Kennedy Space Center, Fla. • First, a tuft of smoke. It appears like a giant, silent cotton ball slowly rising above the vegetation between you and the launch pad. Your heart leaps. The smoke expands swiftly, wider and higher. Then a glint of fiery orange red, almost blindingly bright, and the shuttle begins to lift slowly, effortlessly into the air.
In a breath it accelerates, clearing the structure and posing iconically for that perfect photo everyone is waiting for.
The sound and fury suddenly catch up. Rumbling forward, the energy pushes the normally still water toward you in a wave, vibrating your body from the feet up, ruffling your clothes and taking your breath away. It is impossibly loud, but not loud enough to eclipse the gasps, cheers, shouts and even tears of those watching.
"Go Atlantis!," "YES!!!" "Wahoo!" "Godspeed!" "Go, baby, go!"
Still others watch silently, moved to tears.
The shuttle is moving incredibly fast now. By the time you realize what you have seen, it's miles away, smoky tail hanging in the air.
When the solid rocket boosters separate, they are just two sparks of light, then tiny objects that disappear into the sky. The only way to see it now is to look for the orange external tank, but in seconds that's gone, too. Today, we missed those sparks and that orange tank, but followed the shadow of the trail through the cloud layer instead.
It's exciting. It's nerve-racking. It's emotional. Then it's over.
Just like that.
Every kid wants to be an astronaut, but it's usually just a phase, a vague notion after seeing Hubble 3D or reading The Right Stuff. Most outgrow that idea, but I never did. Ironically, I just didn't grow enough.
The reality is, like many other childhood fantasy jobs, becoming an astronaut is a lot of hard work. It takes tremendous commitment on all levels. But commitment alone won't get you there. You also have to have the right genes for the job. Specifically, you have to be tall enough to properly fit in an ejection seat. I'm not.
While that was a disappointing discovery, it wasn't the crushing blow you might think. I kept my passion for the space program, thanks to a lifelong friend of my grandfather. Jack Riley worked for NASA in Houston and he indulged my interest by sending along press kits, stickers, mission patches and shuttle launch viewing passes, all of which are probably still stacked in a closet in my mother's house.
In the early days of the program, in the 1980s, my granddad would pile my younger sister, Mom, Grandmother and me into his distinctly colored RV (nicknamed the "Green Bean") late at night, drive across the state from Clearwater, Fla., and wait in the snaking line of traffic to get to the VIP viewing area while the rest of us slept. We'd park on the grass, have breakfast and wait for launch time to come.
I don't distinctly remember the launches then, but I do recall the feelings and they haven't changed a bit. The disappointment of a scrub, the confusion and then sadness of a tragedy and the thrill of a successful launch. (We missed seeing Challenger by hours, when the flight was rescheduled to a school day.)
Being back for the final launch didn't feel significant until this morning, sitting in the dark and looking at the glowing shuttle, illuminated by giant lights across the water. The same view I must have had from the Green Bean. I'll miss this, but I'm proud to have been here and glad I took the journey. Godspeed, Atlantis.
kimm@sltrib.comTwitter: @tivogirl
