19 November 1969
Apollo 11
Flight Day 6.
MET: T+ 108:10:23
Callsign: Freedom
The launch on Friday had been harrowing. What had started as a light shower at the Cape had culminated with a lightning strike about 30 seconds into the flight. He’d died a thousand deaths as they’d fixed the issue. With any luck, the flight surgeon would never tell him what his heart rate had been during those terrifying moments. The caution and warning panel had lit up like a Broadway marquee. His every instinct as a pilot had told him to throw the abort handle, but, though he hated to admit it, in the back of his head, he had thought of what it would do to the country and to the program.
This was their last chance. There was no launch window left in the decade to make this landing. Today, one way or another, John Kennedy’s goal would be met… or not. And somehow he, Frank Borman, pride of Tuscon, Arizona, would be humanity’s first representative on another heavenly body.
It was enough to make him laugh and shudder, from the magnificent scope of it all.
He looked out the window and saw Columbia slowly drifting back. He said a quick prayer that he’d see the ship again, remembering to be thankful that he was able to be here at all; and silently admonishing the part of him that wished he was back at home.
Alan Bean tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t say anything as the mikes were hot, but Borman nodded to let his LMP know that all was well.
“Houston, this is Freedom. We are ready for the burn. Just want to say, before the show starts, thanks to everyone down there for getting us this far. We couldn’t have done this without you. We’ll make you proud up here.”
Charlie Duke was the voice in his ear all the way in. He’d been at the CAPCOM desk for several shifts over the past few days, “Thank you Freedom. We’re gonna be right there with you all the way to touchdown. Best of luck to you fellas.”
For an Air Force aviator like Frank Borman, there was nothing so comforting as a checklist. For the next 2 hours, he and Alan Bean, one of the best pilots the U.S. Navy had produced, were engrossed in the checklists necessary to bring Freedom down to the start of powered descent.
In a flash, it was all starting to happen. Five hundred klicks out.
Borman felt a grin creep over his face and suddenly felt right at home, “Okay Houston, here we go. Program 63.”
He couldn’t see Al’s face, but his voice was barely-controlled excitement, “Throttle up!”
Freedom’s decent engine pushed him further onto the balls of his feet as the LEM computer got settled in for the descent.
Weight returned to his feet as Freedom throttled up to 10%. Alan made the next call, “DPS is looking good Houston. Seeing good numbers on helium and the RCS isn’t making much noise.”
“Roger Freedom. We’ve got your downrange offset now. Noun six-niner. Input is 04000. Confirm?”
“Houston, Freedom. Roger. Copy noun six-niner. Input 04000. Go for input?”
“Go for input.”
A moment passed. Freedom wasn’t positioned to let them see the surface, but they were too busy to look at it anyhow.
Bean checked his panel, “Aggs and Pings line up.”
“Roger, confirmed on ground track. We’ve got you right on the line.”
So far, so good.
Borman felt relief at seeing the velocity and altitude lights wink out. Right on the button. Freedom’s computers were dialed in today.
Charlie Duke came back, “Okay, Freedom. Expecting data convergence in a moment here. Your computer and your radar are working and playing well with others today.”
The RCS pushed the ship through a brief shudder. Bean relayed as much to the ground.
“Roger, Freedom. RCS numbers still in the green. We’ll keep an eye on it. Recommend you transfer data from Pings to Aggs. Pings has a better lock, over.”
Bean keyed the necessary inputs. Freedom throttled down and started to level out a bit. Borman got his first view of the field before him. “Key up the camera Al.”
Bean reached up to switch on the camera by the window. “Frank, 160 down, 12000.”
Borman nodded at the descent rate and altitude numbers. He’d have preferred a little slower and higher, but he’d dealt with worse in the sims.
“P64! There we go. LPD indicated. We’ve got our eye on the ball now Houston.” His stomach rolled with the ship as Program 64 pitched the LEM up for the final phase of the landing.
Bean gave a triumphant chuckle, “Heh ha! There’s the snowman. Right down the middle of the runway!”
Borman felt like he could jump for joy. “Okay! Excellent! 43 degrees and we’re all set.”
Bean updated him. “3500, down at 99. Looking good Frank.”
“I want my LPD over a bit to the right,” Borman said.
“Plenty of LPD time. Coming through 2000 now.”
Borman made the adjustment of the landing point detector, “There we go. 33 degrees.”
“Down through 1500. Plenty of gas.”
“Looking good Houston. Should get into Program 66 here any second.”
Alan said almost on top of him, “Program 66. You’ve got the stick, Frank. 10 percent at 500, babe. Plenty of gas.”
For the next two minutes, Frank Borman felt nothing at all. He was as focused and determined as he’d ever been. The calls from his LMP came in the exact same clipped, precise manor that he’d used every day for the past year in the simulators back in Houston.
Houston’s call for the quantity light was of no concern. He had his target and as he passed through 40 feet, he felt the tranquility of confidence in himself and the thousands of people whose efforts had brought him here. In the final descent to the surface, all his nervousness, all his apprehension, all his doubts and fears left him. Frank Borman felt free.
“Contact light. Okay. Engine arm off. Bus 2 closed.”
For a moment, the silence on the Ocean of Storms was matched only by that of humanity holding its collective breath.
Borman had the honor of the call, “Okay, Houston. Freedom has come to the moon.”
—————————————————————————————————————-
An hour later, all was ready. There had been much discussion before the flight about how much time there should be between landing and the first EVA. In the debate, Borman had sided with a young man from the public affairs office who had wanted to make sure the EVA started at 9 pm Eastern time. That had suited Borman and Bean very well as it meant they only had to wait 2 hours, instead of the proposed 4.
Al finished the last suit check and took himself off of VOX for a moment. “Any idea what you’re going to say out there?”
“Not the first damn clue,” Borman laughed. It had been a running gag with the crew for the last 6 months. “Whatever it is, you’ll find out soon enough.”
“Frank. Thanks. That was a fantastic job today.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you Al.”
The process of opening the door and sliding out of the hatch was simultaneously exciting and tedious. It was a feeling that could easily be communicated to any child that had waited in line to get into Disneyland.
He made the climb down the ladder slowly, remembering to pull the handle that released the video camera. That same young man from public affairs had buttonholed him after the meeting and had subtly explained that an awe-inspiring presentation tonight could directly translate to more flights in the future.
“Okay, Houston. I’m at the footpad now. The dust around the LEM seems to be rather even. Landing legs are solid and Freedom is in good condition. The surface is fine-grained and has a powdery look to it.”
In the days to come, a certain Hollywood director, in an attempt to be complimentary, made a casual remark that the light had hit Borman just perfectly as he stepped off the LEM. The director was quoted as saying that he couldn’t have done better with an actor on a soundstage. Certain cultural vandals took the quote as a chance to discredit the entire enterprise as a hoax.
Two hundred million Americans gasped as Frank Borman took his first step onto the lunar surface.
A beat passed in utter silence, forever separating mankind’s past from its future.
Borman’s eyes lifted up briefly from the surface and, over the left landing leg, he saw the Earth in all its beauty, surrounded by an infinite ocean of pure black night.
The words came to him from out of a distant memory.
“Oh God, Thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.”