First Flight

Life is filled with firsts: first word, first step, first date, first kiss, first tax audit . . . well, you get the picture. The life of a brand-new astronaut is filled with firsts as well. From the day you report to the Johnson Space Center (JSC) in Houston and journey up the six flights of stairs in Building 4 South to the hallowed halls of the Astronaut Corps, you are destined for experiences that, while fully expected, are certainly not inconsequential: your first staff meeting, first trip to the men's restroom, first run-in with a veteran astronaut who thinks you might be taking over his next spacewalk. All are a part of the rite of passage so crucial to becoming an accepted member of perhaps the most elite group of men and women on (and off) the planet.

Perhaps the most significant of these firsts should also be defined as a perk ... a perk that occurs at over 850 miles an hour! The day was November 4, 1998, only two short months after I had reported for duty as an astronaut candidate (ASCAN) at JSC. The weather was bright and sunny with the temperature in the low eighties: a beautiful fall day in southeast Texas, the time of year Texans long for and then lament when it passes quickly and the first of December arrives.

I had arrived at Ellington Field plenty early, with a healthy amount of nervous anxiety. A former air force base in southeast Houston, Ellington Field has been repurposed as the home to NASA's fleet of T-38 training jets. I was anticipating an experience that would stick in my memory forever. I tentatively climbed the narrow internal stairwell on the southeast side of Hangar 276 while casting longing, worshipful glances at the beautifully sleek white-and-blue jet aircraft on the floor below. Within this massive building all the jets rested quietly and majestically, each an individual piece of a well-designed jigsaw puzzle nested together so the entire fleet could avoid exposure to the brutal windstorms, rain, hail, and searing heat of south Texas. Feeling every bit the rookie in this unfamiliar place, I carefully opened the blue door to the "ready room"—the sacred area where pilots and astronauts execute their individual flight preparations. Inside, I quickly made my way toward the far hallway, silently hoping that I wouldn't be stopped and questioned.

My presence was announced with each creaking step, as the floor of the World War II–era hangar squealed in distress under the pressure of my highly polished black leather military boots. I searched for the office adorned with the right nameplate. A third of the way down the hall I found myself at the door of Col. Andy Roberts (U.S. Air Force, Reserve), whose title was astronaut instructor pilot (IP). I was here for a baptism of sorts, to fly for the first time in one of NASA's T-38s. (The T-38s—"T" for "trainer"—are a fleet of twin-engine jets maintained by NASA specifically for astronauts to fly.)

Wearing my new royal blue astronaut flight suit, complete with a nametag declaring that Clayton C. Anderson, JSC, had made it this far, I stood as tall as I could while I waited patiently for Andy's acknowledgment that it was okay to enter the room. Beckoned with a warm smile and a welcoming wave, I entered, then paused for a moment to survey the lair of the former U.S. Air Force fighter pilot.

Andy's workspace was shared with three other IPs and adorned with the unceremonious trappings one might expect at a U.S. government facility. The drab gray government-issue office furniture and cubicles were arranged as if to barricade themselves from the outside world and anyone or anything that might ruin their day. Bookshelves and file cabinets were set up the way kids might build forts in their grandma's front room. As my eyes scanned this cacophony of paper and personal mementos, gathered through years of career service and family milestones, I noticed that my treasured rookie flight suit—so crisp, blue, and stiff—now felt like a rough piece of cardboard freshly removed from a three-pack of new t-shirts. Nerves and anxiety alerted every pore, causing me to break into a nice preflight sweat, as I realized how well worn my veteran-fighter-pilot-turnedinstructor's garb was compared to mine.

His flight suit, once the same brilliant hue and crispness of the one I so proudly wore, had the look of a comfortable denim shirt, soft to the touch and conforming to each contour in the wearer's upper torso. The one-time bright royal blue had become a faded blue pastel, reminding me a bit of a favorite old bathrobe. Yet his appearance was one of total confidence. On each of his sleeves, near his biceps, were the classic military-type patches—a U.S. flag on the left and the circular flight instructor patch of the NASA Aircraft Operations Directorate on the right. Even these patches had faded, beaten down by hours upon hours of the relentless sun shining through the clear glass cockpit of the T-38, testifying to flight hours so numerous that they require a computer to track. Each thread had been hammered by ultraviolet radiation, every flight pushing the fabric further toward the yellow end of the spectrum.

My flight instructor's suit was repeatedly an inanimate passenger in a jet as it ascends through the atmosphere to pierce cottonlike clouds the way a needle drives through a piece of fabric. Yet for all the abuse that suit got, its ultimate reward was to be touched by beams of high-energy radiation emanating at the speed of light from our very own star, poised majestically ninety-three million miles away at the center of our solar system.

I looked at Andy's nametag framing his name and rank. Though tarnished from wear, the time-honored air force silver border still shone proudly as the emblem of the service for which he risked his life. Oh sure, he could have gotten a new flight suit—all it took was a short walk across the hangar floor and up another flight of stairs to reach the equipment shop. He could have been wearing one just as stiff and uncomfortable as mine. But as I would quickly come to learn, he wore his "gently used" flight suit with as much honor as any of the others who have so proudly served; he wore it to commemorate how he had bravely challenged the skies for his country and had come out a winner every single time.

Andy was on the phone finishing a call with his wife. I was not eavesdropping, but just before he hung up I heard him say something like, "Honey, I've got to go. I've got one of the new ASCANs here for his 'Zoom and Boom' ride." I was already nervous enough, and hearing those...