the sts-95 saga

or

romping through florida with a few friends to party with john glenn

by h.w. "bear" neff, LUNAR #005

with our gathering still in the planning phase, an odd and 
   evil thought hit me, so i discussed a couple of "what-if's" 
   with our host on the phone.
<<please understand, gentle reader, that our host and some 
   attendees report to various chiefs of police.>>
our host said he'd check things out, and i said i'd do a little 
   research as well -- there being two ways to do what i had 
   in mind, and i had a substantial preference for the one 
   that didn't get law enforcement involved in their normal 
   capacity.
and so, i set off on my quest.....er, well, i fired off a couple 
   of email messages.
the first couple were to friends that quickly gave me the 
   initial pointers that i needed.
the second round used those pointers and [not so quickly] 
   gave me another couple of pointers, this time to folks in 
   the vicinity of our ground zero.
and sadly, i'm still waiting for those replies. :-(

not to be disuaded by my inability to get the information 
   that i needed, i talked again with our host and gave him 
   a few buzz words to try out and i went about making the 
   preparations at my end.
in fairly short order he informed me that he thought things 
   would be "go" -- even though his use of my buzz words 
   did get the names of a federal agency or two spoken out 
   loud. :-/
meanwhile, my preps were as done as i could get them and 
   the results were shipped off fed-x.

<<in the interest of brevity i have omitted the travel details 
   which confirm that orlando airport is squarely in the 
   twilight zone, but these can be provided later if there's a 
   demand.>>

no sooner in at the hotel when it is time to visit "hq" and 
   sort out the plans, so it's back into the car.

in the twilight zone, the shortest route from our hotel to our 
   "command center" is, of course, via a side trip through 
   universal studios, which at 1 am is [thankfully] vacant.
my only thoughts were "wasting time not mine to waste"  
   "i'll _never_ be able to remember this route" and  
   "...time..." 

at the house, i enter the front door and walk past a big white 
   box addressed to me and think "so far, so good."  8^)
the furniture is askew from the impact of bodies desiring 
   anything soft upon which to stack z's.
the one or two kitchen chairs still available confirm the 
   wisdom of having picked a nearby hotel. 8^)
we convene on the back deck in the dark and take stock.
news/road reports are of crowds, and mention is made that 
   the launch will be visible across "the gator infested 
   sinkhole" behind the house.
one of our number says something very like "i've come a 
   long way, and some of us have come a very long way, 
   and i wouldn't feel right if i didn't do my utmost to get as 
   close as possible."
there is agreement and i curtly suggest that things move 
   inside to lights and maps to further the discussion.
in fairly short order, and much to my relief, we agree upon 
   a plan for the assault on cape canaveral and i return to 
   the hotel.

taking into consideration the plans as agreed and the "prep 
   time" requested by folks, rather than lying down i ring 
   up the other room and tell them that the appointed hour 
   is fast approaching.
a bit later we're all in our room to await the arrival of the 
   caravan originating from the house.
the agreed meeting time shortly comes and goes; the 
   caravan does not.
missed sleep time is noted, but such incantations (even the 
   eventual ungenteel ones) are insufficient to conjure the 
   caravan to our doorstep.

eventually it does arrive and, after a brief stop for coffee, we 
   head off down the road in the full expectation that we'll 
   get a third of the way to our target (some 50 miles away) 
   and be turned back by great teeming masses of touristas 
   with the same plan.
early on there are no touristas.
we fly low.
half way there and we've seen more toll takers than folks 
   going to the launch.
we fly on.
change roads.
follow signs.
accelerate into... ...a traffic jam?
you call 50 cars a traffic jam?
not where i come from!

a few minutes later and we're politely but officially diverted 
   away from our intended :-/
a few [half anticipated] changes to the situation at the launch 
   site confirm that our vip pass will serve best as an 
   unmolested memento.
we can see the vab (vehicle assembly building).
we stop.
we plan.
will we be evicted from *this* locale?
can we do better?
maps appear.
some of the best minds on the planet conclude that the 
   correct solution is achieved by worsening our position.
eh?

we drive further away to the south.
then east, then north.
things look better and better.
we pass a sign showing the way to canaveral air force base.
a bit later, a sign informs us that we've entered cape 
   canaveral proper.
it's a sleepy little place which has, thank g-d, a little gas 
   station and mini mart with a restroom.
the queue is instant in forming, somewhat longer in 
   dissipating.
business done, we pile back in the vehicles and drive down 
   a couple of little roads till we find the park so nicely 
   suggested by the attendant back at the most recent stop.

unca bill and the d.c. dreadful have the usual kennedy space 
   centre vip seats at a distance of 3 miles.
the priveledged public, those with vip passes (normally in 
   the 3mi seats) are displaced to lawn areas some 10+ 
   miles from the pad....reports have it that they're allowed 
   lawn blankets but not chairs. :-/
we are 13 or 14 miles south of the pad, looking up the 
   mouth of the banana river.
when the discovery rises we will see it travel it's large arc as 
   it moves up and away to the east.
the vip folk will see that same arc very compressed so that 
   the shuttle will seem more to simply move up and recede 
   than anything else.
pretty excellent spot for "the cheap seats."

once there we stake out our territory and suddenly we've 
   nothing to do for several hours except "get along" with 
   each other.
somebody has the sensible realisation that this will be a 
   _much_ easier task if everybody's had a bit of breakfast, 
   so there ensues a bit of discussion (mostly "egg or 
   sausage") and a road trip is organised and takes off.
soon there's food.
in even less time, there is not.

as the crowd, in 1's and 2's, begins to coalesce, we talk: the 
   weather and goings on back home, the little bits of "get 
   acquainted" and who we are.
attempts are made to identify dimly seen objects on the 
   horizon and to guess exactly from where the shuttle will 
   appear.
footprints are left in the sand.
it is too hot and humid for sleep, and there are pictures to be 
   taken....sleep comes anyway...and able to deliver no real 
   rest, as quickly vanishes.
i search for some respite in a turkey sandwhich....bread, 
   meat, mustard....nope, no respite.

the sun climbs in the sky, as if pushed up to make room for 
   the people arriving to further crowd the beach.
the wisdom of our choice, or our collective serendipity, is 
   borne out: the small stretch of beach ahead of us is now 
   jammed even though it affords no better (and in many 
   cases worse) view than our home for the day.
i compare the shade provided by our large, elevated, picnic 
   bench and table structure with the huge roof/heat shield 
   against the meager offerings of the available beach 
   umbrellas, those properly erected and the one inside out 
   and upside down one wrestling with the [wait for it!] 
   blonde.
i give serious consideration to the idea that perhaps these 
   folks i'm with actually are some of the best minds on the 
   planet. ;-)
and wonder if the blonde was staged.

the apointed hour arrives.
no rumble, no bright lights, no shuttle.
some pilot strays into restricted airspace and everything is 
   on hold.
we wait and hear comments about "the %$%@ national 
   inquirer helecopters" and "shoot it down!" -- and the 
   serious observation that there's likely to very soon to be 
   one less licensed pilot in the world.
airspace is reported as clear, and just as soon as that 
   happens it is announced that there are *five* aircraft in 
   restricted airspace.
now the calls of "shoot them down!" from up and down the 
   beach have no tinges of humour.
how easily the crowd turns.

5...4...3...2...1...
there!
there's the shuttle, silently rising into the sky on a flame 
   that is no colour you've ever seen in a photo or on tv.
the precise colour is (we later decide) electric mango.
up it goes, seemingly propelled by the cheers from the 
   beach.
very cool!
...in a quiet sort of way. :-/
finally, the rumble of the motors reaches us.
the cheers, slowly starting to flag, now rise to a new height.
the shuttle continues to rise, the handle to a fiery brush 
   painting it's billowy trail across a nearly cloudless 
   expanse of blue.
the arc becomes ever more evident, stretching and growing 
   not just halfway up to the heavens but gently sweeping 
   from right here to way over there across the sky.
is the brush suddenly wavering?
no, just the srb's detaching and dropping away.
the accompanyment on the soundtrack is that of 5 thousand 
   of the nearest 10 thousand of my neighbors cheering and 
   the rest relievedly letting out a long held breath.
the electric mango pinprick has become two small orange 
   triangles diverging from a bright white star climbing up 
   the blue sky.
up and up and up until the shuttle is lost in a jitter of the
   eye.

the assembled masses gather and attempt their getaway 
   while we, knowing better, simply watch.
a step-van emblazoned with "pinky's" pulls in to the lot, the 
   driver seemingly thankful that everybody is more intent 
   on leaving than on purchasing frozen pink lemonade.
perhaps he'll get a bit of a rest.....but no, a couple of our 
   party leap to centre stage and require his attention.
he can cope....he thinks, not knowing _us._ ;-)
he is fairly well crestfallen when he finds out that the order 
   requires that he shave the frozen wares into 13 cups.
he inquires "what size?" while cringing in the knowledge 
   that the smallest size for which there is a price is 'large.'
"large please."
ah, he decides that we are not sadists after all!
we exhibit real progress in making our frozen delights 
   disappear.
meanwhile, the folks busy trying to get out have to settle for 
   the illusion of progress in getting away.
we all agree that we'll have to do this again -- but next time 
   we shan't invite john glenn, as we don't much care for 
   the _crowd_ he travels with. ;-)

our ride back is as slow as our trip out was fast.
so slow in fact, that the local news station suspends their 
   traffic 'copter overhead.
our caravan consists of two cars and a pickup truck.
those of us inside a car wonder if those baking, er riding, 
   for hours in the bed of the pickup will be part of the 
   "look at what those crazy tourists will do" segment of the 
   nightly news.
we have a looooooong time to wonder.

back at the house, i get the big white box that's been sitting 
   for days by the front door and get folks to divide into 
   teams.
nobody is quite sure what's going on, just that i seem to be 
   busy taking my turn at being in charge....i open the box.
now ensues the all night rocket torment: incomplete 
   instructions, my [truthful] taunts to those assembled that 
   "3rd graders have done this successfully" and a regaling 
   of odd factoids about stable rocket flight, the how/why of 
   the propulsion and recovery, and some of the methods i 
   use when i teach these classes in the local elementary 
   school.
while this all, i.e. my long and droning lecture, proceeds i 
   wildly wave a video camera and poke it mercilessly into 
   the mix.
i provide everything needed: quest 'viper' kits, white glue, 
   plastic glue, scissors, and "encouragement" -- but not 
   always in the quantities that the participants desire.
amongst the team rivalry, a friendly cooperation is forced by 
   the need to share one type of glue and the singular pair 
   of scissors in my swiss army knife (we are, after all, 
   roughing it. ;-)
one by one, the rockets are completed.
sleep insists on becoming more than a possibility.

i continue to worry that i've managed to get no official 
   information on flying rockets in the area.
<<now, some three months after the event, i _still_ have not 
   rec'd any replies to my queries of a month before the 
   event.>>
our host keeps telling me not to worry, that we'll go out to 
   the "u of central florida" on our way back out to the 
   kennedy space centre.
i wonder: is this a real place or a simply a local eupehmism 
   for 42 zillion acres of nowhere where nobody will care?

before we can fly, we must have motors (which i could not 
   ship without an onerous amount of paperwork) so i make 
   a field trip to the local 'good' hobby shop.
the "local" hobby shop is 35 minutes away, and is less 'good' 
   than barely adequate for our needs.
there are no "composite" motors (those made of the same 
   propellant as the shuttle solid rocket boosters) and so the 
   'purple haze' <<an aerotech initiator sometimes seen at 
   lunar launches>> will not fly. :-(
but there is an adequate supply of 'black powder' motors 
   suitable for the kits which folks spent the night 
   completing, so i buy all they have and head back to hq.

instead of ucf, we follow our host to the campus of a local 
   junior college.
he stops the car, hops out, points, and asks "will this do?"
i cast my eye across a potentially appropriate area (a few 
   bare acres where nobody cares 8^) and take stock: an 
   open vicinity, a very light breeze, a broadcast tower over 
   there, a nearly hidden nearby bog, a local lake 
   (w/gators?) ahead, a large expanse of blacktop (with the 
   little concrete barriers in the parking spaces -- you 
   know: the ones so good at tripping up the unwary 8^) 
   and the obligatory rocket eating trees are behind us.
sounds good!!

"ok" i say "there's a couple more things you need to do and 
   know..."
sensing a repeat of last night's lecture session, some eyes 
   glaze over (perhaps one or two even roll up ;-) but the 
   adreanalised anticipation is reinforced by fists lovingly 
   clenched around so-soon-to-be flown rockets and 
   everybody survives and recovers.
wadding passes from person to person (with the expected 
   comments about similarity to some other perforated 
   sheets and the general opinion of my lecturing 
   technique)...fingers fumble z-folding the chutes...nose 
   cones go on and point down.
one by one motors appear momentarily before each 
   disappears into the rocket it will loft...the igniters slip 
   into place...each of the rockets suffers a final check...
i dig out my trusty old estes "big foot" launcher (with 
   absolutely _brand_new_ batteries) and inquire for a 
   volunteer.
safety cap & launch key comes off the rod and the first 
   rocket is let slip down the rod into position.
i half show and half instruct clip attachment to the igniter.
one last tweak of the rod, then we back up to the full length 
   of our leash while i instruct about the hard part: 
   counting backwards from 5 to 0 and pushing a little 
   button.
in goes the key.
continuity light is on.
"5....4....3....2....1....0....liftoff.......eventually??"
hmmmmm.
ok, just have to insert the launch key all the way.
"3...2...1...0..."
this time we have liftoff, a white trail into an unbroken blue 
   sky, a little puff as the parachute deploys, and the rocket 
   coasts down towards us.
a perfect flight!
and a perfect time for the bog to make itself known to one of 
   our company watching the rocket more than his way.
in short order our half dozen rockets tally up over a dozen 
   flights; in the process giving one a bath in the lake, 
   giving another a hard landing on the blacktop (and the 
   runner as well: courtesy of those little concrete things 
   which reach right up and grab passing feet) and feeding 
   one to the [wait for it!] rocket eating trees.
oh, and one _perfect_ catch!
towards the end, my estes space shuttle is sent off on it's 
   maiden flight.
i find out the hard way that this kit is either _extremely_ 
   sensitive to the prepping of it's removable fins, or that it 
   will not tolerate _any_ weathercocking of the launch 
   rod, or both: it goes up and over in a smooth arc and 
   straight into the bog....making it the least successful 
   launch of the day. :-/
we drive away, counting the adventure a success.
one of our number looks back wistfully at one particular 
   tree.

we continue down the road, this trip to the kennedy space 
   centre takes less than an hour.
one of our number, a musician visiting from europe, stands 
   by the f-1 engine says he thinks there were 8 of these 
   used in the saturn v.
someone quickly points him at the 8 engines of the saturn 
   1b laid lengthwise nearby in the garden and his 
   confusion dissipates with an explaination: no, the saturn 
   1b was a precursor to and not the first stage of a 5 part 
   saturn v.
sadly, though it is not to be missed, we do not have time to 
   visit the saturn v on display in its relativley new museum 
   building elsewhere at ksc.
yet another reason to return.

so now i've given you a little taste of how it was for me.
but i'm sure that you haven't got the full flavour of it; as it 
   was a big, long, intense, perpetual-now that i shall not 
   forget this side of another life, and possibly not even 
   then.
just a taste, as i said, but you can come a little closer if you 
   will follow the following simple instructions: go back in 
   the narrative to the point where we get off the plane and 
   the tense of the story changes from past tense to present 
   tense, exhale, take a deep breath, and now before your 
   next breath

                   read the tale again.

ttfn,
bear.

Information date: Jan. 23, 1999 lk