Liftoff

"T minus nine... eight... seven... GO for main engine start... five... four... three... two...... Liftoff... We have liftoff of the Space Shuttle Atlantis..."

I don't understand what is happening. I am gathered with a group of hundreds of other space geeks who have traveled here for a two-minute, once in a lifetime experience.

I expected something more. Perhaps the ground shaking or a loud roar.

"He did say liftoff, right?"

Even though only 2.2 seconds pass between the liftoff announcement, it seems like an eternity. Perfect silence from the formerly noisy crowd gives way to a sudden massive gasp.

"There it is!"someone exclaims.

We weren't exactly sure where we should have been looking. NASA keeps everyone out of a seven mile radius of the launch pad since September 11, meaning we can only see the tree line until the shuttle clears it only seconds after launch.

An unbearably bright rip in the fabric of the azure sky appears above the trees. Screams of joy erupt from the cloud. Suddenly the abstract thought of this multi-billion dollar space vehicle (some say failure) that we paid for becomes real.

I can REALLY see it. I can't remember what I expected to see now that it is in front of me.

The flames are so much brighter than what I have ever seen before. All the launch videos and photos can't prepare me for the brilliant orange color of the main engine exhaust. It hurts to look, much like staring at a welding torch or the sun as it sets above the horizon.

All of the detail is there. The orange tank, the white solid rocket boosters and the improbably dirty tinge of the orbiter. "Can't we afford to at least run these things through the car wash?" I think.

We approach T plus seven seconds. It seems like an eternity watching this surreal vehicle tearing open the sky in complete silence.

Then, the rumble starts. The first sounds of the main engine reach us, first as a low frequency rumble, then louder like thunder. Another cheer erupts from the crowd. Now the sound, the light and the magic has combined for a massive emotional punch to the gut.

All through the crowd grown men burst into tears. Americans and foreigners alike jump and scream like children. Even though everyone brought cameras, no one dares look away for a quick snapshot, lest a few precious seconds of this experience are lost.

Between the climbing shuttle (Man this thing travels FAST!) and the huge American flag flying above the Kennedy Space Center, backlit by the setting sun, I am finding that it is difficult to keep track of the orange glow through my tears.

I look over at Margee. She has been frustrated over the hours of driving and waiting in the hot sun. At times I thought she might actually leave me there and drive back to Sarasota due to the unbearable heat, the incredibly expensive hamburger and the rude crowds.

I see that she, too, is crying. The pride washes over you. For a few minutes the cares of the world diminish and the reality that we are putting men from many different nations into the abyss of space are all that occupy my mind.

One minute ticks away. The crowd has fallen silent again. We met people who live in Florida that haven't attended a launch since the Challenger disaster in 1986. We all know what happens at one minute and twenty two seconds after launch. The principal's announcement in eighth grade shop class fills my memory. The haunting words echo inside my mind... "Challenger, you are go for throttle up."

Everyone is holding their breath now. The searing orange flame is a distant glow and the ripping sound of the rocket boosters is now a faint rumble.

"The shuttle is passing through the period of maximum aerodynamic pressure. The main engines have been throttled back to reduce the stresses on the launch vehicle."

Then that haunting beep of the radio, "Atlantis, Houston, you are go for throttle up."

Almost imperceptibly there are two small flashes on either side of the white and orange spot in the sky. The crowd automatically and viscerally watch for any telltale signs of trouble. We see two tiny white hairs fall away from the main cloud of exhaust.

Everyone is afraid to make noise. Suddenly a "WHOOOOOOO!!" is shouted out by a redneck listening to an AM radio in the back. We all realize it's going to be okay and a second, more thunderous, round of applause erupts and goes on for an eternity. Strangers are embracing. Everyone is crying and cheering. We all know that we will spend the next few miserable hours crawling in traffic trying to leave this place but nobody seems to mind.

As we walk to the car we hear the fading voice on the radio speakers. The external tank has seperated and the astronauts are maneuvering the orbiter into space. Eight and a half minutes have elapsed and they are already weightless, staring into the pitch black before we even make it to our car.

I realize how much the odds were stacked against us. The unlikely coincidence that a launch would take place on this final day of our first vacation in three years, combined with the doubts and fears over a hailstone-damaged tank and wildly unpredictable weather have prepared me to accept disappointment.

I look up and the steam trail is still in place, unmoving. It's as if a giant hand has torn a gash from the earth to the highest parts of the sky. The exhaust plume hangs in the air for hours and provides the only entertainment as we inch along. In the next four hours we will have driven only 39 miles. We are exhausted, sunburned and starving.

Thousands of miles and hours of waiting for the short two minute viewing seem like a poor tradeoff.

I look at Margee in the passenger seat and see a faint smile. I still think we got the better end of that bargain.