Blessings of Heaven and Earth
In memory of Ilan Ramon
Somehow word got out that I was a “space enthusiast,” and the young teenage boys of Gan Or began asking me questions about space, the stars, space flight, and of course, the main reason for this eruption of interest in the subject, the meaning of Ilan Ramon’s mission on the space shuttle. I threw out answers in a way that would make them hungry for more, just like my father had done to me when I was their age, a young teenager following the space race between the USA and the USSR. Except that by now, half a world away from Cape Canaveral and immersed in raising a family in the middle of the Gaza Strip during the so-called “Second Intifada,” it was an effort to stir up my own interest again.
I had never completely lost interest in space, but at that time in my life this interest consisted of star gazing and satellite tracking thanks to the groundbreaking website Heavens Above. These young men, who would gather in my yard after evening prayers, were a captive audience. From the start I felt a heavy sense of responsibility towards them. I was surprised at how little they knew. When I pointed to a particular star and told them that the light from that star started its journey to our eyes thousands of years ago, they stood unbelieving. This unbelief was not just because a potential conflict between Torah time and Physics time, a conflict I eased by beginning each session with a Bible quote pertaining to the heavens followed by a brief discussion. No, their unbelief stemmed from the fact that the heavens above are unbelievable. Dots of light in the night sky being giant fusion balls of gas—that is an unbelievable reality, and it is a fascinating one. Space truly is a Holy Abode.
The shuttle Columbia launched, and we followed closely all the news coming down from the heavens. I was swept up in the excitement and fueled it with the meager tools that I had on hand, meaning my own first-hand experience with Nasa’s space program. So, the boys received the story of the time my father revved up our Ford Country Sedan and drove my brother and I all the way from Martha’s Vineyard to Cape Canaveral to see the launch of Apollo 8. We set up station on the wide unpaved lot to the south of the jetty of the inlet leading into Port Canaveral, together with thousands of other spectators. We were eighteen miles from the Saturn 5 rocket and could only barely make it out if we squinted our eyes towards the launch gantry.
I told this story towards the end of Columbia’s mission, and I used the disappointment that my brother and I had felt being so far away from the launch pad to lower the expectations of my young audience. They needed to be brought down to earth before I sent them soaring skyward again. By then I realized that the wide eyes with which they had looked into the night sky were now focused on me as I told these stories. It was good that the mission was nearing its end as I was finding it difficult to meet the expectations of my listeners, and for that matter, I was finding it difficult to meet my expectations of myself. We had been meeting sporadically during the weeks while Columbia was orbiting the Earth, and I had discovered that my vat of space knowledge was quicky running dry. As was my captive audience. What had been a crowd of about ten youths had become by this time a small group of five true believers. I had grown addicted to those wide eyes looking to me for knowledge. A little grandstanding was called for. My plan all along had been to end our sessions with the return of the Columbia to Earth, my storytelling reaching a crescendo with the description of the launch of Apollo 8 followed by a description of the difficulties of re-entering the atmosphere and slowing spacecraft down enough so that they could land safely. That would work.
Columbia was scheduled to land just before the end of Shabbat Israeli time. Two things converged that would potentially contribute to the crescendo of my story as being worthy of the Israeli Philharmonic. The first was that in the act of recalling my memories of Apollo 8, a new memory appeared as if ordered by express mail. I had already once in my life held a captive audience, and with that audience I had learned the basics of grandstanding.
One of the hobbies that is available to those interested in space is model rocketry. One of the best hobbies ever. The rockets come through the mail in kits. You needed to cut the fins out of balsa wood and glue them—properly aligned—to the hardened paper tube body of the rocket. Then you assembled the recovery parachute, nose cone, and engine mount. Lastly, you painted the rocket. By the time of Apollo 8 I was an advanced hobbyist and my collection of rockets was my pride and joy. My father told me that I could bring one rocket on the trip, so I chose the largest one in my collection: Big Bertha.
While preparing this article imagine my surprise that this model is still being sold 55 years later!
We arrived at Cape Canaveral late the night before the launch and my brother and I were asleep. When we awakened on the morning of the launch, there was already a large crowd. Most people were positioning themselves on the jetty. That was as close as one could get to the launch pad. My father had positioned our car on a small rise so that by sitting on the hood we had a direct line of sight to the launch pad.
My father said to me: “It’s time to launch your rocket.”
I had forgotten. The crowd, the pin-prick Saturn V way off in the distance, being exhausted from the trip and the expectation in the air had all overwhelmed me. I ran to open the back of the station wagon to use as my workbench and to prepare my rocket and then I froze. I looked around. There were thousands of people, all waiting for the launch of the giant Saturn V. They were a ready audience and if they heard a countdown behind them, they would turn around and direct their attention to me. I had not thought of that.
Standing next to me was my younger brother, Mark Luce. In general, I lorded it over him, sometimes bullying him, and he knew not to touch any of my gear. But now, with the crowd pressure, he was a welcome ally. My father was standing off to the side but just when I was changing my attitude towards my little brother I looked over at him and saw him make a slight nod of encouragement and agreement. He knew what was going through my mind. Of course he did. In my best military voice I spoke to my brother without looking at him. “We need a down-range safety officer.” He remained silent. I turned to him and said: “Do you think you can handle it?”
“I think so,” he said.
He was in minor shock. I had never allowed him to participate before this. We would now learn together how to be brothers. And just like that it was time for the show to begin.
“Ok, we need to find a good flat spot for the launch pad. Then we need to check the wind speed and direction for you to place yourself to catch the rocket.” I looked straight into his eyes to make sure he understood the significance of what I had just said. I was going to let him try to capture the rocket parachuting back before it hit the ground. The balsa wood fins had a habit of breaking on landing. I gathered my gear and he looked at me.
“What about the rocket?” he asked.
“You bring it. Just be careful.”
As we walked away from the car I wondered how we might be able to attract the attention of the crowd. I needn’t have worried. Mark was holding the rocket high in the air like a trophy. The children were the first to notice.
“They’ve got a rocket!” My brother’s natural sense of marketing was on display. This was new to my father and myself. As we walked towards a clear area, he began turning in circles with the rocket held high, getting the crowd involved. For my part I was shivering in fear, afraid to fail. As we crouched down to set up the launching rig, there wasn’t much for Mark to do. He was back on his haunches, not looking at what I was doing. He was looking at me. He looked directly into my eyes with complete and calm confidence. He trusted his big brother to succeed. That was all I needed. I gave him a nod. He stood up—unnecessary—and raised the rocket high one more time. The crowd, many hundreds, reacted with excited applause. He slid the guidance tube on the side of the rocket onto the launch rail, and I connected the alligator clips to the filament leads. I whispered to him: “Wait here and follow my commands.”
I followed the wire back to my launch control box. All eyes were upon us; NASA and Apollo 8 would have to wait their turn. My head raced trying to extend the drama.
“Range Safety Officer! Clear the range of civilians!” I said to my brother.
It was mostly children who had been drifting closer. The parents were not about to abandon their hard-earned spots on the jetty, but they helped my brother by calling their children to return to the jetty.
“Range Safety Officer! Confirm down-range clear!”
“Down range clear!” my brother answered.
“Recovery crew to positions!”
My brother hesitated for a moment, then remembered my instructions. He ran to the spot we had determined where the rocket would land.
“Confirm recovery crew ready!” I said.
“Recovery crew ready!” my brother answered.
Taking my cue from my brother’s earlier brilliant crowd-pleasing instinct, I held the launch control box up high. I now started to give myself commands, but I directed them in a breaking voice towards the crowd on the jetty.
“Insert launch safety key!” I took the key held high in one hand and brought it towards my other hand holding the launch control box and inserted the key.
“Turn launch safety key!” I turned the key with exaggerated movements of my arm and elbows so that the distant crowd could see that the command was executed properly.
Then, for no good reason but for a newfound sense of grandstanding, I paused. I slowly turned towards the crowd and shouted as loud as I could:
“Begin countdown.”
And they did. That crowd gave a countdown for the ages.
“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! …Liftoff!”
Big Bertha did not disappoint. The rocket shot up with a loud whoosh! Hundreds of heads turned upwards following its trajectory. With the engine spent after a few seconds the rocket continued to coast until the small secondary charge ignited and popped the nosecone off and ejected the parachute. The rocket began to float down, towards my brother. I looked at him and he was doing what looked like some sort of Polynesian dance, crouched, waving his arms back and forth in a smooth semi-circle, all the while adjusting his position towards the descending rocket. I sensed a disaster in the making and was about to yell to him to get himself together when my father said:
“Wait. He’s figuring it out by himself.”
As soon as my father said that, I saw. My brother did not have the hands of a ball player. It took maximum effort from him to catch a fly ball. If he grabbed wildly at this elongated toilet tube model with its balsa wood fins, he could cause more damage than would a hard landing. He knew that about himself, so he took a different approach. He would avoid the model itself and sweep his hands through the air trying to entangle them with the parachute cords. It was an amazing idea, and I realized that he must have thought of it while standing and waiting for the launch. While all the crowd’s attention was on the launch, he realized that it would soon be upon him. He did not freeze. He thought of a solution, and here he was practicing it for the first time while the rocket was returning to Earth. His little spider-dance, his arms weaving a soft imaginary web to catch the rocket, was…beautiful. The rocket approached him and he came out of his crouch with his legs together and twisted his body with his arms wide one last time, like a ballet dancer, or a bullfighter on a close pass, and he snagged the parachute out of the air. A perfect recovery, on his first attempt. The crowd, which had gone silent as the rocket descended, burst into applause. My brother held the rocket high, and it was at that point that I understood that my little brother, with an elegance not seen until that point, had stolen the show from me.
He had stolen the show, but it was a better show by far because of it. As I was telling this story to the boys in Gan Or on the Thursday night two days before the return of Columbia, I realized that this story was not a prelude to the main story of the launch of Apollo 8. This was the main story. The eyes looking at me with trust, and thirst for knowledge, were looking at me differently now. These were the eyes of older brothers, surprised but not surprised to have such an exotic tale from far away turn into a lesson in morality, now seeing their younger brothers in a different light. I had not intended to make of my tale a “teachable moment” —or had I? I had observed these boys as they grew, and some of them were excellent older brothers, and in others I painfully saw shades of myself, making my own brother’s life more difficult than it needed to be.
For this commandment which I command thee this day, it is not hidden from thee, neither is it far off.
It is not in heaven, that thou shouldst say, Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it?
Nor is it beyond the sea, that thou shouldst say, Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it?
But the word is very near to thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that thou mayst do it. (Deuteronomy 30:11-14)
There is no need to look up to the heavens or to call across the seas, or to tell of humanity’s first venture beyond the cradle of Earth. To tell the essential stories, the ones that need to be passed from generation to generation, one needs to look no farther than into the expectant eyes of our youth. They will tell you what is needed. The “prep” story became the main story, and I saw no point in continuing that night. The original story could wait until the next evening, with the onset of Shabbat, when I had planned a special surprise for the boys, which would also bring an end to my series of lectures.
We gathered as planned. For the first time, some fathers joined us. I checked my watch and began describing the launch of Apollo 8. How we could barely see the rocket from where we stood. How everyone had their car radios tuned in to the countdown. How the thousands joined in with the countdown. How my brother and I felt as if we were going to launch into space right along with the rocket. Then when the countdown reached zero two huge plumes of smoke shot out from both sides of the rocket, and there was a strange quiet all around. Slowly, the little white toothpick started to rise and then we saw the flame. What a flame! As long as the rising rocket itself. Longer! Then came the heavenly jolt. The sound of the rocket finally reached us, and we were not prepared. In Gan Or, telling this story, I crouched down, yes, as I had learned from my brother all those years ago, and with arms spread and a low gurgling rumble in my throat I slowly rose up, increasing the volume of the sound from my throat, checking my watch one more time and then, on the second, thrust my right arm skyward with finger pointing to a spot above our ficus trees and right then, surprising even myself, the shuttle Columbia appeared exactly where I was pointing. As it shot across the night sky I said:
“Ilan Ramon is now reciting the kiddush in space!" I said the beginning of the kiddush (in Hebrew of course):
The heaven and the earth were finished, and all their array.
On the seventh day God finished the work that had been undertaken: [God] ceased on the seventh day from doing any of the work.
And God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy—having ceased on it from all the work of creation that God had done. (Genesis 2:1-3)
As I was describing the seventh day of rest, Columbia re-entered the Earth’s shadow. My audience was speechless. I admit that I wanted more than anything to turn and slowly walk back to my house without saying a word. Exit, stage right. The boys would have appreciated the theatre, knowing that I would explain all in good time. The problem was with the fathers. I knew that they were thinking voodoo, that they had entrusted their boys with a latter-day star worshipper. I gathered them in, these my neighbors through thick and thin, and explained how I knew when and where the shuttle would appear. To my surprise my explanation did not achieve the intended purpose. They were college-educated men (at a time when that meant something) and they understood the facts, but the build-up of my story and the precise timing of it was too magical to process logically. I thought of Mark Twain and his “stretchers.” I had based my little production on the most solid foundation of orbital mechanics, but by composing it out of a story from my past that connected seamlessly with a celestial event, I had told the biggest stretcher of all. This was not the way the world works. A vocal delirium from a smooth-talking mouth conjuring an event in the heavens? That could be nothing other than idol worship of the worst kind.
What had I been thinking? My friends returned to their homes, saying “Shabbat Shalom,” under their breaths, and I stood there, alone, thinking why hadn’t I left off with the story-telling the day before? I could have gone out a winner. It was not the first time in my life that my perfect timing was anything but perfect and I knew then, like a prophet of old, that it would not be the last time. I was too smart for my own britches, as my grandmother used to say.
The next day at morning prayers, mine were under subdued breath. It was my way of saying a sheepish “Shabbat Shalom” to the Universe, to the Creation, to the Creator.
what is man that You have been mindful of him,
mortal man that You have taken note of him (Psalms 8:5)
There would be no shaking-off of that feeling of impending doom that engulfed me that entire day, up until the moment, returning home from evening prayers at the end of Shabbat, when my neighbor’s son, my biggest enthusiast who himself would be in flight school a few years later, training in the same type of plane that Ilan Ramon flew in the famous raid on the Iraqi nuclear reactor, ran towards me with tears in his eyes, stopping in the road, spreading his arms palms forward slightly to his sides as if to say: “You raised your arms to command the heavens, and now we have received heaven’s answer.”
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Here is Big Bertha in action:
Breathtaking.
You're a great storyteller.