a surprising number of Presbyterian ministers with a hard-on for rigid airships, hot air, God, combined with a televangelical aptitude for raising money from fellow PC (USA) members. Bring these elements all together, along with a 30pg micro history of airships, and you've got John McPhee's 1973 book.
March 23, 2012
I'm not sure that a reader without a modicum of technical knowledge concerning aviation -- a working vocabulary of aeronautics and an understanding of the rudiments of flying -- would enjoy this as much as I did. My father is a retired aeronautical engineer, a lifelong model airplane designer/builder/racer, a private pilot, and the the one who taught me my first word: "airplane", and I've been flying in and fascinated by small planes my whole life, with one flight lesson to my credit as well, so I am predisposed to enjoy this account of the rise and fall of the idea of a radical, experimental flying machine sans wings: the Aereon 26.
But even a reader with just the barest interest in the subject matter treated upon here should be able to find something to their liking within these pages; McPhee uses words in most delightful ways, as always. His characterizations of the principles are particularly good in Deltoid.
I found it really interesting that the whole Aereon endeavor was conceived of and shepherded by a series of devout Presbyterians who saw the development of a viable dirigible freight industry as right-livelihood in the service of their self-imposed Christian missions. They envisioned 100meter LTA shipping vessels carrying massive quantities of supplies and equipment on missionary expeditions across the globe. Both Monroe Drew and William Miller, the founder and subsequent president, respectively, were ordained Presbyterian ministers, each of whom saw their work as sacred duty, a vocation combining religion and aviation, ordained by God. Not my cup of tea, to be sure*, but it made me wonder how many other scions and wanna-be scions of industry see their businesses as being in service of and sanctioned by their God?
The one big disappointment of the book, after 140+ pages of aeronautical, theological, and psychological minutia, was the wrap-up: McPhee used literally 1/2 of 1 paragraph to end the story of the would-be wingless aircraft. That was very disappointing.**
Nevertheless, a quick, entertaining, and interesting read; I think anyone interested in a little-known backwater of aviation history would enjoy it (particularly if you don't mind a fair bit of technical jargon and a goodly chunk of Christian mumbling), as would fans of McPhee's inimitable prose.
*I found the religiosity of the principles to be irritating in the whole, and apparently I'm not the only one: not everyone at the Aereon Corporation saw prayers at business meetings and other trappings of their pious & proselytizing partners as beyond the pale.
**Interestingly, and not surprisingly, it looks from a quick perusal of the Aereon Corp. website that the technology they were developing in the 1950s-70s, the subject of this book, is not being utilized in the humanitarian way intended by the early corporate visionaries, but has instead been turned to a military application. Sigh.
But even a reader with just the barest interest in the subject matter treated upon here should be able to find something to their liking within these pages; McPhee uses words in most delightful ways, as always. His characterizations of the principles are particularly good in Deltoid.
I found it really interesting that the whole Aereon endeavor was conceived of and shepherded by a series of devout Presbyterians who saw the development of a viable dirigible freight industry as right-livelihood in the service of their self-imposed Christian missions. They envisioned 100meter LTA shipping vessels carrying massive quantities of supplies and equipment on missionary expeditions across the globe. Both Monroe Drew and William Miller, the founder and subsequent president, respectively, were ordained Presbyterian ministers, each of whom saw their work as sacred duty, a vocation combining religion and aviation, ordained by God. Not my cup of tea, to be sure*, but it made me wonder how many other scions and wanna-be scions of industry see their businesses as being in service of and sanctioned by their God?
The one big disappointment of the book, after 140+ pages of aeronautical, theological, and psychological minutia, was the wrap-up: McPhee used literally 1/2 of 1 paragraph to end the story of the would-be wingless aircraft. That was very disappointing.**
Nevertheless, a quick, entertaining, and interesting read; I think anyone interested in a little-known backwater of aviation history would enjoy it (particularly if you don't mind a fair bit of technical jargon and a goodly chunk of Christian mumbling), as would fans of McPhee's inimitable prose.
*I found the religiosity of the principles to be irritating in the whole, and apparently I'm not the only one: not everyone at the Aereon Corporation saw prayers at business meetings and other trappings of their pious & proselytizing partners as beyond the pale.
**Interestingly, and not surprisingly, it looks from a quick perusal of the Aereon Corp. website that the technology they were developing in the 1950s-70s, the subject of this book, is not being utilized in the humanitarian way intended by the early corporate visionaries, but has instead been turned to a military application. Sigh.
January 24, 2019
A short book about the long quest to build an airship that could rival airplanes. It reads like a long New Yorker feature, and its style is classic McPhee, with long musing quotes, an amazing flashback to the glory days of the Hindenburg, and the tiny state of New Jersey transformed into the most fascinating jungle of human eccentricity on Earth.
October 26, 2022
Well drawn history of the pain and travails of attempting to bring a novel idea to fruition. Great aviation history.
July 21, 2025
John McPhee is renowned as a non-fiction writer of the highest order. His prose is always clear and well researched, often teasing out the most fascinating story about the least likely subject. For years as a writer teacher seeking examples for my students, I thought there was no better model. McPhee single-handedly seemed to obliterate the typically student complaint of not having anything interesting to write about. This book made me pause in that assessment.
My first McPhee book was his first - both like and unlike the rest of his career. As would become typical, A Sense of Where You Are (1965) began as a New Yorker piece (Jan. 23, 1965) that grew into a short book - just like "The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed" (Feb. 17, 1973). In crafting that story he practiced two skills that became trademarks: spending hours diving deeply into research and establishing close personal relations with his subject. (Nine times in 180 Deltoid pages McPhee lets an “I” slip into his narrative, confessing his presence in a ride-along or at a flight trial.) Unlike so many McPhee pieces, his first book featured not an unknown and overlooked topic but the most celebrated basketball player in the country, Bill Bradley. If that account veers very near to hagiography, it's the understandable reaction of one lover of Princeton and basketball when confronting another. Deltoid lacks the star power and timeliness of the Bradley story. As such, it could represent McPhee at his best, making a compelling story out of a slow, unsuccessful history. Instead, the book itself seems to meander and then peter out.
McPhee begins in medias res with flight tests for an unorthodox, unsightly, fragile "aerobody" intended to transform air travel. Then he circles back to trace the checkered history of such lighter than air craft. Along the way he introduces us to a surprising cast of true believers - almost all blue-eyed, male, Christian engineers and evangelicals (for God and dirigible flight). Readers who don't fit the profile may find the story less than captivating, especially since there is no big finish or happy ending or even well developed explanation for why the aviation project or the book itself starts or ends where it does.
Usually compulsive about structure and masterful at it, McPhee this time disappoints. But there are riches of description and phrasing that stopped me in mid-paragraph. Of a master craftsman at work in the bay of a gas station, “His stomach and abdomen were as flat as two pieces of sidewalk” (31). A master builder during a tense trial run “bit his toothpick in half” (70), When an airship flew over Holland, “The Hindenberg was so big that segments of it shone from several canals at once, and its reflection moved from canal to parallel canal like a shuttle through a loom” (117). When a Presbyterian church leader threatened to drag an opponent named William Sword into an ecclesiastical trial, “Sword was turned into a plowshare” (128). A tiny two-stroke engine mounted on a diminutive model aircraft was “like a horsefly sitting on the head of a pin” (165-6). Trying to get an underpowered craft to climb “was like driving a station wagon stuffed with cordwood up the side of a mountain in first gear” (168). McPhee summarizes in almost Biblical prose the fate of one dedicated builder at the end of flight trials: “He was an airship rigger. There were no airships to rig” (181). Prose doesn’t get much cleaner, more economical or more powerful than that.
My first McPhee book was his first - both like and unlike the rest of his career. As would become typical, A Sense of Where You Are (1965) began as a New Yorker piece (Jan. 23, 1965) that grew into a short book - just like "The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed" (Feb. 17, 1973). In crafting that story he practiced two skills that became trademarks: spending hours diving deeply into research and establishing close personal relations with his subject. (Nine times in 180 Deltoid pages McPhee lets an “I” slip into his narrative, confessing his presence in a ride-along or at a flight trial.) Unlike so many McPhee pieces, his first book featured not an unknown and overlooked topic but the most celebrated basketball player in the country, Bill Bradley. If that account veers very near to hagiography, it's the understandable reaction of one lover of Princeton and basketball when confronting another. Deltoid lacks the star power and timeliness of the Bradley story. As such, it could represent McPhee at his best, making a compelling story out of a slow, unsuccessful history. Instead, the book itself seems to meander and then peter out.
McPhee begins in medias res with flight tests for an unorthodox, unsightly, fragile "aerobody" intended to transform air travel. Then he circles back to trace the checkered history of such lighter than air craft. Along the way he introduces us to a surprising cast of true believers - almost all blue-eyed, male, Christian engineers and evangelicals (for God and dirigible flight). Readers who don't fit the profile may find the story less than captivating, especially since there is no big finish or happy ending or even well developed explanation for why the aviation project or the book itself starts or ends where it does.
Usually compulsive about structure and masterful at it, McPhee this time disappoints. But there are riches of description and phrasing that stopped me in mid-paragraph. Of a master craftsman at work in the bay of a gas station, “His stomach and abdomen were as flat as two pieces of sidewalk” (31). A master builder during a tense trial run “bit his toothpick in half” (70), When an airship flew over Holland, “The Hindenberg was so big that segments of it shone from several canals at once, and its reflection moved from canal to parallel canal like a shuttle through a loom” (117). When a Presbyterian church leader threatened to drag an opponent named William Sword into an ecclesiastical trial, “Sword was turned into a plowshare” (128). A tiny two-stroke engine mounted on a diminutive model aircraft was “like a horsefly sitting on the head of a pin” (165-6). Trying to get an underpowered craft to climb “was like driving a station wagon stuffed with cordwood up the side of a mountain in first gear” (168). McPhee summarizes in almost Biblical prose the fate of one dedicated builder at the end of flight trials: “He was an airship rigger. There were no airships to rig” (181). Prose doesn’t get much cleaner, more economical or more powerful than that.
November 25, 2024
I picked up a John McPhee book because I wanted to read good writing, really good writing. The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed is McPhee's 10th book, written in 1973 about events that unfolded in and around his native New Jersey. A privately financed group of men formed a company called Aereon and decided to revive the airship and, when that didn't go according to plan, develop a hybrid airship/airplane they called an "aerobody."
In classic McPhee fashion, he begins at more or less the middle of the story and then loops back, runs forward, loops back, goes sidewise, returns, and on and on. It is a beautiful thing, really. One never feels lost, only intrigued. Having more recently read later books (or New Yorker articles, I was surprised at the relatively glibness of early 1970s McPhee. Or perhaps he was just letting his attitude toward his subjects show.
Everyone in this book is a white male and most of them are engineers. Some of them are old enough to have been part of the end of the airship era, something I didn't know anything about. The Hindenburg exploded in 1937, ending commercial use of airships, but the military continued to use through World War II and then, from the perspective of the protagonists in this book, gave up on them for no reason.
Airships are not fast, but they are tremendously efficient with respect to fuel and incredibly agile with respect to taking off and landing. Furthermore, if they are built large enough, they can lift tremendous weights. Monroe Drew, founder of Aereon and a Presbyterian minister, wanted to save the world with airships, freeing underdeveloped countries from the necessity of building roads and ports to transport good. He imagined his airships as a revolution in the freight transportation industry.
A startling number of the people involved here are very religious. Drew was simply a minister, but the others are engineers, although William Miller, president of Aereon, is both. McPhee is, as usual, wonderful at painting portraits of his subjects. He never treats them with less than the utmost respect, but he can't quite keep from letting the reader know that he finds the zealotry amid which he finds himself to be a bit much.
The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed is a 182-page book and is focused on events that transpired between the late '60 and early '70s, with brief sketches of historical events that influenced the efforts McPhee watched unfold before him at an airfield in southern New Jersey. As such, it does not answer the big questions like, "Why did the world of aviation abandon airships?" or "Why didn't Aereon just use a historical design to recreate something they knew could fly?"
Reading this book over 50 years after it was written, one knows that the airship revival did not happen. It is a bit haunting to not know why. William Miller, the president of Aereon, continued to work toward getting larger aerobodies built and he was still at when died at age 91 in 2017.
In classic McPhee fashion, he begins at more or less the middle of the story and then loops back, runs forward, loops back, goes sidewise, returns, and on and on. It is a beautiful thing, really. One never feels lost, only intrigued. Having more recently read later books (or New Yorker articles, I was surprised at the relatively glibness of early 1970s McPhee. Or perhaps he was just letting his attitude toward his subjects show.
Everyone in this book is a white male and most of them are engineers. Some of them are old enough to have been part of the end of the airship era, something I didn't know anything about. The Hindenburg exploded in 1937, ending commercial use of airships, but the military continued to use through World War II and then, from the perspective of the protagonists in this book, gave up on them for no reason.
Airships are not fast, but they are tremendously efficient with respect to fuel and incredibly agile with respect to taking off and landing. Furthermore, if they are built large enough, they can lift tremendous weights. Monroe Drew, founder of Aereon and a Presbyterian minister, wanted to save the world with airships, freeing underdeveloped countries from the necessity of building roads and ports to transport good. He imagined his airships as a revolution in the freight transportation industry.
A startling number of the people involved here are very religious. Drew was simply a minister, but the others are engineers, although William Miller, president of Aereon, is both. McPhee is, as usual, wonderful at painting portraits of his subjects. He never treats them with less than the utmost respect, but he can't quite keep from letting the reader know that he finds the zealotry amid which he finds himself to be a bit much.
The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed is a 182-page book and is focused on events that transpired between the late '60 and early '70s, with brief sketches of historical events that influenced the efforts McPhee watched unfold before him at an airfield in southern New Jersey. As such, it does not answer the big questions like, "Why did the world of aviation abandon airships?" or "Why didn't Aereon just use a historical design to recreate something they knew could fly?"
Reading this book over 50 years after it was written, one knows that the airship revival did not happen. It is a bit haunting to not know why. William Miller, the president of Aereon, continued to work toward getting larger aerobodies built and he was still at when died at age 91 in 2017.
August 13, 2023
Non-fiction by John McPhee is always more storytelling than simply chronicling reality. That's what makes his books so much more readable than most. This 1973 book was recommended by a friend, Bill Leavens, who's into cars, planes and all manner of mobile mechanisms. It's a very American story, with roots in the 1860s, and an intriguing interplay of capitalism, religion and fickle government interest. The irony for the actual Aereon airship – part airplane, part dirigible, but in essence not either one – is how its proof of concept finally came just as the money ran out (and its reputation for failures was too pervasive). McPhee tells the story in a very non-linear fashion, almost as if he had written several feature-length magazine articles and decided to form them into a book. His access to Aereon Corp. principals must have been deep, considering the lengthy quotes in this book. I know this may seem odd to say regarding non-fiction, but the ending was such a let-down. Yes, the facts dictated that outcome, but after finishing this book, I had to search online to find out more. There was a potential for a follow-up story, since the Quixotic quest for an even better "deltoid pumpkin seed" continued into the 21st century. I'd say the moral to this story is just because you build a better mousetrap doesn't mean anyone will buy it.
May 31, 2021
A fascinating history of an odd, (apparent) dead end in the history of aviation -- the attempt to develop a heavier-than-air ridged airship that could land and take off like an airplane. McPhee describes the personalities involved, and the technical challenges equally well. A test vehicle actually flew successfully, but the Aereon company was never able to raise money for the next step. Interestingly, the idea of a hybrid airship/airplane keeps coming up again and again.
(I first encountered this book in my parent's house in the early 70's. I didn't read it then, but the evocative title stuck with my all of these years, and I recently picked up a copy and enjoyed it.)
(I first encountered this book in my parent's house in the early 70's. I didn't read it then, but the evocative title stuck with my all of these years, and I recently picked up a copy and enjoyed it.)
January 30, 2025
I picked this book up at a used bookstore because I recognized the spine graphics and John McPhee's name. My high school journalism teacher was a big McPhee fan and I read "Encounters with the Archdruid" last year, enjoyed it, and passed it along to a friend.
I think this one was a little bit better. Chapters were a manageable length, I learned some new things about lighter-than-air flight, I chuckled a bunch, I watched the book like a movie in my head, and I felt like I got most of the story.
Would I recommend it to a friend? If they like nonfiction and learning about esoteric stuff, yeah. If they mostly read fantasy novels or self-help stuff, I'd probably keep it to myself.
I think this one was a little bit better. Chapters were a manageable length, I learned some new things about lighter-than-air flight, I chuckled a bunch, I watched the book like a movie in my head, and I felt like I got most of the story.
Would I recommend it to a friend? If they like nonfiction and learning about esoteric stuff, yeah. If they mostly read fantasy novels or self-help stuff, I'd probably keep it to myself.
February 6, 2023
Good book especially for aviation enthusiasts. Interesting story of an aviation startup, with cast of colorful characters, and soap opera drama. Surprising amount of religious references (founders are preachers). The book ends on a high note, but this came out in the 1970's, so you know the idea of the "aerobody" went nowhere, since none in the sky now, so all that money and hard work came to nothing. :-( So implied bummer ending, but still interesting.
June 26, 2024
Intriguing subject matter and as always, he captures the main characters of the story in such detail you feel like you’ve met them before or can at least visualize how it might be to interact with them, which I think is John McPhee’s greatest gift. Funny observations at times as well, which I appreciated. Some of the aeronautic descriptions felt a bit too inside baseball for me to be fully engaged but I appreciated that he shared the story developments in those areas.
November 4, 2024
This book will make you think about blimps for a little bit, but I can't promise it will convince you to care about them. Wish there was more explanation at the end what the legacy of the project was. Had to go to wikipedia for that, and there wasn't much.
May 20, 2019
A brief but brilliant book about some aeronautical innovators whose brilliant idea didn't quite work. McPhee is a master at creating compelling non-fiction stories.
May 11, 2020
Who knew? As always, McPhee always introduces the most compelling subjects. His concluding paragraphs include mention of 1 gram flying models...I need to google this!
September 28, 2021
An odd venture on all fronts, characteristically documented but why... other than that I like dirigibles, and so did these guys.
October 10, 2022
Kind of a perfect book. Deserves a three-hour movie adaptation à la The Right Stuff.
Read
January 27, 2023Interesting, but very dated.
March 23, 2012
In 1958, a Presbyterian minister from New Jersey had a vision of using dirigibles for missionary work in remote parts of the world: transporting goods and people cheaply and efficiently. The next year, he and a retired naval aviator founded a company called AEREON, honoring a 19th-century American airship. It built a trimaran airship, the world's first rigid airship since the Zeppelins of the 1930s. Unfortunately, in 1966 during taxiing trials a gust of wind overturned the aircraft; the pilots jumped and the airship was wrecked; it never flew. The company then had an idea of building a lifting body aircraft similar in shape to NASA's X-24, but huge, and filled with helium, which could lift a huge load like an airship, but would be controllable like an airplane. A helium-less prototype did fly in 1971, but the funding for the big ship was not forthcoming. When the company had spent "well over a million" 1960s dollars of investors' money, the SEC went after it, suspecting it to be an investment scam masquerading as an aviation company, and forbade it to issue any more stock. The SEC noted that the company failed to inform the investors properly that it was switching from a triple hull to a lifting body; somehow, the minister's religion did not compel him to do it. Since then there have been a few attempts to build an airship where only part of the lift comes from a lighter-than-air gas, and the rest comes from an airfoil, but none achieved commercial success.
April 17, 2016
AEREON is an aircraft manufacturer specializing in unique hybrid airships. It was founded in Princeton, New Jersey in 1959 and produced many models and prototypes up to 1971. The AEREON 26 and 7 are highlighted here. Each was an experimental aircraft developed to investigate lifting body design with a view to using its shape to create hybrid designs, part airship, part conventional aircraft. It was powered by a piston engine, driving a pusher propeller, and generated lift through the aerodynamics of its lozenge-shaped fuselage without wings. Although results of flight tests conducted in 1971 were promising, funding for larger and semi-buoyant aircraft was not forthcoming at the time, largely the result of some mysterious brakes put on by the SEC.
The Hindenburg exploded, in part, because a US embargo on exporting helium to Nazi Germany forced them to use the more dangerous hydrogen. This put a chilling effect on lighter than error craft. However, those 13 passengers that unfortunately died then were the sum total of all airship passenger deaths. These craft require a resource (helium) largely located in the U.S. and take a small percentage of fuel to move forward compared to heavier than air planes, let along large ships. Green, fueled by the USA, and safe - do I have something here this country could get behind?
The Hindenburg exploded, in part, because a US embargo on exporting helium to Nazi Germany forced them to use the more dangerous hydrogen. This put a chilling effect on lighter than error craft. However, those 13 passengers that unfortunately died then were the sum total of all airship passenger deaths. These craft require a resource (helium) largely located in the U.S. and take a small percentage of fuel to move forward compared to heavier than air planes, let along large ships. Green, fueled by the USA, and safe - do I have something here this country could get behind?
October 13, 2010
This was a quick, easy, random read that I picked up in a bar in Nicaragua. It had an odd cover and it looked a bit like science fiction but claimed to be a true story, so I decided to give it a read.
Not only does in contain a short, but thorough-feeling summary of airship usage in United States history and slightly abroad, it also reveals astounding facts about the usage and stats of airships that once dominated the sky, and makes me really, really want to ride in a dirigible.
The only thing disappointing about the tale is the ending, not because it was poorly written, but because of how the true tale ended. Have you seen any rigid airships or semi-rigid airships in the air over the United States in your life other than the Goodyear Blimp? Well, than you can kind of guess how the attempt to revamp the industry ended.
Why it ended that way is still left as a bit of a question.
I plan to be in Jersey soon, where I believe the old U.S. Navy giant airship hangars are still standing. I may have to pay them a visit if it looks worth checking out.
Not only does in contain a short, but thorough-feeling summary of airship usage in United States history and slightly abroad, it also reveals astounding facts about the usage and stats of airships that once dominated the sky, and makes me really, really want to ride in a dirigible.
The only thing disappointing about the tale is the ending, not because it was poorly written, but because of how the true tale ended. Have you seen any rigid airships or semi-rigid airships in the air over the United States in your life other than the Goodyear Blimp? Well, than you can kind of guess how the attempt to revamp the industry ended.
Why it ended that way is still left as a bit of a question.
I plan to be in Jersey soon, where I believe the old U.S. Navy giant airship hangars are still standing. I may have to pay them a visit if it looks worth checking out.
September 11, 2008
This is the first McPhee book I read, and probably my favorite. It concerns the research and development of a hybrid aircraft combining lighter-than-air technology with airfoils. The science/math parts of the book are the typical McPhee "gee whiz, I didn't know this stuff could be so exciting," but where this book really shines are the characterizations of the team working on the Aereon. Theologians, test pilots, retired blimp men. John McPhee will often find friendly, competent, and reasonably interesting characters to follow around for his books, but here he has hit upon a prime stash of incredibly fascinating losers, outcasts and could-a-beens.
Although it was written in the 70s, the subject matter is incredibly topical, as anyone who has bought a plane ticket recently can attest to.
Although it was written in the 70s, the subject matter is incredibly topical, as anyone who has bought a plane ticket recently can attest to.
January 9, 2017
This was an interesting look into the development of the Aereon 26 "aerobody" that resurrected the technical aims of the dirigible, with an unique twist in body design and performance. Following the decline of the large airships after the Hindenburg disaster of 1937, interest in airships that moved smoothly and seamlessly through the air waned. This story chronicles the group of eccentrics (or more specifically, two eccentric theologians, along with a team of technical advisors) who worked feverishly to make the design work.
What I found most compelling was the historical tie-in with the Dr. Soloman Andrews dirigible design from 1863, which preceded later inventors such as Santos-Dumont. In all, an interesting exploration into an obsessive quest that remains to be realized.
What I found most compelling was the historical tie-in with the Dr. Soloman Andrews dirigible design from 1863, which preceded later inventors such as Santos-Dumont. In all, an interesting exploration into an obsessive quest that remains to be realized.
October 5, 2009
Wow.
Sometimes, you watch a movie, or you read a book, and you feel compelled to find out as much as you can on your own about the topics afterwards.
I thought, and was almost worried, that this might happen with Founding Fish....but it didn't.
It did happen this time. I hadn't encountered a McPhee before that had so much entertainment or such a compelling story.
And though I loved that, it doesn't make me rate it higher because it was more of a story and a little less scholarship?
Sometimes, you watch a movie, or you read a book, and you feel compelled to find out as much as you can on your own about the topics afterwards.
I thought, and was almost worried, that this might happen with Founding Fish....but it didn't.
It did happen this time. I hadn't encountered a McPhee before that had so much entertainment or such a compelling story.
And though I loved that, it doesn't make me rate it higher because it was more of a story and a little less scholarship?
March 7, 2008
Wow, that took me awhile to finish. Not that the book was slow, just I haven't had time to read as much lately. The introduction of aereon flight seemed so close in our history, and yet it seemed doomed from the start. I was almost let down that the real reason that the company failed was never really discussed. Unless no one really knew!
February 17, 2011
yes yes yes. true account of a team of retired navy guys and ministers who, with almost no money, were trying to build an aerobody craft (slightly heavier than air, takes off like a plane, flies like a blimp, top speed ~60mph.) seriously, email me and i'll ship you my copy. so good.
March 22, 2008
the story of a completely new aircraft that flies aerodynamically. The facts unfold in the 1970's. McPhee gets into the characters and the project with wry wit and perspective.
March 12, 2011
A Strange story with even stranger characters. The story follows a group of relative oddballs as they try to usher in a new era of air transport. McPhee delights as usual.
October 20, 2011
Just couldn't get my head around this one. I will have to try again later on.
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