6 Degrees of Seperation

July 20th, 1969 @ 11 PM: Sea of Tranquility, Moon
        This doesn’t look good.  We’re coming in way too fast.  And the target zone is littered with rocks.  Not the delicate descent scenario I envisioned as I replayed this event in my mind over and over.  This was supposed to be a nice, smooth, computer-aided, landing.  Time to improvise.
        Grasping the control stick with renewed vigor, I survey the terrain below, which is incoming at an incredibly rapid rate.  Where can we safely alight this craft?
          I’ve been carefully watching the varying landscape below during our entire downward journey.  What started out as black specks on a pale background from high in the sky have transformed into massive boulders on a bed of sand as we approach the ground.  At least these color contrast points help with ascertaining trajectory.    
     These careful observations have continued to suggest that our hurtling projectile is off course.  Eventually necessitating in my, as commander of this mission, decision to take the reins manually.  Now, I just need to settle in, and refer back to my earlier days as a pilot.  Albeit, those experiences all involved normal atmospheric conditions.
        What isn’t helping with concentration are the multitude of blaring alarms, a new one of which seems to initiate every minute or two.  Hopefully my cabinmate can find a way to solve the various functional issues.  Or simply shut off these auditory and visual distractions coming from the computer guidance system.
        Another piercing buzzer, tied to a pulsing red light, joins the fray.  This most recent imposition has a fervor which suggests even greater urgency than the prior steady string of warnings.  Checking the message on the display, I become even more concerned than I already am.  
       What is a “1202” error?  That never came up in training.  There are way too many numerical codes associated with this complex machine to memorize them all.  Over the radio, when we’re able to achieve a stable connection, Mission Control keeps insisting we’re fine to continue the descent sequence, but I’m skeptical.  What the point of having safety alarms, if we just ignore them?  
       My palms are sweaty and my forehead beading with moisture.  These subtle signs of stress hopefully go unnoticed by my partner despite our cozy cockpit confines.  No reason for us both to get worked up.  We need to be operating at peak performance for this critical stage of the ongoing lengthy operation. 
     Without my teammates diligent help, our modified approach wouldn’t be possible.  For the past two minutes, he’s been steadily calling out the altitude, rate of descent, and horizontal speed, of our flying contraption.  Right on cue, my counterpart’s most recent insight rings through my headset, voice tense but controlled.  
       “100 feet.  2.5 down.  9 forward.”  A random and distorted comment in essentially any other experiential context.  But in our current predicament, I know exactly what to do.  Nudging the control stick gently, I feel the small steering engine linked to this lever respond.  
       This propulsion system in only designed for short and rudimentary course corrections.  Now, I’m trying to use it to maneuver our clunky craft like the fighter jets I flew in a few prior jobs.  We’re going to burn though the menial amount of allotted fuel very rapidly at this rate.  But I must get us across the rocky crater, and hopefully onto soft, flat ground before we touch down.     
      Still focused primarily on steering, I glance over at the fuel gauge.  The 5% remaining alert has already come and gone.  I know the values are estimated, but this display suggests we’re under a minute of burn time left.  No more opportunity to travel horizontally, we’re landing here regardless of what’s below us.  Any remaining thrust needs to be used to arrest our descent.
       We must be getting close to the ground, considering the huge cloud of dust which has been churned up, completely obstructing the view through the tiny triangular window on my side of this vessel.  I’m essentially blind from a navigational standpoint.  Hopefully the visibility is better for my partner through his own portal, which is of equally diminutive shape and size.  
       Confirming this sentiment, my colleague calls out loudly.  “Contact light!”  This is a command which I’ve heard him announce during various simulator sessions, but the reality of this utterance in a real-life scenario is much more jarring.  Hopefully this important iteration is more successful than my last practice session, during which I was forced to eject from just seconds before the model machine crashed back to the earth. 
       The engagement of this important colored bulb signifies that a probe on one of the landing feet, which extends over 5 feet below vertically, has made contact with the ground.  Hence the name.  Finally.  
       Seconds later, our entire craft touches down, fortunately on soft dirt, as opposed to a pile of rocks, and I cut power to the thruster.  As my heart rate and breathing finally normalize, I realize I just made a protocol error which could have compromised this mission, and cost us our lives.  
      The propulsive engine, facing directly downward to slow our drop, is supposed to be turned off immediately upon first probe contact.  The engineers theorized that the warmth of the exhaust system, combined with the reflectivity of the light grey lunar surface, could lead to overheating, and potentially an explosion.  
        An impossible scenario to test back on Earth, with the composition of the entire Moon, let alone the specific location we would land at, essentially unknown.  I guess that thermodynamic model has been disproven.  Or maybe we just got lucky.  

      Looking up quickly, I check the largest digits on the dashboard display.  The continuously running clock, initiated when the massive rocket engines were first fired back at Cape Canaveral, FL.  This chronometer dictates essentially every element of our important endeavor.  
       During the recent long and harrowing transition from a relatively safe orbital sanctuary to the exposed lunar surface, the display has crossed over into the 3rd digit of the hour reading.  “102:45:40” is the timestamp for official landing by humans on their home planet’s only satellite.  
       This journey has been going for over 4 days now.  Time flies when you’re having fun.  Or trying not to make a single small mistake, which could cost the entire crew their existence.  This isn’t exactly a low stress work environment.  
      Speaking of safety, we should probably let our counterparts back on Planet Earth know we’re still functioning.  I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly, hoping this meditative act will help control my pounding pulse.    May as well ring in back to base.  The huge project crew is likely just as tense as our trio of poor souls out here in space.  
      Nodding to my buddy Buzz, who facilitated our smooth landing, I press the coms button, and talk in the most relaxed, level-headed, cadence I can muster.
    “Houston, Tranquility Base here.  The Eagle has landed.”  My choice of words is very strategic.  Our conversation coaches, we had consultants for every element of this project, told us to keep our sentences short and clear.  My intent of this utterance is to confirm the safe transition of the operation from flying to grounded.       
      Message complete, my pal and I wait for the NASA Command Center in Houston, TX to reply.  Which doesn’t take long, even with the lengthy transmission distance.  Their verbal retort is longer than my original salvo, and I immediately queue in on just a few key words.  “We’re breathing again.”  Likewise, up here.   
     If the entire Mission Control team back on earth was nervous, how do they think we felt hurling towards an unexplored celestial body at high speed with minimal controls.  Glad we’re able to appease their stress, without Aldrin or I having a heart attack. 
       There were many audibles during the modified approach, but remarkably we’ve made it to solid ground unscathed.  And can finally relax, at least for a few minutes.  My racing mind immediately shifts to the sequence of events which led to this impressive landing.  Which turns out to be a surprisingly soothing topic of contemplation. 
      This latest foolish phase started with astronauts and crafts in a stable loop around the moon, 62 miles above its desolate surface.  Our only mode of propulsion to nail that delicate lunar orbit insertion process was the meager Service Module engine system.  
      Which performed flawlessly.  It probably would have been safer for our trio of participants to simply stay aloft.  However, nothing venture, nothing gained.  Our crew didn’t travel nearly 240k miles just to do a few gawking tourist laps around the orb of interest.  The true prize is physically touching the sphere’s surface.
       Each astronaut on this voyage has a defined role. Buzz Aldrin is the Lunar Module pilot, and Michael Collins the Command Module pilot.  Which leaves me with no remaining vessels to operate.  Hence my role as Mission Commander; leader of all, but master of none.  Still, I can hold my own steering any physical craft.
        The U.S. government generally, and NASA in particular, have a high penchant for acronyms.  I’ve never figured out if this is a result of simplifying the complex, or complicating something quite simple.  Throughout my training, I’ve begun to lean more and more towards the latter theory.
        Highlighting this fact is a key preparatory operation that needed to be executed before our modular machine made the long, dark slog from the Earth to the Moon.  A risky maneuver, even if one is able to translate the random string of code words.  
        Sitting in the CM of the CSM, we needed to extract this navigational vessel from the rocket core, then mate up with the LM.  This maneuver required a 180-degree vehicular rotation, in tight confines, with precise linkage tolerances, all executed while traveling in excess of 20k mph.  At least the wind resistance is quite low here in space.  But I’m still not planning to stick my bare hand out the window any time soon.
        Switcheroo complete, we disposed of the entire engine casing, our primary means of propulsion, and began the long 200-plus-mile coast to our current destination, relying purely on momentum.  Again, the emptiness of space, from both a density and particulate standpoint, made this journey possible.  
         From then on, it was just 3 young men, cohabitating in a random rig, composed by a grouping of letter monikered units.  
       Fortunately, the down time allowed us to come up with more relevant names for the contraptions which were keeping us alive.  Thus, the “Columbia” command module, and “Eagle” lander device, were dubbed.  We continue to use these names, even now, after separating to seek the surface.
         It wasn’t until Buzz and I moved to the LM hours ago, leaving Mike alone in the CSM, that I realized how good we had it during our multi-day transit from Planet Earth.  Relatively speaking.  These are very cozy quarters for 2 grown adults in this incredibly small space.
       After the Eagle split from the Columbia, the next step was to confirm functionality.  Time for us to shake our tail feathers.  An oscillating, rotating, display of various metallic and ceramic features.  While most elements aren’t colorful or flashy, everything on this bird, both external and internal, is highly purposeful.
        Meanwhile, Mr. Collins executed an all-points visual inspection, making sure solar arrays were oriented correctly, no gas leaks were observed, and most importantly, that landing gear was fully deployed.  
        Confirming no obvious damage, we were ready to commence the descent.  After I communicated our solid status to the NASA leadership back in Houston.  With an appropriately sarcastic commentary.  Pressing the button on the communication link, I announced over the radio, “The Eagle has wings!”.  Considering the equipment names and functional roles selected for this operation, there’s no shortage of puns.
    The powered flight in the LM to the moon’s surface was considered by many in the computational analytics department to be the most dangerous part of the entire project.  Simulations anticipated it would take just over an hour for this 32k pound unit to reach the moon’s surface.  This idealized timeline was quickly derailed.
       Our primary engine burn, forcing us out of stable orbit, and toward the celestial object below, lasted just 30 seconds.  This relatively short and subtle thrust set into motion an unstoppable chain of events.  Just a gentle nudge is needed when there’s essentially no atmospheric wind resistance.  As it turns out, tiny lapses in timing are magnified in space. 
       Once the engine cut out, all we could do was wait for the ground facing radar on our rig, and the math nerds back at headquarters, flooded with data from onboard telemetry tracking systems, to figure out the achieved downward trajectory.  Half an hour later, the verdict was in, and it wasn’t great.   
      Modelled metrics suggested that the Eagle was traveling faster than planned.  Just a miniscule miss on propulsive thrust duration, at the lofty starting altitude, equates to missing the target landing zone by miles.  We’d left the nest, and there was no turning back. 
       I like technology as much as the next guy.  Fancy sensors, stabilizers, and signals have been critical in enabling our long and complex journey to the moon.  But sometimes it’s important to let our highly developed human faculties actually do some of the hard work.
      As the lunar surface approached, Aldrin and I were able to confirm the extent to which we are off course, by comparing our aerial position to various landmark references visible out the small windows of the LM.  While we obviously didn’t have detailed topography of terrain no person has ever set foot on, it’s impressive how closely the satellite images taken from earth matched the remote landscape we were peering down at.  
       Wide circular craters.  Huge flat expanses.  Lengthy rocky ridges.  All were evident.  And all suggested we were missing our target zone for alighting.  Apparently, there’s some validity to the perpetual string of warning messages from onboard tracking systems.  
         Conceding a course correction was needed, I’m became forced to defer back to the computer console.  This digital database is much more knowledgeable regarding the topography below than the limited local maps we were provided with.  Time to trust technology again, as us menial humans have for many elements of this mission.   
          The next key maneuver went well.  We rotated the entire machine 180°, pointing the outlet port downward, allowing the jet engine to reduce our rapid rate of decent.  Things were looking up again.  But not for long.
        Still several miles above the lunar surface, a multitude of new alarms on the LM started to go off.  Such warning noises are never a good sign, especially when their origin and meaning are unknown to the operators.  
         With the new landing site locked in, we got a few minutes of auditory reprieve, before the same “1202” issue arose again, and again.  These proved to be a continued annoyance for the remainder of the downward adventure.  Yet we forged on.    
        Continued drifting led to another round of manual overrides, and my ultimate harrowing joystick manipulation to the spot where we’ve come to rest.  Good thing there’s actual astronauts onboard this craft to execute audibles from autonomy.
         I earned my post in the NASA Astronaut Corps as part of the 2nd group, quickly dubbed the “New Nine”, announced to the American public back on September 17th, 1962.  Establishment of this troop was a direct result of the U.S. government’s bold exospheric exploration initiative from a year earlier.  More space flights required more trained operators. 
        I had slim hopes of getting selected, based on the large and talented candidate pool over 250 strong.  Most were from the military ranks, dominated by active Air Force and Navy personnel.  Not surprising, since logging extensive hours piloting a high-performance jet airplane was a core selection criteria.  An activity not available to, or recommendable for, most normal citizens.
       Fortunately, my previous time as a Naval aviator in the Korean War, combined with my ongoing experimental aircraft work for NACA, got me in the door.  A degree in aeronautical engineering, granted not a master’s like some of my chosen colleagues, apparently made my resumé appealing enough to survive the final cut.
     I never dreamed I would make it through the American astronaut selection process.  And never realize how much publicity would be associated with this privileged post.  In hindsight, those first awkward pictures in uniform, and live TV interviews, prepared me for the subsequent achievements I’ve made, on an increasingly bright public stage.
      I became NASA’s first civilian astronaut in March 1966, as command pilot of the Gemini 8 program.  My claim to fame on that project was performing the first successful docking of two spacecraft.  This act, while innovative at the time, is now trivial relative to the complex maneuvers we’ve pioneered over the past week on route to enabling a manned lunar landing.
       Putting my life in the hands of numerous novel new technologies while in NASA’s employ, I’ve found it valuable to become knowledgeable regarding the history of American space exploration.  This pursuit led to the realization that we’re fortunate to the have the foremost engineering talent on the globe with regards to spaceship design.  True rocket scientists, in every sense of the word.  
        The lead researcher for our current program, Werner von Braun, was confiscated from the Nazis at the end of World War II.  Granted, like many Germans of this era, he was happy to join a less oppressive regime.  A wise decision, which put our well-resourced military complex in a highly advantageous position with regards to missile development.  
    Yet somehow, our technological capabilities quickly fell behind our new nemesis, the Soviet combatants.  They apparently have a few jet propulsion tricks up their sleeve.
       The U.S.S.R has claimed all key prizes in the Space Race thus far.  First manmade object to reach Earth’s orbit in 1957.  The inaugural human to pierce the barrier of space in 1961.  Reaching the moon, a much farther afield destination, with an electronic probe, in 1959.  First pictures from the lunar surface, via a robotic rover, in 1966.
         Von Braun and his staff have been a step behind the Soviet opposition for all of these frustrating foreign feats.  Each failure to our archrival has resulted in additional federal resources being allocated.  No sum is too much in an effort to match the Russian’s innovation.
        The entire U.S. space program has relied on the dedicated commitment of experienced, imported, engineers.  Now, after countless setbacks and miscues, us Americas, and our German collaborators, are finally in the lead.  We think.  
      Despite our advanced intelligence spy networks, Soviet rocket technology, and the associated space exploration efforts, remain relatively secret.  However, if they did land a person on the moon, most in Washington are pretty confident Moscow would flaunt this achievement to the world at large.  This is finally the chance for America to shine, in the dark depths of outer space. 
         The key to the escaping Planet Earth’s restrictive combination of atmosphere and gravity is an immense amount of propulsion.  Such thrust can only be achieved through a multi-stage, liquid-fueled, rocket.  Which quickly becomes infinitely more complicated than simply dropping the wooden stick of a firecracker in a glass bottle, lighting the wick, then standing back and looking skyward.
        I would probably be much more relaxed about this entire mission, specifically the takeoff sequence, without such detailed knowledge of jet propulsion systems.  But once I went down the technological research rabbit hole, there was no escaping.  Like pretty much everyone involved in the space program, I’m a sucker for science.  
         One of the most mesmerizing elements of the many rocket launch videos I reviewed during my rigorous training is the cascade of ice falling off the sides of the canister as the vessel transitions from ground to air, tethered to unencumbered.
         The biggest technological challenge of a dual stage, dual fuel, reactive system is ensuring the various constituents are happy.  Like keeping pasta warm, and salad cold, during a lengthy dinner party.  With a slightly larger temperature range.
       The powerful propulsion requires precisely mingling a pair of basic elements, traditionally gasses, but stored in liquid form to reduce total volume.  Hydrogen, at -423°F, and oxygen, at -297°F, are contained in adjacent insulated chambers on the machine, before being combined in an exact combustive ratio.  
         Unfathomably low temperatures, while seemingly equally frigid, these key chemistry points are actually wider than the atmospheric spread between a sunny tropical beach and a snowy ski resort.
         Essentially, there are two incredibly flammable tanks, both of which must be chilled to an absurd level, with a huge gradient between the adjacent cylinders.  Any rise in temperature will quickly cause a transition from liquid to gas.  Preferably purposely, as opposed to naturally.
         It’s impressive how quickly chilled and condensed gasses can be blended into the fiery fuel reaction which propels our craft skyward.  Provided no thermodynamic malfunctions occur.  Trust in the process, and basic chemistry, has gotten us this far unscathed.  My respect for fundamental scientific principals is constantly appreciating.
          Escaping Earth’s gravity on the way to the Moon requires an incredibly robust rocket.  The 3-stage Saturn V model is 100 times more powerful than the Mercury booster version used to deposit America’s first astronaut into planetary orbit.  This two orders of magnitude innovation has occurred over the span of just 8 short years, from 1961 to 1969.
      The Saturn V is most dangerous when sitting on the pad, tanks completely filled with required propellants of kerosene, liquid hydrogen, and liquid oxygen, all accumulated in the correct combustion ratio.  With nearly a million pounds of volatile chemicals, any issues on the ground could result in an explosion akin to a small nuclear bomb.
          Creation of the amazing Saturn V rocket has required an incredible input of both cost and labor.  Rumor has it over 375k workers, mostly skilled practitioners in a wide range of specific technical fields, have been employed to achieve this momentous task.  An amazing engineering feat, only possible through absolute committed collaboration, with uninhibited resource allocation.   
        The quintet of custom F1 engines represent the most prolific and powerful thrust system ever created.  And the nested ring of 5 configuration gives this monstrosity its name.  Granted, the short 2.5 second burn cycle leaves a little to be desired on the duration front.  I’m not complaining, as this burly beast got us airborne, and moonward.
         Despite the amazing reliability of the Saturn V propulsion package, NASA’s progress towards the moon hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows.  
        Most notable was a fiery death for all 3 brave crewmembers of the inaugural Apollo mission.  This tragedy, which occurred when a rogue spark materialized in the oxygen-rich cabin during a routine electronics test, was a seminal moment for the entire space program, and resulted in major system redesigns.  
      Rather than NASA stagnating, this accident served as further motivation to double down on both technological acumen and safety protocols.  In a seminal precursor achievement to our ongoing human lunar landing adventure, in July of 1968, Apollo 8 lapped the Moon 10 times, with a trio of American astronauts onboard.  Standing on this entity’s surface is the next logical step.
          Fortunately, our launch several days ago went off without a hitch, 7.5 million pounds of thrust propelling the Saturn V, a glorified missile, at a velocity beyond 25k mph, aided by the increasingly thin atmosphere at higher elevations.  The further the flight progressed, the more fuel was burned, reducing weight, and thereby risk of catastrophe.  
         Especially when the spent second stage engines were jettisoned, 100 miles over the surface of Planet Earth.  At that point, the only people at risk were the trio of us astronauts jammed into the nose cone of this speeding bullet.
      While we were heavily briefed on what the takeoff experience would be, there’s nothing like the real thing.  The nervous anticipation while strapped in our assigned seats during endless safety checks.  The absurd g-forces experienced upon a bone jarring exit from the tower.  The realization of the earth rapidly disappearing below us.  The disconcerting thud as the empty canisters were discarded from the craft like garbage.  Those are some pricey single-use items.  
        Following this cartridge release, we did one quick jaunt around the globe.  Trajectory strategists told us this loop was to precisely align for our run to the moon.  I just considered it an opportunity to take in the natural beauty of the planet we all call home.  Which my colleagues and I onboard will hopefully be able to return to unscathed at some point in the near future.  
      The broad swaths of various blue hues, surrounding known continental shapes of green and brown, have a compelling allure, even at this vast distance.  An amazing perspective of Planet Earth, which very few souls have ever had a chance to see with their own eyes.
       Taking one final glimpse out the small rectangular window, the lone J-2 third stage thruster ignited, and the rounded tip of our vessel pointed towards the Moon.  This growing white sphere, in a sea of darkness, would dominate our vision, and attention, for the next several days.  They need a larger windshield on this ride, so we can enjoy the scenery, albeit sparse.

       I became enamored with flying from an early age, an addiction fueled by watching all manner of aerial races across the Midwest.  This was a convenient side benefit of often traveling with my father for his work.  I earned my student flight certificate on August 5th, 1946, the exact date of my 16th birthday, before even getting a normal vehicle driver’s license.  Runaways have always been more appealing than roadways.
        The speedy yet slow slog to the moon provided me with a little down time to contemplate my own life path.  Top of mind is the amazing risk I’m currently taking, and the beautiful life I’ve left behind.  Specifically, my lovely wife and kids, back at home, in every sense of the word.
       It’s uncanny how much my own familial path mimics that of my upbringing.  Three kids raised with tender care, despite a nomadic housing situation.  The only blemish in the analogy is my own most devastating loss, my only daughter, who died of a brain tumor at just 2 years old, back in 1962.
         That depressing death, now many years in the past, still brings tears to my eyes.  I can only imagine how crushing it would be for my spouse and young boys, if I don’t return from this risky journey.  Not that I really had much of a choice with regards to joining this dangerous duty.  
     As government employees in the public sector, here at NASA we’re committed to following directives from administrative leadership.  There aren’t many jobs where a work order comes down straight from the highest executive post in the nation.  The President of the United States. 
         I remember exactly where I was when President John F. Kennedy unleashed his infamous space exploration speech to the U.S. legislature.  While I wasn’t in the astronaut corps at the time, I was working for NASA as a pilot on the X-15 project, with operations stationed at Edwards Air Force base.  
      NASA’s X-15 experimental aircraft program, conducted throughout the entirety of the 1960’s, was influential in shaping many elements of America’s fledgling space efforts.  While in operation, over the course of 200 test flights, this rocket-powered machine set impressive, manned-flight, records for maximum speed and altitude, at over 4,500 mph and 65 miles, respectively. 
         My experience as one of the dozen pilots allowed to operate this unique machine was quite a trip, being able to sit in this hallowed cockpit for 7 separate journeys.  The outcome of these exhilarating endeavors was very diverse in outcome.  Once, I achieved an impressive peak altitude of 63 km above sea level.  Once, I missed the target base landing position by a similar absurd distance.  Every mission was an adventure, in every sense of the word.   
         Many of the learnings regarding aerodynamic assessment during the X-15 program have been incorporated into our current Apollo 11 space mission.  Most notable are control systems tricks for thin atmospheric conditions, which we’ve already leveraged extensively on our way to the Moon, and optimal reentry angle trajectories, which will hopefully allow a safe return to Earth.
       Despite the incredible power of the X-15, nothing compares to my new ride.  Specifically, the enormous Saturn V rocket’s chemical combustion means of propulsion.  Which we’ve long ago ditched on this epic journey; fate and fortune are now in control of the future.
         Those motivational words from a young and ambitious president, delivered to Congress in 1961, still bounce around in my head to this day.  And the subsequent funding secured from the federal budget coffers certainly supported our ongoing Edwards AFB test flight efforts.   
      When the most powerful person in the world gives you an order, one tends to obey.  Granted, such a direct provocation creates a scenario of incredible productivity, and incredible stress; a tangible state of polarized pressure which has existed within the entire aerospace sector for many years since.
         The original challenge became cemented just a few years later, when J.F.K. was assassinated in November 1963.  As this event did for many aggrieved Americans, the heinous act provided a powerful motivator for the space exploration industry, including my own renewed desire to enter this novel field of extraterrestrial exploration.
         For most of the past decade, the United States’ ability to achieve President Kennedy’s bold 1961 mandate has looked bleak.  Yet, that colossal task is now approaching completion. 
         Nearly 6 years after that infamous day in Dallas, we’re about to deliver on his stated goal.  Amazingly, in the desired timeline, a feat which rarely happens on any bureaucratic project, especially one lead by NASA.  Somehow, I’m the specific human, out of the entire global population, selected to culminate this famous feat.  Which is starting to feel like a lot of pressure.
       This isn’t my first time putting my own life, and that of others, in danger, to facilitate a governmental objective.  Sure, the Korean War was dangerous.  But we had defined protocols, and known risks.  My time working for the NACA as an aviator, a precursor to this NASA astronaut post, was where most of the real risk occurred.
        During my initial training, I was in the co-pilot seat when one engine on our B-29 Superfortress disintegrated, as we struggled to achieve enough speed to deploy the D-588-2 Spyrocket attached to our undercarriage.  We couldn’t land our big beast without getting the nagging encumbrance out of our belly.  Fortunately, expulsion occurred in the nick of time.
       Or the fiasco where I had to make an emergency landing with my F-104 plane at nearby Nellis AFB outside Las Vegas, kicking off a trio of botched runway activities by my fellow NACA pilots sent to retrieve me, over the course of several embarrassing operations.  Understandably, we eventually ended up just driving the 3 boring hours back to our post via ground-based means.   
       These various incidents engrained me in Edwards Air Force Base lore, especially amongst the NACA ranks.  And not always on the positive side of the ledger. 
       Throughout my meandering career in the aeronautics industry, there has been a significant debate between taught engineers and trained pilots regarding who’s a better aerospace aviator.  Analytical and conservative versus tactile and risk-taking.  Both approaches have their benefits and faults. 
     Some operators understand the aerodynamics characteristics of the craft, and the resulting performance from mechanical manipulations, while others rely on feel and touch, leveraging countless hours of aerial experience, in all manner of flying vessels.  
       I fall firmly in the former camp, however numerous spacecraft simulator sessions have improved my instincts.  A commitment which proved quite beneficial on the recent loony lunar landing. 
        Our original next mission directive is a 5-hour rest session.  It takes about 5 minutes after the stressful touchdown to realize this scheme isn’t going to work.  Adrenaline is coursing through our veins way too fast to allow any sleep.  Not to mention the allure of the unknown, which is now incredibly close at hand.  
        Plus, there’s barely enough room for us to stand up, let alone lie down, in this cloistered capsule.  We don’t even have any seats in this machine.
       Immediately upon landing, I untether from the restraint straps meant to protect us crewmembers on the potentially jostled descent.  These glorified bungee cords are more of a hindrance than a support system.  Maybe I can simply squat on the large, round, helmet case, positioned on the deck at my feet, and take a load off for a few minutes. 
        After a brief conversation, vertical as opposed to prone, Buzz and I make the executive decision to gear up right away for a lunar walk.  It’s not like anyone can stop us.  The closest human, besides Michael Collins, is 1.25 light seconds away.  A seemingly minute distance, when put in this speedy unit, which further highlights the utter vastness of outer space. 
        We’ll fill in Houston on this development once were all geared up.  They can’t have that many rational objections.  In reality, I assume everyone back at NASA base has the same feeling of restless anticipation as the duo here on site does. 
        Starting at 23:43 UTS, more relevantly 106 hours and 11 minutes on the continuously running mission clock, it takes over 3 hours for my partner and I to prepare for our external moon excursion.  This wardrobe change, an operation we practiced many times during training, was only supposed to occupy roughly half the actually expended time.  
         However, for this real-life iteration, we’re working through storage bins with all manner of other materials, like food and tools, which were not part of the ground-based preparations.  There’s gear crammed into every crevasse of our cozy confines.  Better safe than sorry is the official motto of doomsday preppers, and apparently NASA operations personnel as well.  
       Overall, it turns out to be nearly 7 hours between machine contact with the moon, and first physical steps on the lunar surface.  A pair of truly novel activities, linked to verbal utterances and video footage, transmitted globally, which will define my entire career.   
       Not a practiced actor, this lengthy wait is way too long in my mind.  Especially when the only thing separating us from the external goal is the impossibly thin and flimsy metal foil skin of our chariot.  In many spots, I can easily puncture the LM’s protective outer layer with just a single, gloved finger.
         It also doesn’t help that we’re forced to don these bulky portable life support systems in the very tight cockpit space.  This process is a bit more complex than dropping trousers behind a tree, then pulling on a swimsuit, before jumping in the local lake.  A summer activity which personified my nomadic Midwestern upbringing.  
          Once convinced both our odd outfits are fitted correctly, through a series of rigorous equipment checks, I make the executive order to depressurize the cabin of the Eagle.  Another part of the process for which there’s not a reset switch.  
       Now exposed to the moon’s still relatively unknown atmospheric composition, despite numerous sensory probes, there’s no going back from this moment.  While the past several hours have raced by, all of the sudden, time has slowed to a crawl. 
       As I move towards the exterior hatch, and the mystery beyond, an unforeseen problem arises.  The increased shoulder width from my PLSS is hindering my ability to squeeze through the narrow door opening.  I writhe and shift, hesitant to put too much stress on the delicate apparatus attached to my back.  Any damage to a component, or tear in the fabric, can be fatal.  
        Finally able to extricate myself, the next challenge immediately arises.  I must navigate the 9-step ladder from the platform to the ground, backwards and blind.  At this point, my heart is racing again, despite my best efforts to control it.
         It’s critical to remain calm in times of tumult; this is a key tenant of training, when all manner of adverse issues were thrown at us astronauts.  But a safe studio environment is a far cry from this remote outpost, even if the machinery and movements were perfectly replicated.  
       Which they clearly weren’t, based on the myriad issues already encountered today.  Or was it yesterday, now, when we set down on this cold rock?
       This is certainly one of the more stressful portions of the entire trip.  A realization which is quickly confirmed by communication from headquarters for me to slow down and breath deeply.  Apparently, my revving vitals are drawing the attention of the cautious medical staff back on earth.  Let’s see how relaxed these practitioners would be, if our roles were reversed.
       It turns out to be 10 lengthy, and extremely tense, minutes from when I first open the Eagle’s hatch, to me finally ready to set foot on the lunar surface.  What else will go wrong?  
         Next on my to-do list is actually alighting on the moon.  As Mission Commander, I’m awarded this privileged honor.
       There aren’t many experiences which classify as true firsts in the history of human civilization.  While there have been many unique accomplishments throughout this journey, the activity I’m about to embark on is definitely unprecedented.
         A living being, setting foot on the desolate lunar landscape.  I have no idea how I ended up representing our entire homo sapiens clan on this rite of passage.  But, I’m devoted to represent the earthly collective to the best of my abilities.  
         Before I take the plunge, I need to make sure this operation is fully documented.  The importance of this key step has been hammered into me throughout the lengthy astronaut training process.  As such, there’s no way I’ll forget one of my essential deliverables.
        Still perched precariously on the ladder, I reach forward, and undo the lens cover of the camera mounted to the LM’s outer wall.  This device is strategically oriented to cover the narrow swath below the lowest rung, along with a strip of terrain in the distance beyond.  I double check that there’s no grit on the glass, and the light which denotes functionality is flashing.  All systems go.
         It’s finally time to take the plunge.  There’s really no way to realistically replicate stepping off into the unknown.  This is the moment when I realize the true gravity of the feat my astronaut colleagues and I are about to achieve.   
         Transitioning from the metal ladder to the dusty ground, through electronics mounted in my helmet, I uttered as short string of words which I already know will live in infamy.  
           “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”  
       All these witty sayings were carefully scripted well in advance.  Like a practiced thespian, I focus on clear and passionate delivery over my headset microphone, while making sure to stay centered in the viewing frame, knowing millions around the globe will be listening to my voice over the radio, or watching my grainy silhouette on television. 
        This imaging system uses archaic, slow scan, technology, transmitting individual pictures via radio waves back to earth.  Undoubtably, the signal will be received by many large-format antennae, who will film the display screen with a normal video camera, then broadcast the footage worldwide, via traditional network systems. 
           The material average citizens back on Planet Earth will consume is going to be very coarse, and on a several second time delay.  Which should be fine, since there’s no conversational banter in the script, just me monologuing to the world.
        My first few gentle steps churn up all manner of dust from the soft surface.  It’s like walking on a bed of flour, though the color is dingy grey as opposed to bleached white.  Beneath the 2-inch-thick loose layer, is a rigid bed as hard as concrete.
         My next observation after the texture is the traction.  This surface is incredibly slippery, the marginal texture on the sole of my boots, combined with the top-heavy balance point of my suit, makes each step a stability challenge.  But I soon get a handle on the best means of movement. 
        This experience is amazing!  In this bulky outfit, I can’t pinch myself to confirm that I’m not dreaming, but most of my strained faculties are starting to recover and function normally.
         I’m so excited by the basics of simply walking around, that I almost forget about my core responsibilities.  Foremost, and foundational, is to take a preliminary soil sample.  To execute this important task, I extract a custom device from its strategic location, stowed in the front right pocket of my space suit.
     With all the savant engineers and sophisticated analytics at NASA’s disposal, they come up with some pretty impressive innovations.  This basic tool is not one of their more impressive efforts.  In my thick gloved hand, made from a multitude of complex synthetic textiles, is a wooden stick with a plastic bag stuck on the end.  
        Am I securing a scientific sample on an extraterrestrial body, or picking up a stool sample deposited by my dog at the local park?  The clumsy operation would be similar in either case.  Bending down, at the waist as opposed to the knees, considering the limited ergonomic mobility of my clothing, I execute the menial chore.  
        Dragging the clear plastic along the abrasive ground gently, I try to sweep as many different colored grains of grit into my small sack as possible.  I’m no geologist, so size, shape, and shade of sand, are my only means of discernment.  
        Rolling the thin sleeve back up along the smooth wood shaft, making sure as many granules as possible are captured within, I carefully place this precious cargo in the same pocket from whence it was recently removed.  
        This hasty and indiscriminate sampling is a worst-case contingency plan, a back-up plan if anything goes wrong with our upcoming extravehicular activity.  Hopefully catastrophe, leading to rushed departure, won’t happen.  There’s much to be done here on the moon.
        Eventually, getting over the initial shock of this momentous moment, I’m able to calm down, and get to work.  The first order of business is taking stock of our position.  The place we ended up plopping down our fuel-depleted craft, is definitely not where I, and NASA operational leadership, desired to be.  
        On the rushed approach audible, I contemplated trying to land on the near side of this large crater, as the jagged outcroppings there looked promising for mineral extraction.  The spot where we actually ended up is much smoother and less rugged.  Making it significantly safer for alighting.  
         As it turns out, there are rocks everywhere on this new world, so taking a diverse range of geological samples in our relatively short allotment of time shouldn’t be an issue.
       Still, any proficient mathematician, or pilot, or engineer, knowns to carefully review their performance postmortem.  I’ve covered all three of these educational categories, at various periods in my meandering career.  Even on a novel celestial body, I must adhere to fundamental scientific protocols.  As such, per due diligence, plus excited about the opportunity to try out modified transportation techniques in minimal gravity, I head to the edge of the basin which we barely passed over.  
      It appears to be a manageable distance, even in lunar length.  Maybe 200 feet?  Just half the circumference of a standard track, in the structured realm of athletics back home.  Up here, measurements and movements are much more fluid.   
     It takes me only a few dozen lengthy strides to traverse to the crater rim.  What’s lacking in aerodynamic and ergonomic prowess, is made up for by investigative intrigue.
      Gravity here on the Moon is only 1/6th that of Planet Earth’s relentless pull.  This makes for some awkward initial wobbles, but has quickly proven less challenging than in the simulated training environment.  Once the perimeter surroundings are established, my efforts turn to basic skills.  Like efficiently moving around.
       All manner of movement methods are quickly tried: walking, jumping, crawling, lunges, and even two-footed hops.  Based on this decidedly unscientific research, long, loping strides have become my preferred transport method, a revelation which I quickly pass along to my partner in crime over our linked headsets.  
       His lunar punch list, in the spirit of divide and conquer by our small team, actually includes a much more structured study of low gravity mobility.  I can’t steal all his exploratory thunder, before he even exits the Eagle.  
     There’s another key learning from my impromptu jaunt.  Due to the unanticipated speed and momentum of any linear movement, it soon becomes evident that slow, calculated, bodily actions are critical.  With all resistance forces reduced, the main movement challenge turns out to be the weighty PLSS backpack I’m saddled with.  Of course, without this survival system, I would already be dead.
      Still, this top-heavy, highly-unstable, rucksack proves to be a true bother.  Granted, my endeavor isn’t as simple as wandering round the local park on a Sunday stroll.
     After a few giddy minutes, I remove the camera from the ladder mount on the side of the LM, and take it for a panoramic sweep across the lunar landscape.  There’s no way this narrow lens will be able to capture the full vastness of the terrain; not just the desolate pale ground at my feet, but the black emptiness in the sky above.
       Content I’ve visually documented the surroundings to the best of my ability, I mount this video recording device on an accommodating tripod, making sure the picture includes the stationary Eagle, as well as the two characters it housed for the descent, who will soon be roaming about freely.  
        My partner and I will need all our hands, and wits, available, for the remainder of this extravehicular activity, or EVA.  Yep, NASA has an acronym for everything.
     Understandably, considering the momentous nature of this achievement, especially in the context of winning a decade-long Space Race, the first project is raising the American flag on this newly claimed land.  Fierce aerospace competition between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. now seems distant and petty, standing here on a remote planetary satellite.
        This feels like today is more of an accomplishment for civilization as a whole.  But a win is a win.  Time to raise our patriotic Star-Spangled Banner.  Which proves to be quite difficult in rock-hard ground, with an atmosphere devoid of wind.  
      Good thing Buzz and I are good at improvising, a skill any astronaut worth their salt quickly learns.  With some boulders, some tape, and some wire, we soon have the America’s national pennant flying stable and proud on this foreign land.  That makeshift maintenance kit was a useful inclusion to the LM’s limited capacity.
         My own penchant for adaptive resourcefulness comes from one of my main passions growing up.  The Boy Scouts.  Through this prevalent civic organization, I was able to quickly meet new friends, switching between several troops as my father, and thus our entire family, toured the state of Ohio, on a way too frequent basis. 
       Over the course of my adolescent tenure, I earned the coveted Eagle Scout title, completing 26 different merit badges.  Each are quite relevant back on Planet Earth, especially for a teenager coming of age.  Experimental space travel requires a decidedly different skill set.  Or does it?
      My “Bird Study” badge can apply to the Eagle, even a quarter million miles from any live avian species.  My “Pathfinding” patch is even more relevant out here, without the benefit of any traditional magnetic compass markers.  Not to mention the fundamentals of “Reading”, the second token ever earned; God only knows how much dense literary material I’ve burned through in preparation for this current complicated journey.  
        This penchant for learning new skills is personified in one of the few personal items I was allowed to carry on this space journey, due to strict weight limitations.  My well-earned World Scout badge.  Which has provided a valuable motivator to persevere on tough tasks at many points in my tumultuous life.
       With the American flag now displayed proudly on the lunar landscape, static as opposed to waving, I’m tempted to return back to my classroom roots, and belt out the Pledge of Allegiance in honor of my home country.  But other patriotic acts quickly take precedent.
        In typical governmental fashion, administrative leaders want to get their airtime, and of course, take credited for any geopolitical success.  It’s not like we can turn down a call from the POTUS, regardless of location or circumstance.  
       It’s ironic that the candidate who lost to J.F.K. in the 1960 election is now in power, having finally garnered a majority of the nation’s popular vote, and accepted the highest office in the land, just a year earlier.
     Yep, in yet another example of absurd scenarios which I never envisioned, I’m soon staring into a video camera, listening to a congratulatory message from President Nixon through my earpiece, and trying not to ruin the moment by making any snide comments.  From the surface of the moon, rather than a Hollywood studio.  These are truly interesting times.  
      Enough networking, time to get down to some real physical labor.  The list of operations laid out by Apollo 11 mission planners is long, and our allotted time on-site short.  There are too many unknowns about this celestial body’s atmosphere to linger.
    Our most physically demanding challenge turns out to be one which most of us assumed would be mundane.  Collecting, carrying, cataloguing, and crating the target quantity of lunar material.  50 pounds, the most mass the engineering team was comfortable onboarding to the Eagle, while still being able to power off from the ground, and reconnect with the Columbia.
       Back home, this soil sampling process would be simple; a single wheelbarrow load taken from moist ground with an accommodating shovel could suffice.  The terrain here on the moon turns out to be a little less forgiving than a backyard garden bed.
      As I noticed in my first few steps, the underlying surface is incredibly hard, and difficult to penetrate.  The small trowel in our tool kit is essentially useless, unless we want to collect much more of the fine sand I already have in my breast pocket doggie bag.
       We’re only able to get core samples to penetrate 6 inches deep, despite trying a multitude of different spots, even with the viable hammer provided.  Apparently, it hasn’t rained here in a while.  
        As with most of our prescribed tasks, we quickly run over the allotted time for careful rock collection, from a diverse set of points around the landing site, using delicate tongs and scoops.  My buddy Buzz, always ready to extemporize, quickly solves this problem.