Magnificent Desolation: The Long Journey Home from the Moon

Magnificent Desolation: The Long Journey Home from the Moon

3.3 26
by Buzz Aldrin, Ken Abraham

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Forty years ago, Buzz Aldrin became the second human, minutes after Neil Armstrong, to set foot on a celestial body other than the Earth. The event remains one of mankind’s greatest achievements and was witnessed by the largest worldwide television audience in history. In the years since, millions more have had their Earth-centric perspective unalterably

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Forty years ago, Buzz Aldrin became the second human, minutes after Neil Armstrong, to set foot on a celestial body other than the Earth. The event remains one of mankind’s greatest achievements and was witnessed by the largest worldwide television audience in history. In the years since, millions more have had their Earth-centric perspective unalterably changed by the iconic photograph of Aldrin standing on the surface of the moon, the blackness of space behind him and his fellow explorer and the Eagle reflected in his visor. Describing the alien world he was walking upon, he uttered the words “magnificent desolation.” And as the astronauts later sat in the Eagle, waiting to begin their journey back home, knowing that they were doomed unless every system and part on board worked flawlessly, it was Aldrin who responded to Mission Control’s clearance to take off with the quip, “Roger. Understand. We’re number one on the runway.”

The flight of Apollo 11 made Aldrin one of the most famous persons on our planet, yet few people know the rest of this true American hero’s story. In Magnificent Desolation, Aldrin not only gives us a harrowing first-person account of the lunar landing that came within seconds of failure and the ultimate insider’s view of life as one of the superstars of America’s space program, he also opens up with remarkable candor about his more personal trials–and eventual triumphs–back on Earth. From the glory of being part of the mission that fulfilled President Kennedy’s challenge to reach the moon before the decade was out, Aldrin returned home to an Air Force career stripped of purpose or direction, other than as a public relations tool that NASA put to relentless use in a seemingly nonstop world tour. The twin demons of depression and alcoholism emerged–the first of which Aldrin confronted early and publicly, and the second of which he met with denial until it nearly killed him. He burned through two marriages, his Air Force career came to an inglorious end, and he found himself selling cars for a living when he wasn’t drunkenly wrecking them. Redemption came when he finally embraced sobriety, gained the love of a woman, Lois, who would become the great joy of his life, and dedicated himself to being a tireless advocate for the future of space exploration–not only as a scientific endeavor but also as a thriving commercial enterprise.

These days Buzz Aldrin is enjoying life with an enthusiasm that reminds us how far it is possible for a person to travel, literally and figuratively. As an adventure story, a searing memoir of self-destruction and self-renewal, and as a visionary rallying cry to once again set our course for Mars and beyond, Magnificent Desolation is the thoroughly human story of a genuine hero.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Buzz Aldrin relives the Magnificent Desolation of space, and the soul-sucking depression that awaited back home."
Vanity Fair, “Hot Type”

"An admirable account of an icon of the golden age of space flight."
Kirkus Reviews

“Space fans, in particular, will cheer.”

“Aldrin presents a no-holds-barred account of how his celebrity, career and human weaknesses nearly destroyed his life….This inspiring story exhibits Aldrin as a different, perfectly human kind of hero, giving readers a sympathetic look at a man eclipsed by his own legend.”
Publishers Weekly

“Buzz Aldrin relives the Magnificent Desolation of space, and the soul-sucking depression that awaited back home."
Vanity Fair, “Hot Type”

“Riveting reading.”
The Economist

“Leads the field of new releases.The candid portrayal of his earthly battles—often written with great humor—make this a cut above the rest….Great holiday reading.”
New Scientist

“Captivating….an engaging first-hand account by one of history’s most important explorers.”
Alive East Bay

By NASA standards, 496 people worldwide have been in space, but of all those hundreds of astronauts, original moonwalkers Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong hold precedence. Even crew member Mike Collins, who was an integral part of the historic Apollo 11 mission, never achieved the fame of the two men who actually stepped on the lunar surface. Of that trio, Aldrin, who actually uttered the first words on the moon ("Contact light…Okay, engine stop."), certainly provided the more compelling media copy. Flamboyant, gregarious, and outspoken, he possessed the Indiana Jones roughness that the public adored. Unfortunately, as this candid memoir makes starkly clear, Aldrin's apparent self-assuredness concealed a much shakier substructure. In the next several decades, he struggled with depression and alcoholism, twin nightmares that destroyed two marriages and his NASA career. In Magnificent Desolation, this beloved national hero recounts how, against all odds, he recovered from the earthly problems that almost destroyed him.
Publishers Weekly
Picking up the threads of his acclaimed 1973 autobiography, Return to Earth, Aldrin presents as no-holds-barred account of how his celebrity, career and human weaknesses nearly destroyed his life. On July 19, 1968, millions witnessed Neil Armstrong and Aldrin become the first two people on the moon; an instant American hero, Aldrin was "greeted with ticker-tape parades" and spent the next two years, along with his fellow astronauts, as public relations assets for NASA and the Nixon administration. With a PhD from MIT, Aldrin had not only spent eight years training for the mission, but also helped developed technology needed for the mission; upon returning home from his world tour as an "unofficial space ambassador," however, he found the doors at NASA "pretty much closed"; the moon-landing program had given way to the shuttle project. That homecoming would catapult Aldrin into a decades-long struggle with alcoholism and clinical depression (both his grandfather and mother committed suicide) that broke up two marriages before psychiatric treatment and rehab put him on the road to recovery. This inspiring story exhibits Aldrin as a different, perfectly human kind of hero, giving readers a sympathetic look at a man eclipsed by his own legend.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Library Journal
Drawing his title from the description he radioed to Earth soon after stepping off the lunar lander in 1969, Aldrin offers his second autobiography. In his first, Return to Earth, the second man to walk on the moon included details about his struggle with depression, an admission that was rare for a military veteran to make but one that helped promote mental health treatment. Both books cover his life until about 1971; this new one also continues from there. Now approaching 80, Aldrin shares his perspective on his life and on the U.S. space program. He quit drinking in the late 1970s, and he divorced his first and second wives and now lives happily with his third. He also describes his work promoting space tourism and worries that the United States won't have the ability to send humans to space for some time after the space shuttles are decommissioned in 2010. VERDICT Much of this memoir is a travelog as Aldrin describes his adventures scuba diving and mixing with celebrities; as such, it will appeal primarily to Aldrin fans and space history buffs.—Jeffrey Beall, Univ. of Colorado, Denver
Kirkus Reviews
The troubled but ultimately redeemed life of the second man to walk on the Moon. Beginning with the 1969 launch of Apollo 11, Aldrin (co-author: Look to the Stars, 2009, etc.) and co-author Abraham deliver a blow-by-blow account of the journey, landing and return. Readers will be amazed at the feat-achieved with archaic technology-but also recall wistfully that this was the last time that a mighty America flexed its muscles before the world and received unanimous cheers. For Aldrin, the historic mission proved to be an extremely tough act to follow. With no shortage of astronauts, he was not able to return to the Moon; he yearned to command the Air Force Academy, but superiors chose someone else. Like all driven, ambitious men, Aldrin was brutally self-critical. He had achieved his greatest ambition at the age of 39, at which point life seemed to lose its purpose. He began to suffer from depression. Emotional illness was the kiss of death to a military career in the 1970s, so he had to retire. Over the next decade depression and alcoholism overwhelmed him, destroying his marriage and limiting his efforts to forge a new career. His unsentimental account of recovery does not conceal repeated failures or the debilitating depression that still occasionally haunts him. Today Aldrin, nearing 80, remains an active public figure working to reenergize America's faltering space program. As is the case with many memoirs by famous people without a writing background, the author describes events better than people or feelings. He clearly loves his new wife, admires the many rich and powerful people he works with and overflows with ideas for promoting space travel. An admirable account of an iconof the golden age of space flight.

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1 A JOURNEY for ALL MANKIND Wednesday, July 16, 1969, 6:00 a.m. (EDT) Countdown: T minus three hours, thirty minutes to liftoff. Clear Florida sky.

Elevated 300 feet in the air on an upper platform of Kennedy Space Center’s Launch Pad 39-A, I stood alone on the grating of the towering gantry. A few yards away, loaded with more than 2,000 tons of liquid oxygen and hydrogen propellant, the giant Saturn V rocket also stood, primed for liftoff as the countdown progressed. Large shards of frost were already falling off its outer skin from the super-chilled liquid oxygen within.

Hours earlier my Apollo 11 crewmates, Neil Armstrong and Michael Collins, and I had enjoyed a predawn steak-and-eggs breakfast—an astronaut tradition—and had gone through an elaborate suiting-up with NASA’s equipment team helping us get into our pressurized suits, helmets, gloves, and boots. Along with our Pad Leader, Günter Wendt, a gray-haired man of German descent who had worked on almost every launch since the early days of the Mercury program, the three of us, carrying our portable air-conditioning ventilators as though we were heading off to work with our briefcases, loaded into the courier van for the short drive out to the launchpad.

Slowly we ascended in the gantry elevator, passing red metal grated walkways at various intervals leading to strategic areas of the rocket. Each of us had trained for his entire life leading up to this moment. As a crew, we had worked together for nearly a year, with Neil and I initially on the backup crew for the gutsy Apollo 8 mission, the first to fly around the moon after only one prior mission with the Saturn V, and then with Mike as the prime crew for the Apollo 11 mission. Because of the seating order in the cramped conditions of the Apollo command module—comparable to the interior of a small van in which the three of us would live and work for more than a week—climbing over one another to enter the craft while wearing our spacesuits was next to impossible. So Günter stopped the elevator about three-fourths of the way up, and dropped me off to wait there on the metal grat- ing while he, Neil, and Mike proceeded two more flights up to where the elevator opened at the “white room,” the final preparation area leading to the narrow hatch opening to the spacecraft. In less than three and half hours, if all went well, the enormous rocket, with the power of an atomic bomb, would release an engulfing fireball and lumber off the pad, slowly gathering speed as it rose majestically into the sky, launching America’s first attempt to land human beings on the moon.

The sun had not yet come up and was barely peeking above the horizon as I stood on the grating and peered through the clear bubble helmet I wore. The only sound I could hear came from my ventilation unit. Looking up and down the coastline, my eyes scanned the beaches for miles along the causeway near Cape Canaveral, where more than a million people had started gathering the night before, trekking in cars, motorcycles, pickup trucks, campers, and large motor homes, inching their way through bumper-to-bumper traffic as they sought the perfect launch viewing location. Already people were filling in every available spot of dry ground, and thousands of boats were anchored on the Indian and Banana rivers near the Cape. Without a good set of binoculars, most of the spectators could not see me, and from my vantage point I could barely see them, but I could see the evidence of them in the flickering campfires that dotted the beaches in the darkness. Everyone knew that something big was about to happen.

Because of the danger of explosion should something go wrong, the area immediately near the Saturn V was evacuated except for technicians making their final pre-launch checks. Even if the launch was perfect, no human could stay within several miles of it outside of the Firing Room, the launch control center at the Cape. The hot gases and thunderous noise would consume anyone standing too close to the rocket at ignition. The VIP spectator area, from which President Nixon, former president Lyndon B. Johnson, the astronauts’ families, politicians, celebrities, and others with the coveted special pass would watch the launch, was a full three miles away. Even there, the vibrations would be felt, and the roar from the engines would be almost deafening.

I looked to the south, where some of the older launch pads were located, and I couldn’t help letting my eyes linger on Launch Pad 34, where, two and a half years earlier, three of my fellow astronauts—Gus Grissom, Roger Chaffee, and Ed White—had lost their lives when they were trapped inside their space capsule in a torrid burst of flames during a pre-launch training test for Apollo 1. Ed had been a year behind me at West Point, where we became friends, and we’d later served together in the Air Force as fighter pilots in Germany, flying F-100s in the “Big 22” Squadron. He was the key person who had kindled and encouraged my efforts to contribute to the space program and ultimately become an astronaut, and now he was gone.

Instinctively my hand moved to a pocket on my spacesuit that contained a special pouch in which I carried an original mission patch honoring the men who had died aboard Apollo 1, as well as various medals honoring Soviet cosmonauts Vladimir Komarov, who had been killed on Soyuz 1, and Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space. In that same pouch I carried a silicon disk inscribed with wishes from leaders of seventy-three nations of the world, and a gold pin in the shape of the olive branch of peace that we had chosen as a symbol of our mission for all mankind. I planned to leave these tributes on the moon.

Not too far from Pad 34, I could see the remnants of Pad 19, where Jim Lovell and I had crewed the last mission of the Gemini program, for a series of complex rendezvous maneuvers and the world’s first successful spacewalk. It was exhilarating to end that program on a high note and pave the way for Apollo. I thought about how far we had come since man’s dream of flight was first realized when the Wright Brothers’ Flyer took to the air on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, at Kill Devil Hill, near Kitty Hawk, in 1903—the very year my mother, Marion Moon, was born. Now, only sixty-six years later, we were aiming for a much longer, more daring, and dangerous flight.

For fifteen minutes I stood on that walkway, suspended from the steadily marching countdown, and enjoying a moment of peace and solitude as I contemplated the journey ahead. I recalled just how wonderful my life had been to get me to this point. All the facets and experiences had worked out along the way to put me in the right place at the right time. Now I was leaving Earth to land on another celestial body, and, if all went as planned, I would return to family and friends, to a full life. Our confidence was high—about 60 percent certain that we would succeed in landing on the moon, the part that had never been done before, and 90 percent that we would make it back home alive. We had trained, tested, and simulated nearly each element of the mission. But there were no guarantees. Even with all the preparation, a myriad of things could go wrong. As astronauts, we were trained to accept such risks, even the risk of not returning.

Finally, Günter was ready for me. I ascended the remaining twenty feet or so, and Günter helped me into the hatch, strapping me into my seat in the center couch, between Neil on my left, strategically situated near the abort handle, and Mike on my right. As we settled in, there was nothing left to do but wait while the countdown continued.

-., At 9:32 a.m., as the five large Saturn V engines ignited, we heard the final sequence of the countdown in our headsets: “T minus ten, nine, eight . . .” I quickly glanced at Neil and Mike, and we exchanged nervous but confident grins. Outside, at the base of the rocket, gases rushed out of each of the engine nozzles as we built up thrust. “T minus five, four, three . . .” With the engines running at full power, the gantry latches released and for a couple of seconds that seemed like forever, the rocket was standing unsupported, free as an eagle ready to soar.

“Two, one . . . zero . . .” The normally calm voice of Public Affairs Officer Jack King cracked with emotion from the Firing Room. “All engines running!” Even inside the command module with our helmets on, we could hear the mighty rumble. What looked like hundreds of tiny amber lights blinked on the instrument panels in front of us as the controlled but excited voice cried, “Liftoff! We have a liftoff!”

The rumbling sound grew louder and the huge rocket felt as though it swayed slightly as it smoothly inched off the pad. In fact it was so smooth that at first we couldn’t detect the exact moment we left the ground. More large shards of frost fell from the sleek metal sides as blue sky seemed to move past the hatch window directly above me. Below us an inferno of flames, steam, and gases billowed all around the launch pad. With 7.6 million pounds of thrust pushing all 3,240 tons of the rocket and spacecraft, we cleared the tower and rapidly accelerated, the g forces dramatically building up and pressing against us. We were on our way to the moon!

Twelve seconds into our flight, shortly after we cleared the tower and were streaking from a straight vertical shot to a gradually changing angle of inclination into the blue sky above, the hundreds of technicians hovering over their displays and consoles in the Firing Room at Cape Canaveral could breathe a little easier. At that point their main job was done and control of our mission moved to the nerve center at Mission Control in Houston, where hundreds of other technicians and engineers manned their consoles and displays, monitoring every aspect of our flight. In the main control room, whimsically known to NASA’s engineers as the “bat room” because of the darkened area in the front where large video screens tracking the flight covered the walls, dozens of people worked at separate stations, with each console controller monitoring one specific aspect of the spacecraft and reporting to the Flight Director if everything was “go,” or if anything was wrong. Although the room was filled with experts handling vital information, only one person communicated directly with us in the Apollo 11 spacecraft: the Spacecraft Communicator, or “Capcom,” a fellow astronaut. All the information that we needed to know from the many monitors in Mission Control, and feedback on what we were experiencing in space, flowed through the Capcom.

Three minutes into the flight, the g forces had increased to the highest point, as we felt nearly four times heavier than our normal body weight. We were forty-five miles high, at least six times higher than most commercial jets can fly, traveling at a speed of nearly 6,500 miles per hour. Neil, Mike, and I had all been in space on previous missions, but it was nonetheless thrilling to look out our window and see the curved Atlantic horizon rapidly receding from view as we looked back at Earth. Within four minutes we were approaching the sixty-two-mile mark, the division between Earth’s blue skies and the endless blackness of space. By twelve minutes we had accelerated to nearly 17,500 miles per hour, the speed required to maintain an orbital course around the Earth. It was time to get busy; during our one and a half orbits we had to make sure all systems were functioning before we left the bounds of Earth orbit to redirect our course to the moon.

Crucial to the success of our flight navigation were the two onboard guidance computers we had on the mission (one in the command module and one in the lunar module), each with about 74 kilobytes of memory and a 2.048 MHz clock processor. With their small displays and nineteen-button keyboards, the Apollo control system seems archaic by today’s standards. Many modern mobile phones have more computing power than we did. But these computers enabled us to measure our velocity changes to a hundredth of a foot per second, determine rendezvous and course corrections, and make minute maneuvers for our descent to the moon. You couldn’t do that with a slide rule. NASA made sure the Apollo computers were the most advanced of the day, the first to use integrated circuit technology, and we expected them to work astoundingly well to perform all the complex calculations needed.

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Meet the Author

On July 20, 1969, Apollo 11 astronauts BUZZ ALDRIN and Neil Armstrong landed their lunar module on the Sea of Tranquillity and became the first humans to walk on the moon. Aldrin has since been awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom and more than fifty other awards and medals from the United States and other countries. He holds a doctorate in astronautics from MIT. Since retiring from the U.S. Air Force and NASA, Dr. Aldrin has remained at the forefront of efforts to ensure a continued leading role for America in manned space exploration. He founded a rocket design company, Starcraft Boosters, Inc., and the ShareSpace Foundation, a nonprofit organization devoted to opening the doors to space tourism for all people. Buzz and his wife, Lois, live in Los Angeles.

KEN ABRAHAM is a New York Times bestselling author, known around the world for his collaborations with celebrities and high-profile public figures.

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