Howard Hughes: His Life and Madness

Slowly gathering speed in the face of a blustery wind, the Hercules sliced through the water, then dramatically lifted off. Cruising at seventy feet above the water, the big ship flew for about a mile before Hughes set it down, gently and without incident. The unexpected liftoff caught everyone ashore by surprise. A gasp and then a cheer went up from the thousands lining the harbor. Small pleasure boats, gathered to watch the tests, tooted their horns. In the cockpit, Hughes was like a “little kid,” recalled Joe Petrali, one of his crewmen. “He was grinning, and talking a lot, almost jumping up and down in his elation.”

As he grew stronger, Hughes worried that the accident might have made him apprehensive about flying. He need not have. On September 9, photographers snapped pictures of Hughes, sporting a moustache to cover scars on his upper lip, at the controls of his converted B-23 bomber before ascending on his first flight since the crash. For the next few months, to dispel any notion of fear, he flew everywhere—to New York, Kansas City, Dayton, and Mexico, for a much-needed vacation with Cary Grant. Hughes not only had recovered, but had also miraculously suffered no permanent disability. Two fingers on his left hand—the hand that had been burned so badly—did not move as freely as before. Other than that, he complained of no aches, pains, or discomfort. To the world it seemed that Howard Hughes had once again been very lucky.