by Buzz Aldrin
We all congratulated the pilot for the great recovery, even though he had failed to achieve suborbital distance. In the crowd I ran into my friend, Richard Branson, flamboyant founder and CEO of Virgin Galactic, who was on hand for the flight. Richard is an English billionaire with more than 300 companies under his Virgin logo. He has a knack for building businesses, so I was glad when he expressed interest in suborbital space tourism. He was considering an association between Virgin and SpaceShipOne to adapt the technology for a fleet of suborbital craft. By the time SpaceShipOne won the X PRIZE, it bore a Virgin logo. Richard was never one to miss a good opportunity to market and promote his companies.
On September 29, 2004, Mike Melvill became the first civilian pilot to fly into suborbital space, successfully qualifying SpaceShipOne for the first round of the two requisite X PRIZE flights. To celebrate en route in his brief moments of weightlessness, he released a bag of M&Ms that floated around the cabin in a colorful display. I wasn’t able to be there in person for this first, but was thrilled with the outcome. Days later, on October 4, 2004, SpaceShipOne made its second qualifying flight to win the $10-million Ansari X PRIZE, as it was now called, since the prize was primarily funded by the Ansaris, a wealthy entrepreneurial Iranian family from Texas. Anousheh Ansari became so enamored with space that she eventually flew as the first female space tourist, traveling to the International Space Station on a Russian Soyuz rocket in September 2006.
In November, Lois and I went to London for a meeting with Virgin Galactic’s Stephen Attenborough, Alex Tai, and others at their Kensington offices, to discuss a potential collaboration between Virgin and my ShareSpace Foundation. I knew that Richard wanted to design his own spacecraft for suborbital tourism and hoped to be operating regular flights by 2008. That date has since been revised, but there is little doubt that the world will see Virgin Galactic taking people on suborbital rides in the near future.
While my friends were developing fresh ideas for making suborbital travel feasible, safe, and profitable, I focused my attention on my Star-Booster family of rockets and spacecraft that could carry larger numbers of passengers into orbital space with each trip.
There are enormous differences between launching a suborbital craft and launching an orbital craft. One of the easiest ways to understand the relative degree of difficulty is the speed needed in both instances. A suborbital craft may top out at about 2,500 miles per hour to perform the sixty-two-mile lob to the edge of space, whereas the thrust and speed required to take a vehicle into orbit is exponentially greater, on the order of 17,500 miles per hour to reach about 220 miles above the Earth and sustain ninety-minute orbits encircling the entire globe. It’s a whole different ball game.
NASA’s missions were never intended to maximize the number of people sent into space, but to maximize the scientific or exploratory aspects of each journey. But for space tourism to be profitable, and thus more inviting for private-sector investors, we must take more people into space on each launch. I wanted to design a spacecraft to carry forty, fifty, possibly even eighty to one hundred passengers into Earth’s orbit each time it launched, a “space bus,” if you will. To do so would require a massive spaceship.
But I wondered, What if we could launch more than one crew, each in its own spacecraft, on one launch vehicle? That has never been done before! I went to work on that concept, designing one heavy-lift launch vehicle, but one that could carry up to six separate spacecraft or “crew modules” attached to it, similar to the way in which the space shuttle orbiters have previously been attached to a launch vehicle. But in my design, there would be six separate eight-person crew modules, rather than one shuttle orbiter. That way, we could launch nearly fifty people into space at one time! Following liftoff, each of the crew modules would separate from the launch vehicle to embark on their own respective missions, and then return to the Earth for a runway landing. In addition to taking more people into space with each launch, the flexibility offered with multiple crew modules would make it feasible for NASA’s scientific missions and private-sector missions to be launched at the same time, on the same launch vehicle, from the same launchpad, thus saving money, while opening the space frontier to public travelers. It was a win-win idea, so I put my thoughts together in a formal proposal, and on December 7, 2004, I was awarded a U.S. patent for “Multi-Crew Modules for Space Flight.”
At the same time, I was unwilling to give up on the idea of developing a heavy-lift launch vehicle that could serve as a workhorse similar to the Saturn V rocket that we used for Apollo launches. The Saturn V was capable of carrying enormous weight, as much as 260,000 pounds, into Earth’s orbit, and as much as 104,000 all the way to lunar orbit, nearly a quarter of a million miles away. But after launching us to the moon nine times, and hoisting America’s first space station, Skylab, in 1973, the Saturn V was inauspiciously “retired” from NASA’s transportation vehicles.
Instead, NASA focused on developing the space shuttle program, with its initial launches in 1981 using a transportation system that carried only 55,000 pounds and could travel only about 215 miles above the Earth, within the area referred to as “low Earth orbit.” Since the shuttle was partially reusable, it was thought that it would replace the need for the Saturn V, reducing costs and making spaceflight more routine. Unfortunately, those goals turned out to be more elusive than NASA originally thought.
Consequently, back in 2002, I started encouraging my StarBooster design team to work on a “next-generation” launch system that would once again power a spacecraft with human beings beyond low Earth orbit. We needed something bigger, a heavy-lift launch vehicle that could carry an expanded crew, have greater cargo capacity and also have on board an escape pod that could be a “space lifeboat.”
We named the vehicle we were developing Aquila, the Latin word for eagle, and obviously a term that meant a great deal to me. The Aquila was a heavy-lift rocket system that would carry twice the pay-load of the space shuttle’s capacity, with the goal of accomplishing large missions such as building a space station, space hotels, or space ports along the route between Earth and Mars. All of this could be done at lower costs and lower risks, since fewer flights and less assembly in space would be required.
As 2004 drew to a close, I could see that people were catching on to my vision of space travel, and entrepreneurs were developing new technology that could take us to the final frontier, or, as my cousin Buzz Lightyear is fond of saying, “to infinity and beyond!” Except this is no movie; the commercial exploration of space is becoming more certain every day. Soon the images we have always perceived as being a part of the “future” will be our present-tense reality
22
FINAL
FRONTIERS
EARLY IN OUR MARRIAGE, LOIS CONFIDED TO ME THAT SHE always wanted to be a movie star and to interact with the interesting and famous people of the world. Imagine how tickled she was when none other than Robin Leach, of the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous television show, contacted us to do an interview. “But, Robin, Buzz may be famous as a result of walking on the moon,” Lois gently protested, “but we’re not rich.” Robin didn’t mind; he seemed to know instinctively that our marriage would take Lois and me around the world and into the presence of not only the rich and famous, but presidents and royalty as well.
One of our royal encounters occurred when I was asked to speak at a university in Madrid, Spain. After the event, we had a little extra time, and wondered what to do. Lois asked, “Do you know anyone in Madrid?”
I thought for a moment, then said, “The only person that I know in Madrid is the king.” Lois looked at me and cocked her head, uncertain whether I was joking or not.
“I think I’ll give him a call,” I said. I looked in my address book, found the phone number for the king and queen, and called Juan Carlos, the king of Spain. I had met Juan Carlos, of course, during the Apollo 11 world tour, so when I called and told him we were in Madrid, the king said, “Come on over.” We did, and
we enjoyed the marvelous hospitality of the Spanish royalty. Lois loves meeting world leaders, and I don’t think she has ever doubted me on such matters since that trip to Madrid.
Over the last twenty years, Lois and I have had a lot of fun growing the “business of Buzz.” We have worked with some of the world’s leading innovators and their enterprises and have enjoyed every minute of it. More recently I have been honored to collaborate with some well-known companies to create and develop space-inspired products in connection with the launch of my Rocket Hero™ brand. Perhaps through these efforts we can generate excitement and interest in space.
Throughout all our activities, Lois and I have maintained a travel schedule that most twenty-year-olds would have a hard time matching. As Lois likes to say, “They may be in full swing, but we are in full orbit.” And like anyone who travels frequently, Lois and I have experienced our share of travel nightmares, ranging from canceled flights to the time when I lost my passport while on a trip out of the country. Perhaps the most memorable close call occurred in a way we least expected.
In February 2005, Lois and I were in Brussels for Earth and Space Week, where I was to speak at the space conference. The next day we were scheduled to have dinner with two ambassadors—Rockwell Schnabel, the U.S. envoy to the European Union, and Chris Korologos, the American ambassador to Belgium. But when I woke up that morning, I found I could hardly speak or pronounce any words clearly enough to be understood. Alarmed, Lois called the ambassador’s office, and they sent an ambulance for me right away. We spent the rest of the day in a Belgian hospital, where the doctors ran all sorts of tests and it was determined that I had suffered a kind of mini-stroke. Slowly, before the day was over, my speech returned and I felt fine. We went on to Gstaad, Switzerland to stay with our friend Heidi Chantre-Eckes in her ski chalet, and enjoyed an energetic day of skiing. But as soon as we returned to the United States, I was subjected to a series of intensive medical examinations.
After seeing a number of doctors, I was led to Dr. Willis Wagner, a classmate of Lisa’s from Stanford and one of the top vascular surgeons in the country. The matter was urgent, he said. “You’re going to the hospital tomorrow morning.” He performed a successful operation, removing a large blood clot. If the blood vessel had burst, it could have caused a major stroke that would have impaired me for the rest of my life, or possibly even killed me. Fortunately, the problem that occurred in Brussels sounded an alarm. I had been the picture of health, and passed my physicals at NASA every year with flying colors, but I’d never had an ultrasound that might have revealed the clot. Sometimes those experiences that we think are mistakes or misfortunes turn out to be lifesavers. Had I not had the forewarning in Brussels, we might not have averted a potentially life-threatening situation later. Could be I’ve got some good guardian angels watching over me. I’d just like to know more about what star systems they live in.
OVER THE YEARS I’ve received a number of awards and recognitions from many fine organizations, but one that I have especially cherished is from the Horatio Alger Association of Distinguished Americans. Each year the association inducts new members into its prestigious group, chosen because of adversities they have overcome. Our friends Diane and Harry Rinker nominated me for membership, and I was inducted in 2005. The Horatio Alger Association of Distinguished Americans culls hundreds of nominations to make the selections for each award, so I was deeply honored. Moreover, the organization comprises mostly multimillionaires who started from humble, sometimes destitute, beginnings, but are now living the American dream. Members of the association sponsor more than $5 million in need-based scholarships for aspiring college students.
In my acceptance speech, I acknowledged that most people in the association had experienced trying circumstances before achieving success. I, however, achieved the greatest success, universally acclaimed as one of mankind’s most extraordinary achievements to date, and then found adversity crouching at my door, waiting to trip me up. Once entangled, I didn’t unwittingly fall into depression and alcoholism; I took willful steps in the wrong direction, thinking I could turn around at any point. But like a motorboat idling on the Niagara River, I soon found myself being swept along, past the point of no return, out of control, drowning my sorrows and disappointments in alcohol, and heading for the precipice and ultimate destruction.
Having been to the moon, I plummeted into my own personal hell on Earth. Had it not been for some friends who cared enough to call a drunk a drunk, even if he had walked on the moon, I might have perished. I will always be grateful to Alcoholics Anonymous for saving my life, and for helping me to sustain now more than thirty years of sobriety.
But, thankful as I am to my friends in AA, it wasn’t they who motivated me to see the best in myself. For that, I will be forever indebted to a petite little bundle of loving energy, my wife, Lois. She helped me to believe in myself, and she believed in me so much that she was willing to do whatever it took to help me fulfill my dreams. As I accepted the Horatio Alger Award, I looked over at Harry Rinker and said, “Thank you, Harry, for nominating me for this great honor and for being a true friend.”
Then I looked at Lois, and I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. With great emotion, I expressed what anyone who has known me already knew, that she was not merely the wind beneath my wings, she was the wind behind me, under me, and in front of me. “And thank you, Lois, for standing behind me and supporting me and leading me these last nineteen years.”
I went on to express one of the key facts of my life; I have been most fortunate to be consistently at the right place at the right time. “I am truly humbled and honored to receive the Horatio Alger Award, not only for what it signifies, but also because I respect and revere so many of the members who have come before me. One in particular who has gone before me in aviation is General Jimmy Doolittle, who led the bombing raid on Tokyo and was inducted into this association in 1972. The title of his autobiography is I Could Never Be So Lucky Again. And that’s exactly how I feel about so many things in my life. My talents and motivations combined to put me in the right place at the right time and propelled me into a career that far exceeded my boyhood dreams of becoming a pilot.”
I looked out at the group of young men and women that the association had invited to receive scholarships based on their need and academic abilities, their faces bright with anticipation and potential. Although I certainly didn’t qualify as a wealthy man in dollars and cents, I was rich beyond measure with a treasury of life experiences that I hoped might inspire them. More than anything, I wanted to encourage them to believe in themselves, the way Lois had encouraged me. “So, scholars, open your arms wide,” I said. “Pursue America’s abundant opportunities and reach for the stars. Who knows? You just might get to your own moon landing.”
I wasn’t merely spouting tripe to those teenagers. I truly believe that we have the universe at our fingertips. We were on the right track when we took the challenge laid down by President Kennedy, and we will continue on the right track if we expand upon that commitment.
I remain passionate about my vision for space exploration. In September 2007, when Google cofounder Larry Page wanted to make a media splash with his company’s $30-million Lunar X PRIZE—an award to be split between the first two private-sector teams that can soft-land on the moon, robotically roam for at least 500 meters, and transmit a mooncast back to Earth—I stood at the podium with him to help sell the idea.
I believe that space travel will one day become as common as airline travel is today. I’m convinced, however, that the true future of space travel does not lie with government agencies—NASA is still obsessed with the idea that the primary purpose of the space program is science—but real progress will come from private companies competing to provide the ultimate adventure ride, and NASA will receive the trickle-down benefits.
Millions of people get excited about the possibility of going into space; something about space travel intrigues and inspires. And a few
of them are movie moguls who have shown a great interest in space, like my friend Ron Howard, who directed Apollo 13 and who lent his name to promote the Sundance Award–winning documentary film In the Shadow of the Moon. It’s the story of the Apollo landings told by the astronauts themselves, starring several of us moonwalkers. Of course I’ve enjoyed conversing with my fellow explorer, Jim Cameron, the famed director of Titanic, at a number of film festivals and space events. He shares my passion for missions to Mars (and has even expressed interest in going there himself), and we also share an interest in exploring the oceans of the Earth.
I recall one evening when Lois and I went out to a charity event in Los Angeles at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in support of breast cancer research. The event was hosted by Tom Hanks, who produced the HBO series From the Earth to the Moon, starred in Apollo 13, and has always been supportive to us and all of the astronauts. Coincidentally it was an evening when we were experiencing a lunar eclipse. As Tom was making his introductions, in addition to talking about cancer research, he couldn’t resist talking about the moon. “Tonight we have a lunar eclipse, and we happen to have a man who actually walked on the moon.” Ironically, at this same event in 2009, Tom introduced and extolled the strength and courage of a breast cancer survivor close to me—my wife, Lois. I really appreciate guys like Tom, who have given so much of their time in support of such worthy charities, as well as our space program. And I don’t mind it at all that he titled his IMAX film on space exploration to the moon Magnificent Desolation, after my words.
On another occasion we were at the Beverly Hilton with Clive Davis, of Arista Records fame. I had only met Clive a few times, but Lois wanted to go to the pre–Grammy Awards party, so we attended. When Clive came out on stage, in a room full of famous celebrities, he said, “I want to recognize somebody really special who is here tonight—Buzz Aldrin!”