edgar-mitchell

Sea of Sky 57
Tense preparations, however, often gave way to surreal amusement.
The day before launch, we were in quarantine to shield ourselves against
the world’s germs like futuristic prisoners behind glass, when our families
and dignitaries arrived to wish us bon voyage. Kirk Douglas and Dr. Henry
Kissinger were just departing when my family arrived. Louise, in her gracious
and charming manner, conveyed a warm goodbye through the glass,
and never betrayed the apprehension she surely felt. Karlyn, now a mature
and precocious 17-year-old, alighted from the limousine and encountered
Kirk Douglas. She introduced herself, so I was told, shook hands with the
actor, and proceeded toward Dr. Henry Kissinger, to briefly engage in an
exchange about world affairs. Elizabeth, following her sister’s lead,
greeted Douglas, and dramatically curtsied, but added, “I didn’t like you in
Spartacus.” 1
Then came the morning of January 31, 1971. The stack of Apollo 14
stood white and brilliant against the black Florida horizon at the apex of
lamplight beneath a new moon. To view it was to sense something alive in
its presence as the systems were activated and came to operating speed. So
much preparation by so many minds, so much careful attention paid for so
long, and now here it was, the physical result of all those extraordinary
efforts. This was the culmination of the history of man, the furthest mark
made before he passed into that void beyond death. An Apollo rocket at
night, flooded in white light, poised for a launch that would take it to
another world and back, was a sight that stirred the blood.
I awoke on the morning of launch to a traditional breakfast with Deke
Slayton; Tom Stafford, head of the astronaut office; Dr. Robert Gilruth,
our beloved Houston boss; Al; Stu; and our backup crew of Gene Cernan,
Ron Evans, and Joe Engle. The mood was jovial, notably lighthearted. We
all knew what had to be done, down to the finest detail, and here we were
about to make the voyage. It seemed as though the thrill was so great that
it had to be contained, squelched in the interest of concentration. So we
joked to break the tension; perhaps it was unseemly to be too lighthearted
on such a heady occasion. After breakfast we gave our urine samples, were
examined by the NASA doctors, then began the suit-up process. The countdown
was well underway at the launch complex, and suddenly there was
the sense that this was really it, we were on our way.
Once we were suited up and had finished the pre-breathing process,
the ingress procedure was initiated. We took elevators down to the transfer
vans, where an excited throng of family, dignitaries, and coworkers lined
the walkway. We were three men who would soon be extraterrestrials,
three men who looked and felt the part. The clamor of the applause was
muted by the suit and helmet, producing the surreal sensation of doing
publicly what had been rehearsed so often in private. As we reached the
gantry and rode the elevator up, the sense of the stack’s aliveness suddenly