HIGH FLIGHT
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings. Sunward, I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue, I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace, Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untresspassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. Written by Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee No. 412 Squadron, RCAF Killed, 11 December, 1941 | |
 | |
http://youtu.be/qZxLXuFfPvM [Moonlighting/Al Jarreau]
There are certain days in history, that no matter how many years have past, you remember them, with the crystal clarity of the moment in which you first experienced it. For those of you who are my age, older and, perhaps, a decade younger, if I mention the tragedy that occurred on January 28, 1986, the space shuttle Challenger should come to mind. While momentous an event in and of itself, that particular flight was historical because, for the first time in the history of space exploration, a civilian was to be aboard that flight, teaching her students from outer space.
For months, prior to that ill-fated morning, we listened as the news informed us of the progression of Christa McAuliffe’s flight training as well as her plan to conduct her lessons for her New Hampshire class from aboard the shuttle. Her experience was an eye-opener to everyone who was not an astronaut; who didn’t know all that was involved in preparing for one of these launches; and, for everything that our astronauts endure themselves before and during these endeavors. It was exciting. It was informative, and we appreciated them all the more for their role in the advancement of something that three decades prior had been only a dream.
I went to bed on January 27th not knowing if the shuttle would depart as planned. The night brought freezing temperatures - cold, even for Florida, which is where I lived at the time. The launch had already been delayed a few times because of the weather. When I awoke the next morning, the news anchors were still talking about delays of the Challenger’s launch, because NASA wanted to make certain that the shuttle was de-iced and the craft completely defrosted before take off. I’m not a rocket scientist, but listening to the news, and the bit they spoke about the situation– how cold it was and ice could effect the rocket and its proper functioning, I didn’t think it was a great idea to try for it that day.
I said as much to my friend, Susan, who called me that morning to see if I wanted to join them for supper that night after my afternoon classes at The University of Florida.
"Well," she said, no more a rocket scientist than me. "It’d probably cost them a ton of money to scrap it at that point." But, she did agree that it didn’t sound like a good idea to try and launch it that morning.
We talked a little more, I thanked her for the dinner invitation and told her I’d see them all later. I hung up the phone thinking about her comments. I supposed they made sense relating to business, but I’ve never been one who put money or the expense of anything above people.
That’s just me though.
I threw a load of laundry in the wash, before I went to take a shower. It was Tuesday. I didn’t have classes until late afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays. [2-5 pm] My laundry room was outside in a closet at the end of my porch off the bedroom of my apartment. It WAS cold that day. Brrr kind of cold. I remember pulling my robe’s belt tighter, as I unlocked the door of my outside storage area and tossed the clothes into the machine.
After I took my shower, I made me a cup of coffee and went into my living room to watch the shuttle take off, before I did a little studying prior to class. I placed my book and notebook on the sofa as I sipped my coffee and turned my attention to the tv. Television stations had interrupted regular programming to show the launch of the Challenger.
I watched as the crew walked one-by-one out of the building, beaming smiles and hand-waves as they went to board the shuttle. They were finally, after many delays, ready to fulfill their mission - space exploration. Little did they know that the universe, on that day, would not cooperate with their intended expedition.
I sat glued to the television as the commentators talked about space exploration, notable flights of recent years and gave biographical details of the seven-person crew who would be taking to flight in a matter of minutes. It truly was something to behold – watching that rocket fire up, hear the count-down and see it lift off from the ground, preparing to soar into flight. The tv screen split, showing the rocket’s lift upward as well as the crowd’s reaction. I saw students from Christa McAuliffe’s school standing in front of her parents. Happy chatter filled the background as the rocket rose higher and higher into the air. I remember the smile of pride on the faces of Christa McAuliffe’s parents, while they looked up and watched the Challenger, with their daughter on board, propel itself upward in a blaze of glory.
It was a WOW moment. That "wow" sentiment keep the momentum except that the joyful energy within the emotion of that feeling radically shifted 73 seconds in, just after the words, "Challenger, go with throttle up!" were spoken, because the rocket combusted in a massive explosion.
The image of glory that had filled the screen just seconds before instantly erupted into burning balls of red-orange bursts of fire, coupled with the emergence of somber hues of black, grey and white trails of smoke and ash in its aftermath.
The happy, incredulous "oh wows" heard just seconds before the horrific blast blew everything apart, quickly turned into disbelieving cries of "oh wow", as eyes remained transfixed upward at the chaotic sky. It was that feeling that happens when you witness a horrible car accident. You want to turn away, but your eyes are glued to the mayhem in a horribly, surreal fascination. We knew we all saw something, but weren’t completely certain if what we saw was a normal part of the process?... No one wanted to hasten a thought beyond the chaos that was unfolding or what it all exactly meant, because somewhere, in the deepest part of everyone who witnessed it, we knew that what was happening in the sky wasn’t good.
Quickly following on the vibrations of the words "oh wow!" was the overwhelming, emotional realization that the "not good" thoughts were becoming real. Mutters of "Oh, God!" and "No!" crept into the mix of the disbelieving vernacular of the moment. For one collective point in time, all eyes that had been watching this event unfold, went into an immediate and joint shock. Even those officially manning the situation didn’t appear to understand, like the rest of us, what to think; what to do; or, what to say?
Then, as plumes and trails of billowing smoke continued to weave down and across the sky in erratic, zig-zag patterns, all ears heard those two dreaded words: "major malfunction."
"What?"... "Huh?"......... and those two questions seemed to fill time and space for what seemed like eternity.
It was nothing but helpless feelings in the minutes just after the catastrophe in the sky. I don’t know at what point my mouth fell open, I just know that it did, and it stayed that way. Gaping astonishment was the only emotion that seemed appropriate at that moment. The newscasters looked equally uncertain of how to proceed as they struggled to keep their emotions under control. Suddenly, the air in my apartment felt too tight around me, like it was choking me. Claustrophobia took hold, and I needed to get out.
I remember running outside in my bare-feet. I didn’t know where I was going, I just remember that I needed to be anywhere but in my living room, where the reality of the situation was impossible to escape. The chill of the air went straight through my sweat pants, tank top and jacket, and I felt the distinct shiver that comes from cold, fear, and shock run down my spine then back up again, making me shiver yet again. The steely cold of the winter-air brought me back to reality.
I looked up at the sky. I wasn’t certain what I thought I’d find there, other than a wishful glimmer of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the orbiter carrying the Challenger Seven had somehow managed to impel beyond what anyone had been able to see with cameras and monitors, and was safely floating somewhere out in the Atlantic Ocean waiting to be rescued. I said a prayer as I stared up at the sky–verbalizing that thought. I’ve always been a firm believer in the power of the spoken word. I prayed that it would be so. Just as I finished my "Please God..." appeal, I heard my name called, and looked over to find Susan running toward me.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "What was that?"
We hugged as I shook my head that I didn’t know what that was.
The blank look that I gave her followed up with an, "I don’t know," and my continued stare upward let her know that I didn’t think it could possibly be good.
"Let’s go inside," she said, her arm wrapped around me, pulling me toward my open front door. "It’s freezing out here."
I followed, but couldn’t take my eyes off the sky.
"Maybe they know something more by now," she said, trying to sound hopeful–cheerful.
I closed the door of my apartment as we both took seats in front of the t.v., which was replaying the scene, while trying to get to the bottom of the question: "what just happened?"
More than anything, and to this day, the image I remember most about that day-that moment-that event, was not seeing the Challenger explode in the air and break apart, raining down chunks of useless pieces of steel, shattered shards of glass and other materials that were now irreparably ruined and destroyed, although that is certainly an image that is forever seared into my mind. What I remember most in that moment of gaping horror was the look on Grace Corrigan’s face–the fear and disbelief in her eyes as she watched the rocket that carried her daughter, Christa McAuliffe, dissipate in violent puffs of smoke and fire, leaving nothing but a macabre vision of hell right before her eyes. I remember her looking at her husband for a comforting reassurance that all was well and that what had just been witnessed was exactly how rockets were suppose to break the barrier between earth and space. When she didn’t get that reassuring, confident support from him, I remember watching her head rest against his shoulder as she tried to find her mother’s courage to steel herself from the terrible conclusion that the rest of us were realizing: that whatever had happened up there in the sky, it was more probable than not that there could not have been any survivors. You could see that thought dawn upon her face, and when it did, it was a painful thing to see: the slumped shoulders, top lip biting down into the lower lip to stifle the cries that one could see were forming. Her teary eyes could no longer look up at the dread of what remained, because she knew what it meant to her and her family. We saw that pain take root within her. Everything that I was feeling was vivid on her face. A controlled panic ensued when her psyche finally let the thought of the worst case scenario take hold. There was a clear instant when her expression revealed what everyone feared: doom.
That’s what I remember most. It wasn’t until I saw those things register on Mrs. Corrigan’s face and in her eyes that I broke down and cried. It was a reaction that I could neither contain nor control at that point. It was a sobbing cry, and my tumble into grief caused Susan to let go and cry too.
Still, within that release of sorrow, Susan looked at me and repeated something that we’d been hearing over and over for minutes from the newscasters, "maybe the Orbiter was able to separate, and they’re just waiting to be rescued."
I looked blankly at the tv-screen, then at Susan.
Flatly, I said. "It exploded, Susan! How could they possibly survive that?"
She shook her head sadly and said. "I don’t know..."
We sat for hours, glued to my television set, as the tragedy played out and was replayed over and over with different thoughts and sporadic updated news. It all came in tidbits. Slow tidbits of dribs and drabs. Our minds became as numb as our bodies felt.
The coverage was continual all afternoon and into the early evening. Yet, it seemed like a non-stop newsfeed of the same information simply being repeated over and over again. Neither of us, however, could turn it off. If ever a moment felt like something out of the Twilight Zone, it was that afternoon.
Information scrolled across the bottom of the tv screen that UF afternoon and evening classes had been suspended, and there would be a vigil held at 7 pm in the auditorium in memory of the Challenger Seven.
It was late afternoon when Susan decided to go back home. Her children would be arriving home from school shortly. She had routines that couldn’t be put on hold.
"Do you want to come for supper?" she asked before leaving.
I shook my head. I wasn’t hungry. I just felt sad.
"I’ll just make me some soup or something," I told her, thanking her for the offer.
"Come on down if you change your mind," she told me.
I nodded and closed the door, leaning my head against it. It was only then that I realized the tremendous headache that was forming.
In between, plays and replays of the day’s earlier events, I managed to get my clothes in the dryer, and also spoke with my parents.
It’s odd, when something like that happens, it’s important and necessary that we reach out to make certain that everything else is as it should be-is in its place, so that we can keep moving forward. I got that reassurance. The families of the Challenger Seven got no such reprieve that night, and my thoughts the rest of the day, evening and following days were with them.
That night, I curled up on my sofa with my two cats, Gypsy and Mac. President Reagan was suppose to give the State of the Union address that evening, but I honestly don’t remember if he followed through with that? I do remember him coming on tv to address the nation and our grief. I also remember that the constant daily coverage stopped at 8 p.m.; in doing so, the news anchors said they’d be back at 11 with a wrap up on the day’s events. It’s as if they understood that we needed a break from the continual replaying of those 73 seconds, and the horror that came in its wake.
Aside from the light over my stove, and the light of the tv screen, my apartment was dark that night, as I pulled the quilt tighter around me and snuggled with my cats.
Moonlighting came on. It was a welcome reprieve, but it didn’t chase the gloom away, as it could so often do on a bad day. I felt tears come as I listened to Al Jarreau sing the opening theme that I’d heard a hundred times before. It took on a different meaning for me in that moment. It’s odd how lyrics develop a different life than originally intended when tragedy befalls. Something unexplainable opened up and a new definition formed as I listened to the words:
Some walk by night,
Some fly by day,
Nothing could change you,
Set and sure of the way.
There is the sun and moon,
They sing their own sweet tune,
Watch them when dawn is due,
Sharing one space.
We'll walk by night,
We'll fly by day,
Moonlighting strangers
Who just met on the way...who just met on the way...
That song became a different context for me on January 28, 1986, as I thought about the day’s events. The Challenger explosion and tragedy of it–the deaths of the seven who were on board all melded together. In that moment, they had been connected by the sharing of one space. Now, they would forever-after be connected because of that one, shared space.
In the days and weeks that followed, there was a lot of discussion about what caused the Challenger’s explosion. Theories and hypotheses abounded about the rocket boosters, the Orbiter itself, O-rings, field joints, aluminum stag, jet streams and how frozen temperatures effected and weakened those things and caused them to malfunction.
In the years since that terrible winter day, I’ve watched documentaries on the Challenger. I know there were a few people who took a stand at the time against NASA launching the Challenger on that ill-fated day. There are mixed emotions that are felt resulting from all the information that has since been brought forward regarding the realistic feasibility of carrying on with the launch on that particular January morning. It should have been grounded until temperatures permitted an unquestionably safe flight. That being said, it doesn’t change the fact that we lost something glorious and irreplaceable that day: seven glorious somethings- seven irreplaceable someones. Children lost parents; parents lost children; partners lost spouses; people lost friends; and, the world lost them. They did not live to realize their full potentials. It remains a staggering set of thoughts.
Still, we remember them as they each walked confidently, as Thoreau said, in the direction of their dreams – as they strode cheerfully out into that cold January morning to fulfill their individual destinies and tried to live out that which they had imagined. Neither time, nor space will ever diminish that one glorious moment + those 13 additional seconds before they "slipped the surly bonds of earth, stepped into one magnificently shared space and touched the face of God..."
In Memoriam to The Challenger Seven:
Francis "Dick" Scobee, Michael Smith, Judith Resnik, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Gregory Jarvis, & Christa McAuliffe
Grace Corrigan
January 28, 1986
http://youtu.be/pUALwYsXSm8 [The Challenger Disaster/January 28, 1986]http://youtu.be/LZ_SCCsGiho [Go Rest High On That Mountain/V. Gill, A. Krause, R. Skaggs]
No comments:
Post a Comment