Everyone remembers Charles Lindbergh. Almost nobody remembers the three men who, a year later, flew the Atlantic the hard way — against the wind, from Europe to America — and nearly died doing it. Their aircraft was called the Bremen, and their forgotten flight was in many ways a braver piece of airmanship than the one that made Lindbergh a legend.

On 12 April 1928 they lifted off from a field outside Dublin. Thirty-six hours later they came down on a frozen pond on a tiny island off the coast of Canada, with barely two hours of fuel left — and made history.

The frontier after Lindbergh

Lindbergh had crossed from New York to Paris in 1927, riding the prevailing west-to-east winds. Flying the other way, into those same winds, was a far deadlier proposition — and it had already killed. In 1927 alone, ten attempts to fly the Atlantic east-to-west had failed, costing seven lives. The westbound crossing was aviation’s next great frontier, and a lethal one.

An unlikely trio

The crew was as improbable as the mission. Hermann Köhl was a German pilot who had flown bombers in the First World War. Baron Ehrenfried Günther von Hünefeld was the aristocratic sponsor who owned the aircraft — a frail man once rejected by the air service on medical grounds. And Commandant James Fitzmaurice was the commanding officer of the fledgling Irish Air Corps, a former RAF flier who had joined the venture at the last stage.

They took off from Baldonnel Aerodrome outside Dublin at 05:38, the Bremen groaning under some five tonnes of aircraft and 520 gallons of petrol, while the crowd cheered and, in an Irish touch, splashed holy water after them.

Lost over the ice

For much of the way the winds were kind. Then, around 900 miles from Newfoundland, the weather closed in and the compasses began to misbehave. The Bremen was blown far off its intended course, groping blind over a grey ocean and then a white wilderness of ice and rock. When the fuel gauges dropped toward empty, Köhl put the aircraft down on a frozen pond beside a lighthouse on Greenly Island, off the Labrador coast. The landing wrecked the undercarriage, but all three men climbed out unhurt.

Sixty journalists on a frozen island

Word of the landing electrified the world. The bush pilot Duke Schiller was first to reach the marooned crew; another Canadian aviator, Roméo Vachon, flew in with a pack of reporters, and before long some sixty journalists were crowded onto the little island to file the story. When the airmen finally reached New York, the city gave them a ticker-tape parade. For a brief, dazzling moment, Köhl, von Hünefeld and Fitzmaurice were the most famous men in aviation.

The Bremen itself survives, lovingly preserved at the airport of the German city it was named after. The flight, sadly, does not live on the way Lindbergh’s does — which is exactly why it is worth remembering the three men who beat the Atlantic at its most stubborn, and walked away across the ice.

Sources: Wikipedia; HISTORY; Smithsonian Magazine; The Irish Times; World Air Sports Federation (FAI); Ask About Ireland.

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In August 1944, a young Minnesotan named Ken Dahlberg shot down three German aircraft in a single swirling dogfight, took a bullet through his oil system, and bailed out into the clouds over occupied France. Sheltered by the Resistance and — by one account — disguised as a woman, he cycled some 40 miles to Allied lines and rejoined his squadron eleven days later. The fighter he had been flying was a P-51B Mustang called Shillelagh.

Eighty-two years on, that very aircraft is flying again. In July 2026, freshly and painstakingly restored, Shillelagh climbed back into the sky and made its public debut before the crowds at EAA AirVenture Oshkosh.

The wooden club with a Merlin

Shillelagh — named after the traditional Irish fighting club — is a P-51 Mustang of the early razorback type, serial 42-106602. It served with the 353rd Fighter Squadron of the 354th Fighter Group, the celebrated “Pioneer Mustang Group,” and over four months in 1944 it flew 95 combat missions in the hands of 19 different pilots: bomber escorts to Berlin, dive-bombing runs, fighter sweeps, and patrols over the Normandy beaches.

Three kills, then a bicycle

The aircraft’s most dramatic day came on 16 August 1944. Twenty-four Mustangs of the 354th tangled with a swarm of some 80 German aircraft, and in the melee Ken Dahlberg — already a triple ace — shot down three. Then his Shillelagh took a hit, its oil pressure fell away, and he bailed out over France. What followed reads like a film: hidden by the French Resistance, he made his way back to friendly lines and was flying with his squadron again by the end of the month.

Rebuilt with the real thing

The restoration, carried out by AirCorps Aviation in Bemidji, Minnesota for the Dakota Territory Air Museum, is remarkable for how much of it is genuinely original. The team wove in an extraordinary quantity of new-old-stock North American Aviation parts — components built during the war and never fitted — and finished the aircraft in the black-and-white invasion stripes it wore over Normandy, around a freshly overhauled Packard-built Merlin engine.

Home at Oshkosh

On 18 July 2026, test pilot Warren Pietsch lifted Shillelagh off the runway at Bemidji for its first flight since the war-era airframe was rebuilt. The very next day it flew in to Oshkosh, where it stood in the warbird area as exactly what its restorers intended: a flying memorial to the men who took it to war.

Fewer than a handful of airworthy razorback P-51B Mustangs exist anywhere in the world. That one of them is Ken Dahlberg’s Shillelagh — the fighter he rode into a three-kill fight and bailed out of — makes its return to the sky feel less like a restoration and more like a resurrection.

Sources: Vintage Aviation News; AirCorps Aviation; Dakota Territory Air Museum; avgeekery; MustangsMustangs.com.

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Imagine buying an airline ticket and being shown not to a seat in the fuselage, but into the wing itself — a little cabin built into the leading edge, with a big curved window giving you the pilot’s own view of the world rushing toward you. That was the everyday reality aboard the Junkers G.38, a German giant of 1929 that treated flying not as an ordeal to be survived but as an experience to be savoured.

When it lifted off from Dessau in November 1929, the G.38 was the largest landplane on Earth, beaten in sheer size only by the monstrous Dornier Do X flying boat. And nobody had ever built a passenger aircraft quite like it.

A dream sketched in 1910

The idea was older than the aircraft. Hugo Junkers had long believed that an aeroplane should not dangle its passengers beneath a thin wing, but carry everything — people, engines, structure — inside a deep, load-bearing wing. He had sketched the concept as early as 1910; it simply took two decades for engines, materials and money to catch up.

By the late 1920s, with German aviation shaking off the restrictions of the Versailles Treaty, Junkers finally got his chance. The result felt part aircraft, part flying salon.

A flying palace

The G.38 was an all-metal colossus — 23 metres long, with a 44-metre wingspan wider than many of today’s narrow-body jets. Its wings were nearly two metres thick at the root, thick enough to hold passenger compartments and small “engine rooms” where a mechanic could reach and service the motors in flight. From the wing cabins, and from two seats right in the nose, large windows offered a forward view usually reserved for the crew.

Originally the aircraft carried just 17 passengers in near-airship luxury — wide upholstered seats, a promenade area, a smoking room, a proper washroom. The four engines were buried in the wings, with only driveshafts running out to the propellers, cutting drag and noise. A second, larger machine added a second deck and room for 34.

Too grand for its moment

Deutsche Luft Hansa flew the two G.38s across Europe in the early 1930s, from Berlin to London, Vienna and Amsterdam, and the type set records for speed, endurance and payload. Technically it was a triumph. Commercially, its timing could hardly have been worse.

The Great Depression gutted air travel just as the G.38 arrived, and airlines fled toward small, cheap, efficient aircraft like the Junkers Ju 52, which would be built in their thousands. A flying palace needing big crews and heavy maintenance was exactly the wrong aeroplane for a lean decade.

Two aircraft, both gone

Only two G.38s were ever built. The first was damaged beyond repair in a 1936 accident at Dessau and scrapped. The second was seized by the Nazi regime in 1939, pressed into service as a military transport, and destroyed on the ground by British bombers at Athens in 1941. Japan built six bomber derivatives, the Mitsubishi Ki-20, but they never saw combat.

No G.38 was ever built again — not because it failed, but because the world moved on faster than the aeroplane could. For a few short years, though, a lucky few got to fly Europe seated inside a wing, watching the horizon through their own private windscreen.

Sources: Wikipedia; Vintage Aviation News; Airways Magazine; Oleg Antonov State Aviation Museum; NACA Aircraft Circular No. 116.

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It is one of the least glamorous aircraft in the sky and one of the most useful: a boxy, high-wing twin that lands in under a thousand feet, seats nine, and turns up wearing airline colours, army camouflage and even spy fits. Now, for the first time in almost sixty years, the Britten-Norman Islander is being built where it was born — in Britain.

At the end of July 2026, the first Islander manufactured in the United Kingdom since 1968 rolled out of Britten-Norman’s factory at Bembridge on the Isle of Wight. Serial number 2317, registered G-FRZT, is now being prepared for ground testing, and it already has a home to go to: the Falkland Islands Government Air Service, which will fly it between the archipelago’s scattered settlements.

Home, after a long detour

Britten-Norman flew the first BN-2 Islander in 1968 — the aircraft that put the little firm founded by John Britten and Desmond Norman on the map. Orders arrived faster than the Bembridge line could fill them, so the company contracted the Romanian manufacturer IRMA, today known as Romaero, to build airframes at scale. Over the decades Romania became the sole production site, and final assembly returned to the UK only at the very end.

Bringing the whole line home was confirmed in 2023. Since then Britten-Norman has poured money into modern computer-controlled machine tools and grown its workforce by more than 40 percent — a quiet but real vote of confidence in British aerospace manufacturing.

The plane that never went out of fashion

More than 1,200 Islanders, militarised Defenders and three-engined Trislanders have been built to essentially the same 1960s design. Piston engines have given way to turboprops in many airframes — the turboprop version is the BN-2T — but the recipe is unchanged: rugged, cheap to run, and able to operate from strips that would defeat almost anything else.

That STOL talent is why the Islander flies the shortest scheduled airline route on Earth, the 1.7-mile hop between Westray and Papa Westray in Orkney, which takes roughly 90 seconds in the air. On the other side of Britain it links the Isles of Scilly to the mainland with Skybus, alongside the DHC-6 Twin Otter.

Airliner, soldier, spy

The type has never been purely civilian. A militarised Defender appeared in 1970, and standard Islanders turned up in uniform around the world. British forces flew the Islander and Defender for decades in the liaison and intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance role — heavily over Northern Ireland and with the RAF Northolt Station Flight — before the last example retired in 2021. Discreet ISR-configured aircraft, nicknamed “Spylanders”, still work over the UK under civilian contracts.

The airframe has even carried genuinely cutting-edge kit. Britain’s battlefield-radar programme that led to the Sentinel R1 began with a modified Islander under the CASTOR project, and in recent years the type has served as a testbed for new communications systems and hydrogen-electric propulsion.

A sixty-year-old that isn’t finished yet

The new Bembridge aircraft is no museum piece. It comes with a full IFR glass cockpit, all-window seating, enlarged baggage access and a higher all-up weight than earlier variants, with a choice of Lycoming piston or Rolls-Royce turboprop engines. Reopening the line is a bet that the world still needs a simple, tough short-field twin — and six decades of orders suggest Britten-Norman is right.

Sources: Britten-Norman; The Manufacturer; Aviation Week; The Aviationist; LARA; avitrader.

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Canada is heading into its August long weekend with a familiar knot in its stomach: another airline, another strike clock ticking. On 30 July, the flight attendants who staff WestJet's cabins served the airline with 72 hours' strike notice. WestJet fired back the same day with a lockout notice of its own. Either way, the countdown now points at the same moment — 12:01 a.m. Mountain Time on 2 August.

The two sides, by the union's own account, remain "too far apart" on the issues that matter. And the issue that matters most is one that has become the defining fight of North American cabin crews: unpaid work.

The fight over unpaid hours

Flight attendants are, in most contracts, paid only once the aircraft doors close and the plane pushes back. The boarding, the delays on the ramp, the endless "we're just waiting on a connecting passenger" — all of it, traditionally, is off the clock. CUPE 8125, the union representing WestJet's cabin crew, says the airline's credit-hour system leaves roughly 35 hours of work every month unpaid.

If that fight sounds familiar, it is. Barely a year ago, Air Canada's flight attendants walked out over precisely the same grievance — and their strike was cut short when the federal government stepped in to force them back to work. CUPE has clearly not forgotten: this time it is publicly urging Ottawa to stay out and let the two sides reach a deal at the table.

What it means for travellers

WestJet has already begun parking aircraft and winding operations down in an orderly way, so passengers are not stranded mid-journey if the deadline passes. Travellers booked between 30 July and 4 August can make a one-time change or cancel without a fee. It is cold comfort on one of the busiest travel weekends of the Canadian summer, but it beats being stuck at a gate with nowhere to go.

Both sides insist they would rather settle than shut down. The union has said flatly that a strike notice is not the same as wanting to strike. Whether that goodwill survives contact with a midnight deadline is the question hanging over every WestJet booking this weekend.

Sources: Canadian Union of Public Employees (CUPE 8125); Global News; CTV News; AeroTime; WestJet.

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For years, flying Allegiant meant paying for everything that was not the seat itself — the carry-on, the boarding pass at the airport, and yes, the cup of soda. That is the whole point of an ultra-low-cost carrier: a rock-bottom fare, then a menu of extras. So it is a genuine surprise that, from 1 August, Allegiant will hand you a drink for nothing.

Complimentary beverage service — sodas, juice and water — now comes standard on every Allegiant flight. Passengers who carry the airline's Allways Rewards Visa get a longer list: coffee, protein shakes, sports drinks, or an alcoholic drink with a mixer, on the house.

A budget airline reaches upmarket

The free drink is the small, visible half of a bigger move. Allegiant also announced a brand-new premium cabin, "Allegiant First," which will be phased onto select aircraft starting in spring 2027, with seats going on sale as soon as mid-August. It will sit alongside — not replace — the existing Allegiant Extra product, and bundle in priority check-in and boarding plus a generous baggage allowance.

The reason for the upmarket push is spelled out in the fine print: Allegiant and Sun Country are knitting themselves into a single leisure-travel group that already carries roughly 22 million passengers a year across more than 650 routes. A consistent onboard experience — a free drink here, a real premium seat there — is how you make two very different budget airlines feel like one brand.

The end of the bare fare?

Not quite. The base ticket is still bare, and the extras still add up. But the trend is unmistakable: the American ultra-low-cost carriers that built their brands on charging for every last thing are quietly reaching for the comforts of the legacy airlines they undercut. A free soda will not change anyone's fare, but it is a small signal that even the cheapest seat in the sky is getting a little more hospitable.

Sources: Allegiant Travel Company newsroom / PR Newswire; CAPA - Centre for Aviation; Runway Girl Network; LoyaltyLobby.

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In the early 1960s, two American giants owned the jet age: Boeing’s 707 and the Douglas DC-8. Convair, a division of General Dynamics, decided it could not out-size them — so it tried to out-run them.

The result was the Convair 990 Coronado: a sleek four-engine jet with strange bulges on its wings and a single, audacious promise. It would be the fastest airliner in the sky. And it was — in cruise it ran markedly quicker than any 707 or DC-8, the fastest subsonic jet airliner ever built.

Almost nobody bought it. Just 37 were made before Convair pulled the plug, handing its parent company one of the biggest corporate losses in American business history. This is the story of a jet that won the race and lost the war.

Convair’s Gamble to Beat Boeing

Convair’s first jet, the 880, was fast but too small — airlines wanted seats, not speed records. American Airlines came back with a challenge: stretch it, and build a jet that could cross the United States nonstop against the wind. Convair lengthened the 880 and aimed for a machine that cruised closer to the speed of sound than anything else carrying passengers.

The Speed Bumps That Made It Fast

The 990’s signature is the row of four fairings on the trailing edge of the wing — anti-shock bodies, sometimes called “speed capsules.” Shaped on the transonic area-rule principle, they smoothed the airflow to raise the speed at which drag rises sharply near Mach 1. The larger inboard pods doubled as fuel tanks. Paired with rear-fan turbofans derived from a supersonic fighter’s engine, the Coronado was built to loiter close to Mach 0.9.

The story of the world’s fastest subsonic airliner.

Broken Promises and Reluctant Airlines

The physics did not fully cooperate. In everyday service the early 990 fell short of the speed guaranteed to American Airlines, because the anti-shock bodies produced more drag than predicted. A crash redesign eventually recovered the lost performance, but the jet never reliably delivered the coast-to-coast nonstop it was sold on. Swissair bought a handful and flew them hard to South America, Africa and the Far East.

Why the Coronado Flopped

Speed cost fuel. The 990 was too thirsty, too small in the cabin, and too late: Boeing’s later models captured its niche. Only 37 were built. The combined 880 and 990 programme handed General Dynamics one of the largest corporate losses in American history to that point, and Convair never built another airliner.

Why the fastest airliner was also a failure.

The Galileo Afterlife

Retired Coronados found second lives with charter carriers, and NASA turned two into flying laboratories named “Galileo” and “Galileo II,” using them for atmospheric and astronomy research into the 1980s. One Swissair example survives in a museum in Lucerne.

The Coronado remains aviation’s classic beautiful failure — an engineer’s jet that was faster than it needed to be, in an era that just wanted cheaper seats.

The jet that was, in one telling, too fast to survive.

Sources: Wikipedia (Convair 990 Coronado); Aviation Week (1961); John T. Kutney Sr., AIAA (2007); NASA / Wikimedia Commons.

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Doug White was having the worst week of his life. He, his wife Terri and their two daughters were flying home to Louisiana from Florida, where they had just buried his brother. It was Easter Sunday, 2009. White, a 56-year-old private pilot who had only ever flown small single-engine Cessnas, had recently bought a Beechcraft King Air and was sitting up front simply to watch and learn.

Less than ten minutes after takeoff, climbing over the Gulf, the professional at the controls — charter pilot Joe Cabuk — groaned, slumped, and died. In an instant, a family man with no time in a fast, complex twin was the only person aboard who could fly it.

He keyed the radio and declared an emergency. What followed was one of the great feel-good stories in modern aviation: a chain of calm voices, an instructor summoned by telephone, and one of the best landings of White’s life.

A Family Flying Home From a Funeral

The Whites had chartered the twin-turboprop for the sad trip back after the funeral. Doug sat in the right seat purely as an enthusiast, listening to air traffic control and watching out the window. Cabuk had the aircraft on autopilot, finishing his climb checks, when everything changed.

The Pilot Collapses in Seconds

The King Air kept climbing past its set altitude. White pushed the transmit button and called Miami Center, declared an emergency, and asked for the one thing he knew he needed: a King Air pilot on the line. The gulf between a Cessna 172 and a King Air, he later said, is like going from a Volkswagen to a race car.

The actual air traffic control audio from the emergency.

Calm Voices and an Instructor on the Phone

A Miami controller, herself a pilot, coached White to disengage the autopilot and hand-fly. In Fort Myers, a controller telephoned a King Air-rated instructor he knew, Kari Sorenson, who relayed only the most critical steps — control positions, speeds, configuration — through the controllers to White as he raced along at more than 200 knots.

The Landing at Fort Myers

Guided toward Southwest Florida International’s long runway, White lowered the gear, got three green lights, added flaps, and kept his speed up as warned. Alarms and buzzers filled the cockpit, but he focused on airspeed and keeping the wings level. The touchdown was, in his words, a greaser — and then he had to be told over the radio how to shut the engines down.

A pilot’s breakdown of how the landing was flown.

“It was a greaser, to be honest. It didn’t jump or skip. It just set down and stopped in 3,500 feet or less.”

Doug White — On his landing (AOPA, 2009)

Meeting His Co-Pilots

A year later White finally met the team that talked him down, at a controllers’ awards ceremony. “These people saved my family,” he said; the instructor marvelled that White had learned to fly the aeroplane in twenty minutes. The story later inspired a film, with Dennis Quaid playing the reluctant pilot who brought his family home.

Doug White tells the story himself.

Sources: Wikipedia (Doug White); AOPA (2009); CNN (2010). King Air photos show the same type, not the actual aircraft.

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At 08:47 on the morning of 27 December 1991, a nearly new SAS MD-81 lifted off from a frozen Stockholm-Arlanda. It had sat out the night in near-freezing air with cold fuel chilling its wings, and a layer of clear ice — invisible, glass-smooth — had built up on the wing roots. Nobody found it.

Seconds after the wheels left the runway, that ice shattered and vanished into both tail-mounted engines. The fan blades bent, the compressors stalled, and the engines began to surge. Worse, a thrust system the crew had never been told existed kept shoving the power back up every time they tried to save them.

Barely a minute into the flight, the crew had an airliner full of people and no engines. They put it down in a field near Gottröra. And every one of the 129 people aboard walked away — the Miracle at Gottröra.

An Icy Morning and Invisible Ice

The aircraft had flown in the evening before and parked overnight in near-freezing conditions, cold fuel in its wing tanks chilling the surface until clear ice formed on the upper wing roots. The crew de-iced — but nobody performed the hands-on physical check of the upper wing, the only reliable way to catch clear ice.

Both Engines Surge After Liftoff

As the MD-81 rotated, the ice broke free and was ingested by both engines, deforming the fan blades. About twenty-five seconds into the flight the crew felt one engine surging and eased the throttle back — but the undisclosed automatic thrust system read the asymmetry and pushed the power straight back up, sustaining the surges. At roughly 76 and 78 seconds, both engines failed completely.

The Mayday reconstruction of Flight 751.

The Off-Duty Captain in Seat 2C

Per Holmberg, an off-duty SAS captain riding as a passenger, recognised the trouble early, hurried to the cockpit and went to work — taking the emergency checklist, starting the auxiliary power unit, and calling out to keep the flying pilot focused. Captain Stefan Rasmussen answered the double failure by pitching the nose down, then levelling to stretch the glide as far as he could without stalling.

A Field, Some Trees, and Three Pieces

Breaking out of the cloud at under a thousand feet, the crew committed to a field near a farm at Gottröra. On the way down the aircraft clipped trees and lost a large section of one wing, hit the ground tail-first, sheared off its gear, and slid to a halt as the fuselage broke into three. The cabin crew had drilled the passengers into the brace position — widely credited with the survivable outcome.

The double engine failure, seconds after takeoff.

Everyone Walks Away

Twenty-five people were hurt, two seriously. None died. The investigators found the root cause was inadequate procedures for removing clear ice, made worse by a crew never trained to stop engine surging and a hidden thrust system that fought them. The crash reshaped clear-ice inspection across the industry — and turned a wintry field north of Stockholm into a byword for survival.

The full story of the Miracle at Gottröra.

Sources: Wikipedia (Scandinavian Airlines System Flight 751); Swedish Accident Investigation Board report C 1993:57; FAA Lessons Learned.

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On the afternoon of 24 May 1988, a nearly new Boeing 737-300 was threading between thunderstorm cells on approach to New Orleans. In the left seat sat Captain Carlos Dárdano — twenty-nine years old, and flying with one eye, the other lost to gunfire in his war-torn homeland.

Then the unthinkable happened twice at once. Torrential rain and hail drowned the fire in both engines as they idled for the descent. The thrust died, the cockpit went dark, and a jetliner full of people became a sixty-tonne glider over the swamps east of the city.

No runway was in reach. What followed was one of aviation’s most improbable saves — and a coda stranger than the emergency itself.

Into a Wall of Rain and Hail

Descending toward New Orleans, the crew saw storms on the radar and picked what looked like a gap between two intense cells. They switched on continuous ignition and engine anti-ice as a precaution. But radar can hide the very worst weather — heavy rain can absorb the signal and read as a deceptively clear shadow.

The gap was not a gap. The 737 punched into rain and hail far beyond anything its engines had truly been tested against.

Both Engines Flame Out

At about 16,500 feet, with the throttles at idle, both CFM56 engines flamed out. The crew started the auxiliary power unit to restore electrics and hydraulics, then tried to relight the engines. They lit — but would not spool up past idle, and pushing the throttles only spiked the temperatures toward a fire. To avoid that, the pilots shut both engines down and committed to a glide.

The extraordinary glide and levee landing of Flight 110.

A Levee Instead of the Water

Dárdano first lined up to ditch in a canal, stretching the glide while the first officer ran the checklist. Then the crew spotted a grass levee running beside the waterway and chose it instead. Using a sideslip to bleed off height and speed, Dárdano threaded the powerless jet onto the narrow earthen bank — on the grounds of NASA’s Michoud Assembly Facility.

Everyone Walks Away

The touchdown was clean. The 737 rolled to a stop with only minor hail damage, the slides deployed, and all forty-five people aboard climbed out with nothing worse than a few bumps. A pilot sent to overfly the spot where the radar target had vanished found the airliner improbably parked, intact, on the levee.

A documentary segment on the double flameout.

They Flew It Off the Levee

The first plan was to barge the jet out with its wings removed. Instead, Boeing changed the engines where it sat, fuelled it lightly, and flew the 737 off a road built atop an old wartime runway. The aircraft returned to airline service and flew for decades more.

The near-disaster also rewrote the rulebook: investigators found the engines had met the water standard of the day, but that standard did not reflect a real thunderstorm. New designs and, in time, an entirely new rain-and-hail certification standard followed.

Footage of the 737 taking off from the old Michoud runway.

Sources: Wikipedia (TACA Flight 110); FAA Lessons Learned / NTSB (FTW88IA109); Peter Garrison, Air & Space (2006).

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