Me and My Spacesuit
Me and My Spacesuit
I have a symbiotic relationship with my spacesuit. I take care of it, and it takes care of me in return. Almost like a living exoskeleton, it can take on its own cantankerous personality, and will bite, pinch, and torque my flesh, leaving red pockmarks, bruises, pulled muscles, aching backs, screaming knees, and occasionally a bleeding scratch or a black fingernail (that slowly sloughs off like flesh in a sci-fi movie). Like taming a wild animal, I’m aware of its nature, and I put up with an occasional bite for the sheer pleasure of its company.
By design a space suit is hermetically sealed, so it creates a microclimate that rapidly reaches 100% humidity at body temperatures. We do have cooling—a rather slow flow of air at tepid temperatures that sweeps out some of the steamy vapor. If you just sit there, this cooling is adequate. We do have periods, particularly during emergencies, where we become quite active. During our training for fires (simulated with stage smoke), cockpit depressurization (simulated by inflating our suits), and ocean landings (we practice the real thing in the Black Sea), the cooling system is deactivated and temperatures rise. During some of these exercises, core body temperatures have reached over 39° C (102° F), requiring intervention from the array of flight surgeons who monitor the exercise. During such exercises I have produced over 2 kilograms (4½ pounds) of sweat, which ends up inside my sealed spacesuit. The suit thus becomes a mobile, living sauna. No wonder crews practice the Russian tradition of sauna for off-duty relaxation—it’s training for the real thing.
When dealing with technology in this wilderness, especially when it’s required to keep one’s pink flesh safe, bad days can happen. Beware of claims for unsinkable ships. There were times when the U.S. and Russian space agencies both dispensed with spacesuits. They were deemed an unnecessary expense. The engineering guaranteed that cockpit depressurization could not happen. After both the U.S. and Russian programs lost full crews, due in part to spacecraft depressurization, the spacesuits were brought back. Another lesson learned, pried from the bodies of those who explore.
When it comes time to doff my suit, I strip it off with a mix of reverence (thank you for being there) and loathing (I can’t wait to get out of this thing). Like a moist, slimy worm emerging from a chrysalis, I shed this exoskeleton with great anticipation. Hot, sweat-soaked long underwear steams in the cool air, and gives me needed relief from evaporative cooling. This sensation is difficult to describe in words.
Thus I dote over my spacesuit with the same care a knight might take in preparing his battle armor. While still on Earth, I have an array of suit technicians, modern day squires, to help in the process. These people are experts, there to teach you the proper way to care for your spacesuit, for there will come a day when you are on your own and have to operate without any help. If you want to increase your chances to survive, it is imperative to absorb their pearls and become one with your suit.
I hate my spacesuit; I love my spacesuit. Such contradictory thoughts remind me that I am very much alive.
Dec 22, 2011 12:11:30 PM
At the Cosmonaut Hotel in Baikonur, we scribble on our dormitory room doors shortly before leaving for the launch complex—with an indelible marker, no less. Doing this as a kid would have resulted in a fierce scolding. I know I have had such a talking to, and in turn have talked to my sons.
Writing on the wall has been happening since humans lived in caves, and is ingrained into the very fabric of our being. So writing on our dormitory door just comes naturally. Should I trace the outline of my hand? Should I draw a mastodon? Maybe a rocket.
Perhaps some future anthropologist, excavating ruins from this forgotten civilization, will happen across these scratches and remark how primitive these times were—humans sacrificed to the space gods by blasting them off in rockets.