From a young age, I’ve been fascinated with anything in the sky, but early on there was a hindrance I had to overcome. My father told me that when I was little I always looked at the ground. What changed that habit was watching The Wizard of Oz and the terrifying scene of the tornado that sucked up Dorothy and Toto and deposited them in Oz, somehow unharmed. I was mesmerized, transfixed, and awestruck. From that moment on, according to my father, I was always looking up at the sky.
Looking heavenward led me to meteorology and astronomy. As a boy I analyzed weather maps on the living room floor, and watched the cumulus clouds of summer warily for threats of development. At night I watched the stars from my bedroom window and studied the moon, to which, I soon learned, men were headed. I was fortunate to have a well connected mother who was best friends with the wife of Rusty Schweickart, one of the Apollo 9 astronauts. Thanks to him my family got a special tour of the Houston Space Flight Center. I saw Mission Control, the jet that Rusty flew, and I had access to the best toys, including two plastic models of astronauts in their space suits, a model of the Saturn V rocket, and a collection of signed photographs. At school, I used to brag about knowing an astronaut. No one believed me, but it didn’t matter. I did know an astronaut, and I had the souvenirs to prove it.
One of my fondest memories is connected to my interest in space exploration. One night the father woke me from a deep sleep. “Eric, there’s something you need to see,” he said. And then he led me downstairs and set me in front of the television. There we watched one of the lunar landings, me sitting cross legged on the floor, he on the couch behind me. I was mesmerized, transfixed, and awestruck. I was seven years old.
Then it was 41 years later. I had watched many rocket launches on television and followed space news closely. I had bought a telescope and watched the planets, from Mercury to Neptune, but I’d never been to the heart of all spaceflight activity – Cape Canaveral. I wanted to go there and watch a rocket launch. Or rather, experience one.
On my first rocket trip I stayed in a wonderful hotel an hours drive from Cape Canaveral in exchange for attending a time share sales pitch. It was almost worth it. Unfortunately, a storm arrived just before the launch, which was postponed. The next day, another storm came in, and the postponement lapsed beyond my return date. It felt like everyone gathered at the beach that night sighed together.
On my second rocket trip, a rocket went up, but I was 10 miles too far away. I saw a small bright triangle of fire and heard an unimpressive roar. It was a sighting, not an experience. I stayed up all night and drove around the beach areas south of Cape Canaveral and met a fellow traveler who showed me his many photographs of rocket launches.
On my third rocket trip, I had learned how to plan a rocket trip. I conducted a weather analysis prior to buying the plane ticket and waited to book until the last possible moment. I arrived one day before the launch to allow for travel delays, and stayed two days after to accommodate possible launch postponements. And I stayed at a hotel close to Cape Canaveral.
During each of my trips I spent plenty of time at the Cape Canaveral Visitor Center. I enjoyed the rockets, the educational displays, and the movies, but making connections was far more rewarding. On my first trip I met an astronaut and had my picture taken with him. I also met teachers learning how to teach space science to kids. On my second trip I met the Director of Space Florida, a development corporation for the space industry. Displaying my usual innocent curiosity, and mentioning that I was a Methodist minister for good effect, I asked for inside access to the Cape. He said he’d get back to me. His name was Thad, and he never did get back to me. On my third trip I tried to connect with Thad’s secretary but wasn’t successful until I got a bouquet of flowers sent to her office, which got me a meeting.
“Mr. Nelson, who would you like to meet?” she said. I wasn’t prepared for that question.
“Someone who can give me the inside tour?”
“I know just the man,” she said. “His name is Sonny, and I’m going to give you his personal number. Let him know I gave it to you. He knows everyone and everything about the Cape. Good luck. And thanks again for the flowers.”
I called Sonny as soon as I left the secretary’s office. He answered on the third ring. Knowing I had one chance, I had drafted an introduction and now read it nervously.
“What is it you want to do?” he said abruptly. “You weren’t expecting that, were you?”
“No, actually,” I said. “I’d like an inside tour of the rocket base.”
“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” The truthful answer was that I was flying home, but I didn’t hesitate to answer. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Meet me at the Air Force base entrance,” he said. “By the missile museum. 0800.”
The next morning at 0800 I was waiting at the entrance to the Cape Canaveral Air Force Base. I watched as the jet I would have been riding home rose into the sky. And I remembered the day before.
I had arrived at the Visitor Center several hours before launch. I had bought the most expensive ticket, because it would get me closest to the launch site. I toured the Visitor Center and learned about MAVEN, the Mars spacecraft that would be riding atop the Atlas V rocket. Then I boarded a bus to the viewing site. I chose a good seat halfway up the bleachers. I had a camera but decided to not photograph the actual launch, in order to to experience it more directly. And I waited as an announcer walked us through the stages of launch preparation. Finally, it was 2 minutes before liftoff. I could feel the energy of the crowd rise as we reached the final countdown: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Liftoff.
The moment of launch was completely silent. Giant flames scoured the ground beneath the rocket. Clouds of smoke and steam billowed out as a fragile looking cylinder with MAVEN inside began to rise. The crowd cheered. Then a deafening roar suddenly enveloped us, followed by a boom that shook my chest. The rocket rose in a gentle arc away from us, a flaming spear thrown into space that sounded like it was ripping the atmosphere apart. And then, after just a few minutes, the rocket vanished into space.
I had experienced my first rocket launch. And I had an unexpected reaction. I began to cry for joy. The crowds were rapidly dissipating, and there was no one to take my picture – a typical oversight. Most people were with family, but there was one other solo tourist standing nearby. She looked at me as I wiped tears from my eyes.
“Would you like me to take your picture?” she said with a Flemish accent.
“I would!” I said. She took a few pictures of me with the launch complex in the background. It was irrefutable proof that I was there.
At the Cape Canaveral Air Force Base, a very used looking pickup truck came to rest at my position. “You Reverend Nelson?” he said. “That’s me,” I said, as he waved me into the cab. He turned the truck around and said to the guards, “We’ve got a Methodist minister here who wants to see the base.” They opened the gates and waved us through.
Sonny was a retired “missile man”, an officer who was in charge of manning ICBM sites. In his retirement he helped with maintenance of the base. He was dressed in white fatigues and wore a baseball cap. And he was a generous tour guide. Sonny took me to the original Mission Control center and let me walk wherever I wanted. He showed me the site where the Apollo 1 astronauts died during a test; it was a mere ruin, almost like a tomb, a reminder of their sacrifice. He showed me a memorial for pilots who had died testing aircraft that led up to the space age. He told me stories of missile men who died loading propellant into missiles the public had never heard about, and never would. He told me stories of Cape Canaveral before it was a rocket base. Sonny had written a book about that. I bought it – a signed copy. And when he dropped me off out outside the Air Force base, after two hours of private touring, Sonny offered me, if ever I did return to watch another rocket launch, a private pass to the closest viewing site available.
I will always remember the launch of MAVEN. But as wonderful as that experience was, I will remember more the kindness of the Flemish woman who took my picture after the launch, the kindness of the secretary who connected me to Sonny, and the kindness of Sonny, who put a human face to Cape Canaveral and those who sacrificed for it, and gave a private tour to a Methodist minister from Wisconsin who liked rockets.
