Magnificent Desolation_ The Long Journey Home From the Moon - Buzz Aldrin [30]
I sipped the whiskey and swished it around in my mouth, savoring the taste. I let it slide slowly down my throat as I leaned my head back and looked up at the sky. The sun was already beginning to decline on the horizon. I felt much the same way. Little more than three weeks before, I had been kicking up dust on the moon along with Neil Armstrong, the first two human beings ever to set foot on another planetary body in space. The entire world had watched us, listened to us, felt the tension as we nearly ran out of fuel attempting to land on the lunar surface. Now we were back, and I wondered what the next phase of my life would be. Everything was different now, and would be forever. I didn’t know it at the time, but the rest of my life would be measured in terms of the phases of the moon, and every quinquennial and decadal anniversary of that dusty July walk.
What does a man do for an encore after walking on the moon?
I was only thirty-nine years of age, and I’d been to the top of my world. What else was left for me? What was I going to do with the rest of my life? During the three weeks in quarantine along with my fellow astronauts, Mike Collins and Neil Armstrong, I had tried to drive such thoughts out of my mind by staying focused on how we could help support the next moon landings planned by NASA. Why worry about the future? We had enough to do just getting our thoughts together and going through debriefing procedures with NASA and the astronauts who were yet to venture on their missions.
And what did I have to worry about anyhow? I should be on top of the world. I was at the top of my game. After all, I had just walked on the moon! For an Air Force fighter pilot and a rocket scientist from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, that was the epitome of success. I took another gulp of Scotch, a much larger one than earlier. Hey, I should be feeling good! Wed done it; we had beaten the Russians to the moon, we had landed two men on the surface and had returned safely within the decade, just as President John F. Kennedy had challenged us to do. The entire world knew my name and more about me than I ever cared to have known. I was king of the hill!
Yet a nagging doubt about playing the role of a hero pervaded my mind. Blasting off and riding a fireball into space had been a task I was fully prepared to perform. Exploring the moon, ascending off its surface, and rendezvousing and docking with Mike, who was orbiting in the Columbia and waiting for Neil and me to rejoin him for the ride home—it all had gone much as planned. Oh sure, we had a few close calls, a few things that, looking back from the comfort of a lazy afternoon lounge around the pool, could have proven catastrophic. But they hadn’t. We worked with the team on the ground and together we made history, what some were already referring to as the pinnacle of modern man’s achievements.
In a few days my fellow astronauts and I would be off to New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles—President Nixon would join us in California for a black-tie event—and at each of the stops I’d be called upon to give a speech. As with most people, speaking in public didn’t exactly fall into my comfort zone. Sure, I had some speaking ability, and felt confident enough to stand in front of a crowd, but already I was discovering that everyone wanted me to answer that inevitable question: “What was it like, being on the moon?” I struggled with an answer. I wanted to say something profound, something meaningful. But I was an engineer, not a poet; as much as I grappled with the quintessential