Lift Off!

June 29, 1973,

Dear Diary,

The only thing my roommate Jim and I ever shared in common that summer in Florida was our desire to watch a space launch in person. When he told me about the Skylab II launch coming up the following day, I thought this was it! A once in a lifetime chance, and I wasn't about to pass it up. Transplanted from Arizona, the only type of launch I had ever witnessed was the occasional drunk cowboy who wandered into the wrong end of a cattle prod. I wanted to get to the Cape, as the locals called it, in plenty of time to be assured of a vantage point worthy of someone who was about to be enshrined as one of the 150,000 other eye witnesses to this historic landmark in space exploration. I grabbed Jim, my camera, fueled up my 62 VW bus, and we raced off to our date with history. The drive to the Cape, and more specifically, Titusville, was effortless. My van purred along and, other than burning a quart of oil along the way, was eager to aid us in our reckoning with destiny.

Arriving in Cape Canaveral at midnight, seven hours before liftoff, we realized we hadn’t a clue where to land to be able to view the launch. Jim told me he’d been to the Space Center before and claimed to know where everything was located, everything but where to observe. At a loss, I aimed the van towards the Cape’s main gate. Once there, we were halted by a stern looking member of the security force. His grim face and unyielding stance led me to believe that one of the humorless, animated robots from Disney World had finally made the big break and sought refuge in the guise of a security guard. "Okay, boys. That's as far as you go.” I presumed he thought we were agents from a foreign power out to thieve one of the giant Saturn rockets in the backend of a V.W. micro bus and conquer the free world. Our cover being we were two space-struck tourists in search of an astronaut.

“Good evening, sir.” I figured being contrite always made a good first impression. I explained to him that all we wanted was information. Adding to my pitch to win him over, “You know, there aren’t too many gas stations open at this time of night to ask and say, ‘Hi, we’re stupid and lost, which way to the nearest rocket launch?’ With that, I got a lecture from our pillar of American manhood on truth, justice, and the American way. Ending of his speech, he informed me the best place would be back down the road about five miles.

As we faded off into the early morning fog, he waved good-bye, looking contented with himself as if he had single-handedly stemmed the evil red menace and saved America. Still upset with our encounter with Robo boy, we settled for a cup of coffee at the local doughnut shop to calm our nerves and pass some time. The place was alive with nervous energy, as a host of other caffeine freaks had infiltrated the ranks of the loyal doughnut partisans waiting for the launch. I sat idly munching a glazed orange honey dipped cruller watching Jim, who was not a regular coffee drinker; negotiate the benefits of slowly and gently sipping a cup of java hot enough to melt steel.

Next was finding a spot to land for the night. Cruising around the beachfront, we couldn’t help but notice the hodge-podge of vehicles and impromptu accommodations folks had made for themselves to endure the night and avoid the never-ending swarms of mosquitoes. Pup tents, campers, small trailers, bikers with ponchos over the handlebars and one end staked to the ground, and entire families in the back seats of passenger cars. The most formidable of them all were the 35 foot RV’s. I found a spot a good distance from any of these lumbering buffaloes of the highway to avoid having their owners springing out of a cloud of mosquitoes to inform me how great it was to be as free as a bird with their home on wheels. With the price of gasoline and the appetite these monsters have (5-6 miles to the gallon), I figured I could do much better with my thumb and a backpack, at half the cost.

Disregarding my meandering philosophical ideas why people came to see the space shot, I settled down in the front seat of the van, determined to get a few hours rest before the Sky Lab II lifted off. Never being in the Boy Scouts, or learning how to start a campfire with two sticks and a marshmallow, we spent several restless hours trying to make ourselves comfortable: Jim in the back and me in the front. Actually, he had a cakewalk in the rear, he could at least stretch out on the metal floor. In the meantime, I had to assume the pose of a sideshow contortionist, wrapping my legs around, sometimes over, and in between, the steering wheel and column in an effort to find a comfortable sleeping position. For the first twenty minutes, Jim did nothing but complain about our lack of planning, as he mangled an empty cardboard box into the shape of something that vaguely resembled a pillow. After my ear found the door handle in my tossing, I was resolved to a night of misery.

Unable to drop off from the lack of comfort, and the mosquitoes practicing their dive bombing runs on me, I sat up and attempted to strike up a conversation with Jim. His reply was an elongated wheeze from his troubled sinuses. Hmmm, he was asleep. I looked around, wondering if it was worth all of this trouble just to be able to claim I saw the launch of Skylab II in person. I pondered the relative merits of whether to smash my head against the window, rendering myself unconscious and with a slight concussion (small sacrifice, I thought for the occasion) or sit up all night with the rest of the insomniacs who were also praying for the first rays of sunshine. I sat in quiet meditation for about twenty minutes when I realized that I’d started to nod off and I gently propped my head against the side of the van door and eased my eyes shut in order to fool my body into thinking I was going to rest my eyes. Jim's snoring lulled me to sleep as exhaustion finally won out. A small step for man, one giant leap for insomniacs.

HONK, HONK, HONKKKKKKK. Startled awake, I raised my head quickly only to find the well-known immovable object waiting to greet me, "Ow!, Ow, Ow, Shit!" I learned the hard way there was a railroad crossing and a 5am express train that ran directly across the beach from us. Now, I not only couldn't get back to sleep, but I had a headache to boot. I wasn't the only one who had their sleep abruptly interrupted. Several of the cookie eaters in the station wagon parked next to us were yowling at the top of their lungs as their sleepy parents urged them to go back to sleep. “My God!” I thought, “There must be two dozen kids in that car given the turmoil and noise.”

I made the mental adjustment to the racket until I heard one of them suggest they get out and play tag. "Swell," I uttered to myself. They all bailed out of the station wagon as if they were rats deserting a sinking ship. They poured out through every window, door, and crevice. I took comfort in the fact there was always a chance they would get lost or something equally devious. No such luck. The gods weren't with me. What’s more, they decided to use, and I quote, "…That beat up bus" for home base. Great! Tom's mobile recreation center at your disposal 24 hours a day.

Deciding it wasn't worth the aggravation, I stayed up. It was 5:30am anyway, ninety minutes and counting. During all the commotion, Jim woke up to notice a swarm of people beginning to stream towards the beach. “We need to get a good spot on the beach now!,” he insisted.

"Jim, what time is it?"

"5:50am, only seventy minutes to go," he added enthusiastically, trying to initiate some sort of response from me after we reached the water’s edge. I shrugged my shoulders in boredom and stared out into the water.

"Say, did you see that?” Jim said.

"What?"

"That splash. It looked like a fish jumping,” still eager for conversation, he continued.

"What kind of fish do you think that was?"

"A rock fish," I said as I picked up a rock and showed it to him, executing another toss into the water.

"Oh," he said. We continued our vigil in silence.

It was nearly 6:30am and no one was rushing to the shoreline to get the choice seats next to ours. How could they sit back by their cars in those terrible uncomfortable lawn chairs with their coffee pots and picnic baskets while we had the soft cushion of rocks and beach, and the best view, so we thought. We looked at each other for a beat and decided we should relinquish our prime location. We got up together, without uttering a word, and moved back to the more populated regions of the beach, losing our view, but saving our backsides.

At 7am, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. The beach was filled with fellow launch groupies, their radios blaring out reports about the launch, and the aroma of freshly perked coffee teased at our senses; or what little senses we had left after our night in the van. The crowd’s chatty speculation about exactly where on the horizon the rocket would first appear filled the early morning mist. The moment we all had been anticipating was near. As lift off neared, a palpable tension was building in the throng as they began in unison, as if choreographed, bobbing their heads skyward toward the horizon like prairie dogs on the lookout for predictors.

At 7:06am, a dense cloud cover moved over the launch site. A collective groan was heard throughout the crowd. Jim was frantic. He screamed at the clouds in contempt to urge them out of the line of sight. “Two minutes and counting,” blurted the radio announcer. Near panic set in as everyone kept urging the clouds to move their cover and afford us a better view.

"Ninety seconds and counting," cried the D.J. Jim was now freely cursing the clouds.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you are in your cars and want to watch the launch, please pull over to the side of the road, as in the past we have had several accidents with people attempting to watch the launch while driving. So, please, pull off to the side of the road, wherever you are."

This public service announcement coming from the radio was greeted by nervous laughter as everyone strained their necks skyward.

“Sixty seconds and counting.”

“Thirty seconds and counting.”

Wow, we're really going to see this space shot. My palms began to sweat like they did the first time I asked a girl to dance at my eighth grade prom. What if I fainted before the launch, or I tripped and went face first into the sand just as the rocket went up? My stomach churned as each passing second stretched into a year. I felt dizzy then, “4, 3, 2, 1, ignition, and lift off!”

The crowd cheered. For the first few seconds, we could only hear the roar of the launch as everyone tried to catch a glimpse of the rocket through the clouds. Someone screamed, “There it is!" Where, where, where in the hell is it? I was panicked. I couldn't see it. Finally, I caught sight of the fiery red mass as it slowly rumbled skyward. The man standing next to me began shouting comments at the rocket you'd only expect to hear in a John Wayne war movie. "Go baby. Get it, big bird. Do it to it, mama," and several other clever clichés seemingly appropriate for that moment. The crowd sighed as the craft disappeared behind the clouds after a brief appearance. “Very poor manners," I said to Jim. Just then, the ship reappeared as quickly as it had gone and was visible for a full 30 seconds before it disappeared permanently behind a bank of clouds. Even over the roar of the rocket’s engines, we could hear the buzz and clicking of the hundreds of cameras, as everyone furiously snapped photos of the rocket shooting skyward through the clouds.

Then, that was it. It was over! I couldn't pinpoint my reactions. I had mixed emotions. I didn't know if I should feel elated upon witnessing this event or disappointed by the brevity of the moment. In the middle of my yay or nay wishy-washiness forming an opinion, Jim yanked me by the arm and dragged me toward our van pointing out the amount of traffic we would have to face if we didn't get ourselves off the launch pad and head home. Running to the van, I decided we (not us personally, but the government) should put more money into the space program, however; not for actual space exploration. The money should be used to furnish seating, fresh coffee and doughnuts to the spectators along the beaches surrounding Cape Canaveral. It seemed only fair. Blurry-eyed and tired, with my face still sporting the impressions from my van’s door handle from the night before, I thought about how much fun we had, despite the discomfort, and how we shared a moment of history with thousands of others with nothing better to do. Satisfied with myself that in the years ahead, if there was ever a lull or dead spot in a conversation, I could fill the void with, “Say, did I ever tell you about the time I watched the launch of Skylab II?