1. Pre-Dawn
“The fishing pier’s almost full, but there’s still room.”
We were the last people on the pier with a front row seat and a clear view of Launch Complex 39. It was small but clearly visible, shining on the horizon with pencils of white light shooting up into the darkness.
Everyone else arriving for the next few hours would be sitting on the shore or standing behind those of us who got there early. We no longer doubted our decision to get up early.
It was dark without even a hint of dawn in the east. In the distance beyond the Banana River rising above the Merritt Island scrub, Atlantis and her gantry stood bathed in flood lights. They were far away, but we could just make out the orange of the external tank, and thru her binoculars, the fair and industrious Trudy could see the solid rocket boosters on either side.
Day began to dawn.
2. Pre-Launch
We waited six and a half hours on the pier, eating hard-boiled eggs and cheese, drinking drinks, snacking on salted almonds. The sky was ominously overcast.
As the hours passed, the clouds would darken and lighten and then darken again. We would look up, searching for an excuse for optimism. We always found one.
There were spots of thinning clouds sometimes in the east, sometimes in the south. And although the weather to the northwest was dark and brooding, the breeze was out of the southeast, so we would periodically turn our heads and hope.
As the morning wore on, there were patches of clear sky from time to time. We would point at the blue and move our arms in the direction of Atlantis as if to will the clear weather over the pad.
3. Launch
Atlantis came out of a scheduled hold, and the countdown picked up. “T-9 minutes and counting.” And counting! There was much cheering. Then there was a glitch a few moments later, and the crowd hushed. But they resumed the count, and the crowd standing shoulder to shoulder on the pier and on the shore broke into cheers.
With nervous, hopeful voices we all counted down the last seconds aloud.
At zero a great cloud of steam and smoke appeared on the horizon, billowing into the air. And then a bright dart of liquid-orange flame emerged from the top, climbing into the sky.
The crowd cheered as Atlantis climbed upward and out over the ocean. Trudy watched thru her binoculars. I stood there mouth agape, shaking and trying to keep my eyes clear. The orange flame of the boosters disappeared into the clouds and then reappeared on the other side and then disappeared and reappeared again and then finally disappeared for good behind a cloud deck east of the Cape.
It was only then that the roar of the boosters and main engines came rolling across the water, crackling and rumbling, tearing at the air and reaching our ears only after the rocket was out of sight.
4. Closure
Afterwards, I stood still, speechless, with my hand over my mouth. I didn’t want to make a scene.
The woman next to us thanked us for letting her stand behind our tripod to get a better view. The father behind us thanked us for letting his two sons climb the railing in front of us. And the crowd started to leave.
And I stood shaking for several minutes, finally sitting back into my folding chair.
I was here 30 years ago—for STS-1, Young and Crippen, Columbia, the very first Shuttle flight. And although in the years that have passed since I have not seen another one, we were here for this one, for STS-135, the last one. Ever.
I’m not convinced that anyone else will particularly understand what that means, but I do, and Trudy does, and my friends do, and my family does. And that is enough.