The Man on the Moon

Celestial navigation was always one of my favorite parts of going to sea.  On a long transoceanic voyage, this included taking sights of the Sun and stars to determine the location of the ship on the great expanse.  A typical day’s work with the Sun included several sights, two or three running fixes, a latitude by meridian altitude, and amplitudes to determine compass error.  Morning and evening twilight meant star time.  In this interval when the stars and the horizon were both visible, a round of five or six star sights yielded positions before the Captain retired for the night and before he arose in the morning.

 

The Moon played a unique navigational role and was always most useful at night.  On a clear night, a full or nearly full Moon illuminated the horizon sufficiently to make star sights possible.  I always liked taking “midnight stars” during a peaceful and quiet night watch.  I also liked to sometimes take sights of the Moon as I would of the Sun in the daytime.  This could be a bit tricky, as the Moon moved across the sky so quickly compared to the Sun and stars, but proficiency came with practice. 

 

There was always something special about the Moon.  It seemed different from everything else in the sky.  It traveled on its own schedule and radiated its own unique and stark beauty.  It produced no light of its own, but reflected the Sun’s light instead.  With the Sun it created the tides, but its closer proximity to the Earth outweighed the Sun’s greater mass in determining the range of the tides.  When I was not using the Moon for navigational work, I often enjoyed studying its craters and ridges through a set of high-power binoculars.  Sometimes I paused to think that several humans had actually travelled to the Moon and walked on its surface.

 

I had watched Apollo 11 make the first Moon landing on television in July of 1969.  I was eleven years old then, old enough to know what was happening, but not old enough to fully understand its significance.  Two years later, a chance encounter brought me face to face with one of the Apollo 11 astronauts.

 

My older brother—the smart one in the family—attended the University of Notre Dame and graduated on Sunday afternoon, May 23, 1971.  My parents and I made the long trek from New York to Indiana for this auspicious occasion.  Most of the academic ceremony was over my head, but I remember one salient feature of the day very clearly.

 

Notre Dame awarded nine honorary degrees that day.  The recipients of these honors were all high achievers, of course, but one was, and still is, a man of unique achievement who now holds a correspondingly unique place in human history.  This was Neil Armstrong, the first person to walk on the Moon.  He was quickly followed by his colleague Edwin Aldrin, but only Neil Armstrong was present at Notre Dame that day.  He received the degree of Doctor of Laws, honoris causa, in recognition of his accomplishment in travelling to the Moon.  He accepted this award graciously, and afterwards he remained seated quietly and inconspicuously while the graduates received their credentials.

 

Following the conclusion of the ceremony, everyone left the arena.  As my parents and I were walking toward the family car, we noticed Doctor Armstrong, escorted by a detail of the Indiana State Police, exiting through a back door and heading toward a waiting automobile.  Numerous well-wishers, autograph-seekers, and photographers lined his route.  My father pulled out his camera and said to me, “David, quick, go over there and say hello!”  I joined the crowd, which included several boys about my own age, and took a piece of paper from my pocket for Doctor Armstrong to sign.  I waited my turn, then extended the paper toward him.

 

Doctor Armstrong spoke to me pleasantly but regretfully.  “I don’t have a pen.  Do you have a pen?” I said that I did not.  “I’m sorry,” he replied, “I don’t have a pen, either.  I’m sorry.”  He wished me well and off I went, realizing that the other boys had come prepared with their own pens.  On returning to my parents, I learned that my father had quickly taken snapshots of this encounter.  Fifty-two years later, we still have these photographs in our family archives.  One of them is labelled, “David asking Neil Armstrong for autograph.”  I seriously doubt that a signature on a small scrap of paper would have lasted as long as the pictures have..

 

So I had met and been photographed with the first man to walk on the Moon!  This was a big deal for a thirteen-year-old boy.  It was a great moment for my parents, too, and it soon became a treasured family memory.  At sea several years later, I sometimes thought of this chance encounter with Neil Armstrong when I was using the Moon for navigation.  As an adult, I came to realize that meeting him had indeed been a very special privilege.

 

Ashore now, I still enjoy gazing at the Moon.  I keep track of its phases and point them out to my grandchildren.  I think of the Moon as an old friend.  In addition to illuminating the horizon and governing the tides, the Moon brings back memories of pleasant nights at sea and a happy meeting with its first visitor from Earth.

Neil Armstrong leaves the Athletic and Convocation Center at the University of Notre Dame on Sunday afternoon, May 23, 1971.  He is escorted by a contingent of the Indiana State Police.  The boy approaching him is an autograph-seeker ahead of me in line for Doctor Armstrong's attention.

Yours truly with my back to the camera.  Doctor Armstrong stands in front of me, also not facing the camera, and I am patiently waiting my turn with him.  A truly major moment for a thirteen-year old boy.