We could still land on two chutes; the third was more of a safety margin—a margin we had just lost. As I continued to look at the chutes, to my horror I thought I could see holes developing in a second chute, too. If it failed, we’d be in trouble.
Pilots on the circling helicopters grew excited. “You have a streamed chute. Stand by for a hard impact,” they told us. We already knew. There was nothing they could do to help us now, and we needed to concentrate. I wished they would stop chattering; I needed to focus.
Wham! We hit the ocean hard, gouging deep into water that splashed high over the cabin windows before we bobbed back up to the surface. Dave opened another air vent to the outside and got a face full of sea water, soaking him again. I quickly powered down the spacecraft. The second chute had held out long enough. We were back. We’d made it.
Those circling helicopters were quick. It seemed we’d no sooner splashed down than they had deployed Navy SEAL divers into the water. The SEALs busily attached an inflatable collar around the spacecraft as well as a raft for us to climb into. I saw a diver’s face at the window; he then knocked on the hatch. I wasn’t sure why—was he being polite and wanted us to say “Come in” first?
Soon he had the hatch open and threw in some life preservers which we put on. We gave him a quick thumbs-up to tell him we were okay. The ocean was calm, and a warm breeze came in through the hatchway. After a final check of the cabin, it was time to leave.
Dave and Jim climbed out. I was the last to exit and I took a final look around my home for the last two weeks. Now back on earth, it seemed impossibly tiny. What an amazing adventure I’d had in this little cabin. I’d been focused all day on getting us back to earth. Now that I was here, and safe, I wished I were back in space again, flying solo in the quiet and solitude.
Time to go. Feeling a little shaky, I climbed out of the hatch and into the waiting life raft. It felt warm and sunny out there, and the blue ocean looked beautiful. Our once-immaculate Endeavour was now a charred orange-brown color, with almost all of the reflective insulation burned away, stained darkly around the thruster jets. It would never fly again.
A helicopter hovered over us, and one by one winched us up. I left with some concern, as the diving team could not get Endeavour’s hatch completely closed. I thought of the priceless moon samples in there and hoped a rogue wave would not get them wet—or worse, sink the spacecraft.
“Astronaut Alfred Worden is in the aircraft,” the helicopter team announced. Since I was the last one to be winched up, this announcement was the signal for the flight controllers back in Houston to pass around little American flags and cigars. They wouldn’t begin to celebrate yet, however, not until we had safely landed on the deck of the Okinawa.
As the ship came into view, we scrambled to put on fresh blue flight suits, clean sneakers, and baseball hats. In our agreed explorer style, we had stayed unshaven. For dark-haired guys like Dave and Jim, that was obvious. For a light-haired guy like me, my stubble wasn’t easy to see.
We were freshly dressed by the time our helicopter landed on the deck of the ship. But I felt concerned about my legs. I had been weightless for two weeks, and now I’d have to walk across the deck in front of hundreds of cheering sailors, important dignitaries, and the world’s media. I hoped I wouldn’t fall flat on my ass.
I had to consciously tell myself how to walk. My legs didn’t work the way they should; I had lost the automatic sense of how to step. I had taken it for granted all my life, but after two weeks I’d forgotten. Jim looked a little shaky, too. I had to concentrate hard—left leg, right leg—as we strode down the red carpet toward the welcoming committee.
General Lucius Clay, commander in chief of Pacific air forces, was one of the dignitaries waiting to welcome us.
“It’s certainly been a wonderful and historic mission,” he said with a smile, “and I can’t help but also compliment you on your superb selection of music. Thank you, Colonel Scott.”
I suppressed a grin. A few days ago, around the moon, Dave had chewed me out for playing the air force anthem during his liftoff. Now he had to accept the congratulations of air force dignitaries for playing it.
It was my turn to speak. I forced my legs into motion and shuffled up to the microphone. “It’s not that I’m shaky, it’s just that I don’t have my sea legs yet,” I began. “We just finished probably the most fantastic twelve days I’ve ever had in my life. And I guess only one thing surpasses the excitement and the intense feeling I had on the flight, and that was sort of the feeling I had when I saw you all today. It sure is nice to be back, and it sure is good to see you all. Thanks a bunch for the pickup!”
The doctors were eager to get their hands on us and led us away for postflight tests. Even when lying down on a platform, we could feel that our heart rates were higher than normal. Our bodies were readjusting to gravity. The flight surgeons walked us around and took good care of us. We appreciated it, as we felt pretty odd. But we were still told nothing about the in-flight heart concerns.
For the first time, I noticed that Dave’s fingernails were black. He’d tightened up his spacesuit gloves so he could have a better feel at the end of his fingers when working on the lunar surface. As a result, he’d bruised and blackened them badly. He must have been in pain all the way back from the moon, but I had never known. Man, that guy was a hard driver. He was so goal oriented during the mission and would not give up, no matter what the barriers were. I had to admire that about him.
At last, after the medical checks, we could have a shower—our first in two weeks. Dave and Jim were still grimy with moon dust, and I didn’t smell too good either. Showers aboard ship were small and boxy, with rough military soap and towels. It was nothing luxurious. But after two weeks that warm water felt like one of the best showers of my life.
Time for lunch in the captain’s wardroom. The food on the flight had been good enough, but I was ready for something more substantial. A big, juicy steak awaited me, which I wolfed down. Dave and I had talked about ice cream all the way back from the moon, and now was our chance to be decadent. Jim didn’t eat much, but Dave and I slurped down ice cream like we were little kids.
I was full, and still not used to walking. But the celebrations weren’t over. The ship had about seven different compartments, each with its own set of workers, and each wanted to welcome us. So we toured them all. Every compartment had baked a special cake. I felt pretty drained by then from the exertion, but I cheered up when I saw the friendly reception. I had a ball, probably on a sugar high from seven slices of cake.
We received the good news that Endeavour had been brought aboard the ship without any water slopping through the hatch. It had been a long and eventful day. I had woken up more than sixty thousand miles from planet Earth and ended my day on a ship journeying south toward Honolulu. It was time to get some sleep.
I woke up to the sound of clanging. Our berth was right below the flight deck, and those guys started work early. A military ship is never a quiet place. I felt much better, though, and very well rested. Jim, however, still looked tired. He hadn’t slept well, he explained, because of the noise and also because he still felt odd, like his head was pointing toward the floor, even when he was sleeping flat.