My
eyes are closed as I listen to Chris counting down the atmospheric
pressure inside the airlock – it’s close to zero now. But I’m not tired –
quite the reverse! I feel fully charged, as if electricity and not
blood were running through my veins. I just want to make sure I
experience and remember everything. I’m mentally preparing myself to
open the door because I will be the first to exit the Station this time
round. Maybe it’s just as well that it’s night time: at least there
won’t be anything to distract me.
When I read 0.5 psi, it’s time to turn the handle and pull up the
hatch. It is pitch black outside, not the colour black but rather a
complete absence of light. I drink in the sight as I lean out to attach
our safety cables. I feel completely at ease as I twist my body to let
Chris go by. In a matter of seconds, we finish checking each other and
we separate. Even though we are both heading to more or less the same
part of the International Space Station, our routes are completely
different, set out by the choreography we have studied meticulously. My
route is direct, towards the back of the Station, while Chris has to go
towards the front first in order to wind his cable around Z1, the
central truss structure above Node 1. At that moment, none of us in
orbit or on Earth could have imagined just how much this decision would
influence the events of the day.
Credits NASA
I pay careful attention to every move as I make my way towards the
protective bag that we left outside the week before. I don’t want to
make the mistake of feeling so much at ease as to be relaxed. Inside the
bag I find the cables that form part of what will perhaps be my most
difficult task of the day. I have to connect them to the Station’s
external sockets while at the same time securing them to the surface of
the station with small metal wires. Both operations involve me using my
fingers a lot, and I know from experience that this will be really
tiring because of the pressurised gloves.
NASA astronaut Chris Cassidy. Credits NASA
Chris partially connected the first cable last week, so I get hold of
the part that is still unattached and I guide it carefully towards the
socket. After a little initial difficulty, I inform Houston that I have
completed the task and I’m ready for the second cable. After getting
hold of the next cable, I move into what I think is the most difficult
position to work from on the whole Station: I’m literally wedged between
three different modules, with my visor and my PLSS (my ‘backpack’) just
a few centimetres from the external walls of Node 3, Node 1 and the
Lab. Very patiently, with considerable effort I manage to fasten one end
of the second cable to the socket. Then, moving blindly backwards, I
free myself from the awkward position I’ve had to work in. On the
ground, Shane tells me that I’m almost 40 minutes ahead of schedule, and
Chris is also running ahead on his tasks.
At this exact moment, just as I’m thinking about how to uncoil the
cable neatly (it is moving around like a thing possessed in the
weightlessness), I ‘feel’ that something is wrong. The unexpected
sensation of water at the back of my neck surprises me – and I’m in a
place where I’d rather not be surprised. I move my head from side to
side, confirming my first impression, and with superhuman effort I force
myself to inform Houston of what I can feel, knowing that it could
signal the end of this EVA. On the ground, Shane confirms they have
received my message and he asks me to await instructions. Chris, who has
just finished, is still nearby and he moves towards me to see if he can
see anything and identify the source of the water in my helmet.
At first, we’re both convinced that it must be drinking water from my
flask that has leaked out through the straw, or else it’s sweat. But I
think the liquid is too cold to be sweat, and more importantly, I can
feel it increasing. I can’t see any liquid coming out of the drinking
water valve either. When I inform Chris and Shane of this, we
immediately receive the order to ‘terminate’ the sortie. The other
possibility, to ‘abort’, is used for more serious problems. I’m
instructed to go back to the airlock. Together we decide that Chris
should secure all the elements that are outside before he retraces his
steps to the airlock, i.e. he will first move to the front of the
Station. And so we separate.
Luca "jammed"between three ISS modules.
As I move back along my route towards the airlock, I become more and
more certain that the water is increasing. I feel it covering the sponge
on my earphones and I wonder whether I’ll lose audio contact. The water
has also almost completely covered the front of my visor, sticking to
it and obscuring my vision. I realise that to get over one of the
antennae on my route I will have to move my body into a vertical
position, also in order for my safety cable to rewind normally. At that
moment, as I turn ‘upside-down’, two things happen: the Sun sets, and my
ability to see – already compromised by the water – completely
vanishes, making my eyes useless; but worse than that, the water covers
my nose – a really awful sensation that I make worse by my vain attempts
to move the water by shaking my head. By now, the upper part of the
helmet is full of water and I can’t even be sure that the next time I
breathe I will fill my lungs with air and not liquid. To make matters
worse, I realise that I can’t even understand which direction I should
head in to get back to the airlock. I can’t see more than a few
centimetres in front of me, not even enough to make out the handles we
use to move around the Station.
I try to contact Chris and Shane: I listen as they talk to each
other, but their voices are very faint now: I can hardly hear them and
they can’t hear me. I’m alone. I frantically think of a plan. It’s vital
that I get inside as quickly as possible. I know that if I stay where I
am, Chris will come and get me, but how much time do I have? It’s
impossible to know. Then I remember my safety cable. Its cable recoil
mechanism has a force of around 3lb that will ‘pull’ me towards the
left. It’s not much, but it’s the best idea I have: to follow the cable
to the airlock. I force myself to stay calm and, patiently locating the
handles by touch, I start to move, all the while thinking about how to
eliminate the water if it were to reach my mouth. The only idea I can
think of is to open the safety valve by my left ear: if I create
controlled depressurisation, I should manage to let out some of the
water, at least until it freezes through sublimation, which would stop
the flow. But making a ‘hole’ in my spacesuit really would be a last
resort.
Mission Control, Houston.
Credits NASA
I move for what seems like an eternity (but I know it’s just a few
minutes). Finally, with a huge sense of relief, I peer through the
curtain of water before my eyes and make out the thermal cover of the
airlock: just a little further, and I’ll be safe. One of the last
instructions I received was to go back inside immediately, without
waiting for Chris. According to protocol, I should have entered the
airlock last, because I was first to leave. But neither Chris nor I have
any problem in changing the order in which we re-enter. Moving with my
eyes closed, I manage to get inside and position myself to wait for
Chris’ return. I sense movement behind me; Chris enters the airlock and
judging from the vibrations, I know that he’s closing the hatch. At that
moment, communication passes to Karen and for some reason, I’m able to
hear her fairly well. But I realise that she can’t hear me because she
repeats my instructions even though I’ve already replied. I follow
Karen’s instructions as best I can, but when repressurization begins I
lose all audio. The water is now inside my ears and I’m completely cut
off.
I try to move as little as possible to avoid moving the water inside
my helmet. I keep giving information on my health, saying that I’m ok
and that repressurization can continue. Now that we are repressurizing, I
know that if the water does overwhelm me I can always open the helmet.
I’ll probably lose consciousness, but in any case that would be better
than drowning inside the helmet. At one point, Chris squeezes my glove
with his and I give him the universal ‘ok’ sign with mine. The last time
he heard me speak was before entering the airlock!
The minutes of repressurization crawl by and finally, with an
unexpected wave of relief, I see the internal door open and the whole
team assembled there ready to help. They pull me out and as quickly as
possible, Karen unfastens my helmet and carefully lifts it over my head.
Fyodor and Pavel immediately pass me a towel and I thank them without
hearing their words because my ears and nose will still be full of water
for a few minutes more.
Space
is a harsh, inhospitable frontier and we are explorers, not colonisers.
The skills of our engineers and the technology surrounding us make
things appear simple when they are not, and perhaps we forget this
sometimes.
Better not to forget.
You can go to the website
HERE
