Twenty years ago tomorrow, as a precocious 11-year-old, my unerring faith in man and country began to show cracks. We are the great America, but we are not perfect. Man sometime fails, man sometime dies. As it was and it will always be.
We were at school, watching on TV. We all joined in the countdown, our voices growing louder: “THREE, TWO, ONE!!”. The glorious ignition and ascent - shaking the ground and stirring the soul.
Ninety seconds later: “Go for throttle up.” Then chaos. Even at that age we knew something was wrong. And if there were some that didn’t know, our teacher’s face told them everything. We had just witnessed the lives of seven American pioneers snuffed out in an instant. Or we thought.
After the initial shock, it came as no surprise what followed: “It was quick and painless”… “They never knew what happened.” But even that wasn’t true. Later, we’d find out the awful truth. The explosion didn’t kill them - the fall to earth did. Seven Icari.
I remember the picture in TIME magazine, one I remember more than the others: the serene Florida beach, one smoldering glove in the sand.
We’re not perfect, are we? Unwavering faith in man and country is dangerous. Always question. Always question. If you must trust in one thing, trust our inherent infallibility. We sometimes fail. We sometimes die. As it was and as it always will be.
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