by Terry Fallis
She had a look on her face that suggested there was more to say.
“What exactly do you mean?” I prompted.
“Well, in the spirit of full disclosure, I guess there’s something else you should know,” she continued. “Back in the sixties, when I lived in Vancouver, my roommate Sam was much more than a roommate.”
“Say it isn’t so! I’m shocked,” I mocked. “Landon, lovers living in sin during the free-love sixties isn’t exactly a stop-the-presses moment. I don’t think it’ll be a problem. So what happened to him?”
“Her. You mean, ‘What happened to her?’ ” she replied and paused, looking down before continuing. “Well, Samantha bolted when it became clear she couldn’t really compete with a beloved father who was still missing in a presumed plane crash.”
“Samantha,” I said, catching up.
“Yes, Samantha,” she said. “As in ‘the love that dare not speak its name.’ ”
“Okay, so you’re a seventy-one-year-old Oscar Wilde-quoting lesbian bush pilot doctor from Cigar Lake, B.C., who’d like to visit the International Space Station,” I said.
She just nodded, satisfied that I had the full picture.
“It would help if you also loved maple syrup and Hockey Night in Canada, but I think I can work with what I’ve got.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means you have an incredible story that I think would have resonated with Canadians if we were ever given the chance to tell it.”
“But we won’t get that chance, will we?” She wasn’t really asking. She was resigned.
“Landon, if it were up to me it’d be an easy call. But I’m just a bit player in all of this. Not even the Canadian Space Agency will have any meaningful role in the final decision. It’s all in NASA’S hands. If we honestly confront the reality of your situation – and I’m sorry about this – I just don’t think there’s any hope you’ll be given the go-ahead.”
“So there it is. I’m rejected a second time.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ll push as hard as I can,” I said. “I’ll tell them your story and do whatever I can to soft-pedal the age thing. But sooner or later it’ll come out. It has to.”
She suddenly seemed even smaller and older. I felt terrible and tried to explain it again, to soften it.
“I’m really sorry about this, Landon, but this is a very big deal for NASA. They’ve staked a lot on this contest idea and it’s already pushed them far out of their comfort zone. So they are going to be very, very careful when it comes to approving the citizen astronauts. They’re looking for safe, very safe. I’m sorry to say that at seventy-one, you’re just not in the safe category. We’ll never announce the citizen astronaut until the candidate has been vetted up and down and sideways. That’s why my mission out here is shrouded in such secrecy. No one knows who you are, why I’m here, or even that I’m here. So when I get back to Toronto and report on all of this, I know my colleagues and my client will be amazed at your story. How could they not be? But I also know what they’ll decide in the end. We’ll just draw another name and start the qualifying process all over again.”
“Well, maybe I won’t keep my mouth shut,” Landon said, angry. “I’m the winner, fair and square. I should be on the shuttle.”
“No, no, no. Don’t do that. You can’t go public with this or you’ll be disqualified immediately. It’s all laid out in black and white in the contest rules and regs. You can say nothing publicly without NASA’S approval,” I explained. “You’d be making it very easy for them to reject you. I’m truly sorry, but it is what it is.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, she sighed, nodded, then stood up.
“I want to show you something.”
We headed out the back door but turned right, not towards the outhouse. Down the back porch steps we went and onto a path that snaked through the trees. My eyes darted all around in search of Hector. And I didn’t really care how arthritic he might be. We reached a clearing about fifty yards from the cabin. Tree stumps littered the circular space and I realized the land must have been cleared by hand. But I forgot about the stumps when my eyes latched onto the spindly metal contraption that sat at the centre of the clearing.
I couldn’t even begin to fathom what I was looking at. A steel post about six feet high was stuck in the ground at the centre. A long metal pole was somehow bolted horizontally to the top of the post somewhere near the middle so that there was twelve feet or so feet of the pole on either side of the vertical post. A small engine was bolted to one end of the horizontal pole, driving a three-foot-diameter three-bladed wooden propeller. At the other end of the pole hung what looked like an old cushioned seat, probably taken from a long-grounded aircraft. Five concrete blocks were stacked on the seat. Even after analyzing what I was seeing, I was unable to figure it out. I didn’t even have to ask.
“It’s a centrifuge,” was all she said.
“A centrifuge?”
“Yes, a centrifuge.”
“I see,” I replied, still hovering on the outskirts of understanding. “Are you trying to hurl concrete blocks to the other side of the forest?”
“Oh, there has definitely been some hurling happening right here, but it’s unrelated to the concrete blocks.”
She watched as my wheels turned and finally delivered me. In an instant, I saw it and then wondered how I couldn’t have seen it from the beginning.
“No way. You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “Okay. Don’t tell me. You’ve built your own centrifuge to practise pulling Gs for the shuttle launch. Right?
“Actually, it’s more to simulate how re-entry feels. But you’re on the right track.”
She seemed pleased by my enthusiasm.
“Amazing. How does it work?”
“Well, let’s do a walk-around and I’ll try to explain it,” she said as we headed to the centre post. “This is where the real work of the centrifuge happens. While you’re seeing only about five feet of the steel post, there’s another six feet of it anchored in concrete below the surface. There’s a hell of a lot of stress on this post, so I check the foundations and the hardware on top before and after every spin.”
I grabbed the post with both hands and tried to give it a little shake. Nothing. Rock of Gibraltar solid.
“Where did you get such a long pole for the radial arm?” I inquired.
“Believe it or not, it’s the aluminum mast of a long-retired Starcraft Skylark sailboat we used to sail right here on Cigar. I had a machinist work on the mounting hardware so that it’s safely and securely fixed to the post but able to rotate freely about it. I bought an old JLO Rockwell 340 cc twin cylinder snowmobile engine off a neighbour and bolted it to the steel plate I had welded to one end of the mast, the crankshaft running perpendicular to the mast. Then I slapped on an old propeller I had lying around to finish this end.”
We walked to the other end.
“Would you mind putting a bit of weight on the mast and holding it there?”
When I had leaned on the aluminum pole, Landon promptly lifted each of the five concrete blocks piled in the seat and set them down on the ground a few feet away. I could immediately feel the upward pressure on my arms as I balanced the weight of the engine and prop assembly on the other end.
“This is one of the old seats from my father’s first plane,” she explained. “It kind of makes me feel like he’s still involved in this.”
“Well, it seems appropriate, given that you’re still flying when you’re sitting in it.”
Landon pulled herself into the seat and motioned for me to let go. The old sailboat mast mounted horizontally on the centre post bobbed into perfect equilibrium, the engine and propeller at one end balancing Landon strapped in at the other.
“Okay, Mr. Stewart. All I need you to do now is start the engine on your way up to the observation post on that tree.” She pointed as she spoke.
There was a modest tree fort of sorts about twelve fee
t up hanging between two large Douglas firs. Okay, fort is a bit of an overstatement. It was really just an elevated deck with a ladder up one trunk. I stood in front of the engine, grabbed the pull cord, and yanked for all I was worth. One pull and it started. I looked at Landon and she pointed me up the tree to the observation platform. I obeyed and was soon seated above the centrifuge on a low bench. I pulled out my iPhone and shot some video as Landon squeezed the throttle she’d rigged up using an old bicycle brake handle and cable that ran along the former sailboat mast to the engine. The propeller pushed the air and the centrifuge did what centrifuges do. It began to rotate. What an ingeniously simple design.
Landon was spinning quite quickly by then. I could tell because the freely suspended seat was now angled out to the side, pushed by the centrifugal force of the revolving arm. I was worried for her safety. If the seat ever broke free from the spinning arm, she’d fly halfway back to Vancouver if she cleared the trees. I was getting dizzy and queasy just watching from above. She spun for five minutes according to my iPhone, which is actually quite a long time when you’re strapped onto the end of what is essentially a whirling helicopter rotor. I heard the tone of the engine fall and eventually die out completely, leaving the mast to coast around and around, before finally stopping as Landon dragged her feet in the pine needles and dirt. I scrambled back down the ladder, skipping the last two rungs by accident. I struggled back to my feet and helped Landon get out of the seat. With her assistance, I returned the five concrete blocks to the seat, restoring the centrifuge’s perfect balance.
“How do you feel?” I asked. “You must have been pulling a few Gs there towards the end.”
“Actually, I hit just more than two Gs before shutting her down,” she replied.
“How do you know?”
She pointed to a cylinder fixed with chains linking it at one end to the mast and the other to the seat.
“This is a heavy pull scale for load testing. It can register up to 800 pounds. It’s positioned so that I can see it when I’m strapped in. At rest, the seat and I together weigh about 150 pounds. So I monitor the scale as I crank up the throttle. Just before I killed the engine, I saw that the gauge was reading over 300 pounds, or slightly more than two Gs.”
Landon was standing perfectly still without a hint of dizziness or the traditional temporary wobbling that normally accompanies being spun in a blender for five minutes. I could not relate at all. I would often get a mild case of vertigo after turning a corner.
“You’re not dizzy at all after that?” I asked.
“Nope. I was the first two hundred times I did it back in ’83, but then, over the years, I just got used to it,” she explained. “I’ve routinely pulled two and a half Gs in this thing. And sometimes I even secure the seat in the vertical position, facing the centre post, to simulate launch. It’s easier to take the Gs at launch because of the direction of the force. But still, it’s good practice.”
“But it’s as if you’re completely unaffected by being whipped in circles for five minutes.”
“It bothers me even less now. Researchers have actually discovered that there’s something about the geriatric physiology that makes it easier to accommodate G forces. I guess there are at least a few benefits to growing old.”
“Oh yeah, it must be a great comfort to senior citizens everywhere knowing that they’re better able to handle rocket launches,” I replied. “So you’ve really been doing this for years? Why?”
“I’ve been waiting for my shot and I wanted to be ready. I guess you could say I’ve been waiting for you and your contest.” She was staring at the centrifuge seat as she said this, with a faraway look in her eyes. We stood in silence for a moment or two before she took my arm and led me to the seat.
“Okay, now it’s your turn. Hop on, and strap in,” Landon said, pointing to the seat.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’m really not great on amusement park rides. Trust me.”
She said nothing but just kept pointing to the seat and smiling. It was a nice smile. Plus, she was my host and personal pilot for the trip back to Mackenzie. I didn’t really want to offend her.
I leaned on the seat to offset the weight it was losing as Landon removed the concrete blocks. On her signal, I slipped into the seat.
“How much do you weigh?” she asked.
“About 165.”
Landon immediately walked over to a flat tree stump near the observation deck and picked up a large iron disk with a hole in the middle. I recognized it as a weight that would normally be added to a barbell for power-lifting in the gym. She slid it onto a shelf below the engine mount, walked back to fetch another, and secured them both with a couple of shock cords. I was heavier than Landon and this additional weight on the engine end of the mast returned the entire contraption to equilibrium. Simple, but effective.
Landon then made sure I’d secured the harness.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good. You control the throttle, so you don’t have to scramble your innards. Just go fast enough to feel the additional weight on your body. ”
I nodded.
It occurred to me that I’d never make it as an astronaut. Suddenly, wave after wave of nausea rolled over me. It was a horrible feeling. I didn’t know which end was up I was so disoriented. It was even worse when Landon started the engine and I actually started moving slowly along my circular flight plan. And that’s all I remember. I must have passed out. When I came to, Landon was standing in front me with a pail of water. It was shockingly cold as she dumped the bucket on me.
Apparently, I’d thrown up and fainted on my second complete revolution, while still travelling so slowly it was hard to tell I was moving at all. Or perhaps I fainted and then threw up. Either way, I eventually understood why I was being unceremoniously doused with cold water. It took a few buckets, but the last vestiges of my breakfast were finally washed from the seat, my clothes, my hair, my nose, etc. Yes, I was born to this.
“I’ve never been very good at spinning,” I conceded. “Despite being a PR professional.”
She took my arm and led me farther up the path where the sound of rushing water grew louder. I could see a mountain stream cascading down the slope to the lake. A wooden box had been placed in the water and was full. The water that didn’t flow into the box rushed around it and continued down the slope eventually feeding into the lake. I could see a black plastic hose running from the box down through the woods to Landon’s cabin. I got it.
“So this is how you get your water?”
“A tried and true technique. This gravity-fed water box system gives me all the clean and cold water I need, with no pumps required,” she explained. “Of course, it’s helpful to have a mountain spring rushing by your back door.”
I wasn’t sure why we were standing there.
“Rinse out your pants and shirt in the stream and we’ll dry them on the dock,” she instructed.
I hesitated. She wanted me to strip down to my boxers.
“Mr. Stewart, I’m a doctor. I’ve seen plenty of men in their skivvies. Besides, I bat for the other team, remember?”
I stripped down and was about to dunk my pants and shirt when she stopped me.
“Not in the water box, if you please. We drink from that. Take two steps downstream and we’re fine.”
Half an hour later, we were sitting on the dock in old-fashioned wooden lounge chairs, known in Ontario as Muskoka chairs, enjoying the sun’s warmth. I’d changed by then and was feeling much better, as long as I stayed quite still. Landon got up, walked up the path, and lifted the canoe off its rack in one smooth motion. She supported it on her thighs as she sidestepped back down to the dock and slid the cedar-stripped canoe into the water. She tossed in a couple of life jackets, grabbed the paddle that was stuck in a slot and bracket on one of the plane’s floats, and slid onto the seat. She looked my way.
“Hop in and we’ll go for a paddle up th
e lake a ways,” she suggested. “You don’t have to lift a finger. I only have one paddle anyway. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. I’ll take care of navigation and locomotion.”
I hesitated.
“Come on, Mr. Stewart, you won’t get an offer like this very often.”
I did what I was told. I actually made it into the canoe without dumping us both in the lake. I felt pretty good about that. Landon had me sit facing her on a soft life jacket in the bottom of the canoe with my back against the seat. This lowered my centre of gravity, which meant that it also lowered the prospects of tipping the canoe from certain to just shy of likely. She pushed away from the dock gently and took silent strong strokes. Each stroke was precisely the same. She must have paddled this lake a thousand times. Every time she pulled her paddle back through the water, I felt us surge forward. For the first fifty yards or so off the dock, the water retained its deep blue. Then I watched the rocky bottom rise up and level off about twenty feet beneath us, where it stayed for the rest of our journey up the south shore of Cigar Lake.
“If I’m not flying, this is my favourite mode of transportation,” she said, keeping us about twenty yards offshore.
“Except perhaps for the space shuttle,” I suggested.
“You got that right,” she replied. “Okay. Now that you’ve heard it all, what happens now?”
“Well, I head back to Toronto and report on our contest winner’s suitability for space travel. If I had my way, you’d be confirmed as the Canadian citizen astronaut. Your story is perfect and would captivate the country. You’re a bush pilot doctor who was rejected nearly thirty years ago for the astronaut corps. You built your own centrifuge, for crying out loud. This would have been such sweet vindication,” I said, but with a melancholy tone that was not lost on Landon.
“But you’re not the decision-maker.”
“Right. Moreover, I doubt I have enough influence even to get your full story on the table before the hatchet falls,” I lamented. “NASA and my bosses in Toronto and Washington will make the call, and I don’t think it will take them long. I’m sorry.”