Free Magnificent Desolation by Buzz Aldrin Page B

mindful of him.”
    We were rapidly nearing the expansive oceanic beauty and the cloud-covered landmasses of the Earth, a welcome sight in contrast to the monochromatic moon we had just left. All too soon, we were getting ready for one last tense, action-packed portion of our mission. We had to reenter Earth’s atmosphere, and we had to do it just right, without getting incinerated.
    In many ways, this last part of our mission was as dangerous as the liftoff, the lunar landing, and the ascent from the moon. By this point, the service module that had been integral to
Columbia
had been discarded and with it our remaining fuel to maneuver our craft. Now we were operating with the command module only, and a minimal fuel reserve that limited our guidance control to minor “attitude” changes. The CM was the only part of our enormous spacecraft and rocket launch system that had stood so gallantly at Launch Pad 39-A and that was designed to return intact to Earth—we hoped. When the command module hit the Earth’s atmosphere, we would be traveling at over 25,000 miles per hour, about ten times faster than a bullet shot from a rifle. Again it had to be right. If we hit at the wrong angle and came in too steep, the g forces would be too high, our heat shield would be ineffective, and the intense heat of reentry would be fatal. If we came in too shallow, we would skip out and be deflected by the atmosphere, shooting off into space, where our fuel and other consumables would run out long before we could return. If this occurred, NASA was on alert to discontinue the live TV feed to the public. Lots of things could have gone wrong upon our reentry. Thankfully, none of them did.
    Eight minutes after first entering the atmosphere, the command module slowed down enough for the three large red-and-white-striped parachutes to open. If the chutes failed to open on time, the capsule would hit the ocean too hard. If we landed too far off course, we could possibly sink before the recovery ship reached us. The timing was highly critical.
    With the precision that we aimed for throughout the Apollo program, the parachutes opened at exactly the right moment, and the splashdown worked as planned. As we floated down toward the ocean, we were all strapped into our seats, Mike on the left, Neil in the middle, and me in the right-hand seat, with our backs pressed against our couches, basically falling upside down. I reached over and braced my hand in position on top of the circuit breaker I needed to throw that would activate the switch on the other side of the spacecraft that Mike could pull to release the parachutes. This had to be done as quickly as possible upon impact so the chutes wouldn’t drag us under the sea. Mike and I had to be careful not to activate the circuit too early, or we could release the parachutes prematurely, thus making our impact with the ocean more dangerous. Even with the braking power of the parachutes, we hit the water with such force that my hand was ripped away from the circuit breaker. Mike pulled the switch to release the parachutes, but nothing happened. The spacecraft plunged into the water, and for a long moment or two, we hung upside down below the surface. I scrambled to pull myself up and push the circuit breaker in, and Mike was able to throw his switch to jettison the parachutes. At about that time, heavy balloons inflated—similar to the way an automobile’s airbags inflate upon impact—and turned the capsule upright.
    Even with the inflated stabilizing rubber ring around the capsule, we were tossed around, bobbing in the sea for several minutes. But almost before we knew it, a helicopter came over and dropped a diver, then a life raft, and then more Navy divers to help us out of the scorched command module. They handed us three quarantine suits to change into inside the CM. The divers were protected as well, in their fully masked and sealed suits. One by one, Neil, Mike, and I were lifted from the raft