Eyes Wide Open

Charles Lindbergh is a controversial name in American history. He was an aviator first, but in many ways he was also one of the first American mass media celebrities, and like so many celebrities, his downfall was as sharp as his rise to fame. But before he was a household name, he had to make his famous NonStop transatlantic flight. While the average person might worry about mechanical failure or getting lost at sea, for Charles, the only real issue was

staying awake for such a monumental undertaking. Charles approached his transatlantic flights as if it were an everyday chore. In the weeks leading up to his flight, he studied navigation at his local library. He learned how to track the sun, the moon, and the stars, and how to calculate his rate of travel and rate of fuel loss. He needed to be able to do these things in his head because he couldn't bring much equipment on board. The plane

was small and made of wood and fabric. Like many planes of the time, it couldn't handle a lot of weights, and he would have to dedicate most of that to the four hundred and fifty one gallons of gasoline that he would need to make it all the way from New York to Paris. That was the challenge issued by an American businessman who wanted to see a pilot from an Allied nation make a NonStop flight across the Atlantic. He offered up twenty five thousand dollars as a prize,

which Charles aimed to win. In addition to the gasoline, Charles packed a bottle of water and a bag of sandwiches, and that was about it. You would think that he was just taking a bus cross country, not crossing the entire Atlantic on his own in a rickety plane. But that's not to say that Charles wasn't nervous. In fact, he didn't sleep at all the night before his flight, and this was a problem because the trip was already

meant to take thirty hours. He'd have to remain alert the entire time, So now he was running on fumes at the start and facing another night without sleep, But of course, this time he'd be hundreds of miles above the ocean. He took off from New York the morning of May twentieth, of nineteen twenty seven. The first few hours were exhilarating and passed without issue. There's always that first rush of adrenaline whenever you set out on a trip, much less a historic flight. But by hour number four,

Charles's eyelids started to droop. He snapped awake. He had to keep himself alert, and so he decided to drop the plane into the ocean, now maybe not completely beneath the waves, but just ten feet above the water to keep himself frosty. The plane required more of his attention at this height, and the sea spray was nice. He also believed that planes traveled faster just above the water, Although this was likely just a superstition. It was enough to keep him awake for a few more hours, but

then nights started to fall. Imagine trying to keep yourself awake in the pitch dark with a cool breeze blowing across your face. He didn't even have the light from the moon or the stars. As a fog crept across the sky and engulfed his plane, there was nowhere to land and nowhere to pull over. He had to keep going at one hundred miles an hour into pitch black, and then the sleet started. Icy chunks flicked across his

face and threatened to weigh down the plane. He had to lower his altitude once again, while also keeping track of his overall altitude in his head to ensure that he didn't crash into the ocean. He considered closing the windows, but then he thought better of it. The ice on his face might have been painful, but this was the first time in hours that he didn't feel like closing his eyes. Finally, mercifully, he saw the sun on the horizon through the fog until the fog was no more,

and once it dissipated, a welcome site appeared Ireland. He was close to his destination. Just five hours later, he finally arrived in Paris, exactly on time. He hadn't slept for fifty five hours. He was greeted with overwhelming support from the French people, but all he really wanted from

the French ambassador was a pair of pajamas. In the years that followed, Charles received endless medals from the US and other allied nations, but the nineteen thirties were a traumatic time for him, and his infant son was infamously kidnapped and murdered. While touring Germany, he saw firsthand the might of the Nazi air force, and was so frightened that he became an ardent proponent of isolationism, wanting to keep America out of the war and blaming the British,

American Jews and Franklin Roosevelt for wanting to involve the US. Ultimately, this lost him the support of the American people, and it took him flying missions in the Pacific to regain some of their respect. He was a complicated man who quickly found himself out of his depth on the public stage. Of all his accomplishments, though it's more than curious that he remains most famous for simply keeping his eyes open. There are few places on Earth as serene, quiet, and

downright lovely as New Zealand. The island nation is routinely voted among the most peaceful countries on the planet, but in the nineteen thirties, its rolling Green Hills were disturbed by a series of shocking explosions. They weren't caused by bombs or gunfire. Like the rest of the globe, New Zealand was enjoying a brief pause between world wars, so

for a moment at least, there was no worry about fighting. Instead, the explosions were caused by something so perplexing it left many kiwis scratching their head and in a few cases they're singed bottoms. The first part person affected was a dairy farmer named Richard Buckley. One day in April of nineteen thirty three, Buckley was clearing out a large infestation of ragwart, a type of yellow flowering weed that's poisonous

to cows. The countryside was covered in this stuff, which was a serious problem for Buckley because it cut down on the area where his cattle could graze. After spending hours killing the weeds, he decided to take a break and headed inside to his farmhouse. He was just sitting

down to relax by the fire when his pants spontaneously exploded. Now, fortunately for Buckley, he wasn't wearing them at the time, having just hung the pants up to dry, but he was standing close enough that the loud blast threw him backward. Somehow he had enough presence of mind to scramble back to his feet, grab the burning trousers, race to the door, and hurl them out into the yard. It wasn't a

moment too soon. The pants continued to flash and smolder, erupting in a series of small explosions until there was almost nothing left of them. Now, as you might imagine, Buckley was astonished and also relieved who escaped without injury. But as he soon learned, this close call was just the beginning. A few days later, a cowboy was riding his horse through a neighboring farm when his blue jeans burst into flames. Then another pair of pants detonated while

drying on a clothes line in the sun. In each case, the fires burned with a strange, almost supernatural intensity, and they were incredibly difficult to put out. Smothering the flames with dirt or blankets did nothing. In most instances, the farmers were forced to just stand back and watch while their pants burned up. The incidents spread like wildfire. No pun intended, I swear, and within a few short months, New Zealand was in the midst of a full on

exploding trouser epidemic. Most of the victims escaped with little more than burnt buttocks, but some were badly injured, and there were at least two recorded deaths. And eventually the affected farmers started to compare notes and realized what they all had in common. Before their pants had exploded, they had all been treating ragwort with the same weed killer, a chemical herbie being pushed by the government known as

sodium chlorate. And here's the thing. While the compound is effective at killing ragwart, it's also extremely volatile when it's dry. The farmers always diluted the chemicals with water before spraying the mixture on their plants, but some droplets inevitably blew back on their legs, where they blended with the denim fibers. When the pants dried, the water in the chemical mixture evaporated,

leaving behind tiny, highly flammable crystals. At that point, the pants were primed for detonation, and it didn't take much to set them off. Standing close to an open flame, the friction of rubbing against a horse's saddle, or even the heat of a sunny day could be enough to trigger spontaneous combustion. Once the farmers realized their weed killer

was causing the fires, they stopped using it. They still had a serious weed infestation on their hands, but that problem eventually sorted itself out when the industry shifted from dairy to sheep farming. Unlike cows, sheep can digest ragwort and will eat it happily, making them a natural weedkiller, and as an added bonus, they don't spontaneously explode, at least not usually. But if I've learned anything, history has

a way of making exceptions out of every rule. I hope you've enjoyed today's guided tour of the Cabinet of Curiosities. Subscribe for free on Apple Podcasts, or learn more about the show by visiting Curiosities podcast dot com. The show was created by me Aaron Mankey in partnership with how Stuff Works. I make another award winning show called Lore, which is a podcast, book series, and television show, and you can learn all about it over at the Worldoflore

dot com. And until next time, stay curious.