Up and Down (18 page)

“You’re kidding! You applied to be an astronaut twenty-seven years ago?”

“Yep, and I thought I was a perfect fit. I’m a doctor, I’d been flying for all but the first thirteen years of my life, I was in good physical shape, still am, I’d been training on my own, still am, and no civilian could have been more passionate or knowledgeable about space than I was, or still am.”

“Sounds like you’d have been an ideal candidate,” I said, and meant it. She looked wistful and tired all of a sudden.

“Well, it didn’t happen. They chose six and I certainly wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t even invited for the preselection testing. I just heard nothing. It took me a long time to recover.”

“Maybe they never got your application?”

“Nope, they got it. I was able to confirm that. But that was about all.”

“Did you ever find out anything about why you didn’t make it?”

“Well, nothing official. They have some kind of a policy against revealing much about their decisions. But thanks to the Access to Information Act, and to some unguarded comments someone made in a meeting for which minutes were taken, I think I have a pretty good idea why I never heard from them.”

I nodded but said nothing and just waited for her to continue.

“You know, the original seven Mercury astronauts had to be under forty. In 1983, I was nearly forty-five years old. While it was never spelled out, I figure there was some kind of an age threshold beyond which they wouldn’t even review your application. I think it was over before it began.”

I was trying to slot this new revelation from Landon’s past into what else I’d learned about her since arriving. Putting on my
PR
consultant’s hat, it was dawning on me that we had the makings of an extraordinary story here, seventy-one years old or not. I instinctively began to consider how best to present it to media. But then I stopped myself. Hello, reality check. Why bother? It’s not that it wouldn’t get media coverage. I knew it would be a huge story. But I’d never get the chance to pitch it to reporters
because Landon’s dream would surely soon be crushed again, just as it was in 1983, and for the same reason. Crawford Blake, and
NASA
for that matter, would never even consider her. Abort launch. End of story.

“So let me see if I understand all of this,” I began. “You’re a seventy-one-year-old bush pilot doctor living on the shore of a remote lake in northern B.C. You were rejected by the Canadian astronaut program nearly thirty years ago because you were too old. You’ve been trying to solve the mystery of your father’s disappearance some forty years ago. And now, six years after your old age pension kicked in, you win this contest and still want to venture beyond Earth’s safe embrace and visit space. Am I close to getting your story straight?”

“Well, almost,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment. “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but my story isn’t exactly ‘straight.’ ”

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 feet 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.”