“He told us then, ‘I know I’m going to die, so just let me.’”

“They never do, do they.”

There was a short silence. I thought for the hundredth time about the morality of the situation—after the first time you care for a human being tied to life with drugs and machines, or being turned into a 150-pound seething tumor, it’s not helpful to discuss it yet again, so we just feel like hell while following protocol.

A long drive West from Christchurch across the Canterbury Plain and up the Waimakariri River valley into the Southern Alps brought us to the trailhead (except for no trail) where we parked our car. At that point we were on a tributary to the Waimakariri. Erik told us then that our first step was to ford the river, which was about 300 feet wide. Chris and I responded that he was nuts, we weren’t about to start a day-long hike by soaking our hiking boots in knee-deep ice water. Erik’s opinion was that we were acting like babies. We noticed a railroad bridge about a half-mile downstream and outvoted Erik.

Halfway to Ta’u we caught sight of the Manu’a Islands which included Ta’u, Ofu, and Olosega. Ta’u was mostly clear of clouds so we continued on. As we got closer, the grass and gravel runway came into view. It ran up the gentle slope on a low shoulder of the Volcano and was not that impressive-looking.

Those of us on the launch vehicles had the responsibility of getting those platforms up and operational—everything depended on it—yet it couldn’t be denied the actual process was a bit outrageous and exhilarating. We did have a few failed launches, especially in the beginning, but then we really got going. Until, that is, Russian MiGs started shooting platforms down.

These tales are true. They’re not set in World War Two like Michener’s novel, though some hostile MiGs make an appearance. There are no Rogers and Hammerstein songs, no Mary Martin / Ezio Pinza duets. And this first installment barely even takes place in the South Pacific. Overall, dim prospects for an interesting read. Except for the kidnapping of course.

This article appeared in the January 1993 issue of Astronomy Magazine. The full title was Observational Breakthrough for Amateur Astronomers. It was the first piece of writing I sold, for a whopping $75. Very slightly edited here. Copyright © 1993 Kalmbach Publishing Co., all rights reserved.

How much physical space would you occupy if all of the empty space between and within the atoms of your body were subtracted out, so that all that was left of you were protons and neutrons, all jammed together?

Our two-fold task: 1) find our way to a village of our choosing that was a significant distance from the La Garita Cuerpo de Paz training center, one that was difficult to get to, and then basically ingratiate ourselves to a family of total strangers and get them to invite us to stay with them for the weekend—or contemplate sleeping in the street; and 2) speak only Spanish. Task not accomplished.

Looking back, I see that the poorer my judgment was the more interesting my life became.