That was the second hardest experience of my life, physically. The first was when I was about 14 and, along with the rest of my family, had spent a long late-summer day in the fields, harvesting corn. We were just sitting down to dinner when my dad came in after sticking a long thermometer into one of the storage bins to check that the dried kernels of corn weren’t heating up and starting to ferment. Well, they were, and if we didn’t do something fast, we were going to lose the farm’s entire profit for the year. So we all got up from the table and ran out to the barn and started shoveling the corn, continuously moving it from the bottom of a 6-foot-deep bin to the top, to aerate and cool it. My whole family worked through the night to save the crop. There was no question of stopping.
Or of whining. My dad could be a stern taskmaster and on principle didn’t believe children should complain, but he also disapproved of whining because he understood that it is contagious and destructive. Comparing notes on how unfair or difficult or ridiculous something is does promote bonding—and sometimes that’s why griping continues, because it’s reinforcing an us-against-the-world feeling. Very quickly, though, the warmth of unity morphs to the sourness of resentment, which makes hardships seem even more intolerable and doesn’t help get the job done. Whining is the antithesis of expeditionary behavior, which is all about rallying the troops around a common goal.
It’s easy to do that in an event-driven situation, like a Shuttle mission that’s built around repairing a telescope or installing new equipment on the ISS. When the objective is well defined and time-limited, most people can stay focused on achieving it. On the ISS, however, the goals are fuzzier: keep the experiments going, maintain the Station. There are a lot of finicky, janitorial-type tasks, and as with housework, you never really finish. Plus, we’re there long enough for petty grievances and irritations to accumulate and to seem to mount in importance, too. So as commander of Expedition 35, I deliberately discouraged whining whenever I noticed it creeping into conversation. However, I couldn’t simply impose my will on the rest of the crew. Only the crew’s own appreciation of the value of expeditionary behavior made it possible for us to become a complaint-free group.
Each of them also made a point of promoting team spirit. Tom, for instance, is a medical doctor by training, and he has the ultimate gentle, supportive bedside manner. If he sensed that anyone needed help, he’d stop whatever he was doing and assist in a way that suggested that helping us out was really what he would rather be doing. He made us feel we were doing him a service, somehow, by allowing him to bail us out. Roman is one of those cheerful people who always seems on the verge of bursting out laughing. He understands the necessity of having fun and, if spirits flagged, lightened the mood by grabbing his harmonica or the Station’s guitar and playing a riff from something we all knew.
On board the ISS there’s a sack of holiday things: a small Christmas tree and lights, plastic Easter eggs, New Year’s noisemakers, an assortment of party hats and so forth. This stuff has accumulated gradually over the years and provides an interesting, informal archeological record of crews past, but I mention it because Roman was always digging into that sack. On the way to video conferences with family or friends, or to record a greeting for someone, or to one of our group dinners, he’d put on a crazy orange jacket and Groucho Marx glasses—anything that would make him look ridiculous and get people laughing. He was also forever taking newly acquired English vernacular and applying it in ways he knew were ridiculous. Once we were working with a tricky piece of equipment that needed to be jiggled a little bit, and he suddenly instructed, in a strong Russian accent, “Shake what your mama gave ya!” then dissolved into laughter.
I’ve worked with some difficult people, too. One particularly abrasive astronaut flew on several Shuttle flights for which I was lead CAPCOM; we had to work together closely, particularly during the mission he commanded. The CAPCOM is the crew’s trusted representative on the ground, and I really enjoyed trying to make sure things went smoothly for the crew—except when I had to work with this guy. He was highly skilled, technically, but also arrogant and confrontational, the kind of person who regularly swore at me, berated me and told me in no uncertain terms that I was a bumbling fool. I started to dread interacting with him, and when he dressed me down in front of Mission Control, I wanted to lash back, make my case in a legal manner, enlist supporters and try to convince them I’d done nothing wrong—everything about him just rubbed me the wrong way, professionally and personally.
Then I realized: Wow, he’s really effective. This is his way of competing—trying to terrify and belittle others. His objective is to have a negative impact, and it’s working. He’s actually making me doubt my own competence.
Figuring that out helped me stop reacting emotionally to his abuse and start trying to figure out how to make the best of the situation. I quickly realized that I shouldn’t take the guy’s behavior personally. I was just one of hundreds of support people he thought were plotting his downfall; he reduced the secretary to tears on an almost daily basis. But even though I didn’t have a lot of respect for him as a person, I was his junior and had to respect his role, whether he respected mine or not. I decided I had to let his criticisms slide by. So I did. I even reached a point of detachment where I was able to see clearly that he was a top operator of a complex vehicle who had some great skills and some fundamental problems. The trick to working well with him was to understand that the problems were his, not mine, and they all seemed to stem from his insecurity. He was unable to view his colleagues as anything other than competitors out to destroy him, who therefore needed to be squashed like bugs.
Once, flying up to Washington in a NASA jet, I stopped to refuel and a military guy I’d never met before noticed the plane and said, “Hey, do you know ____? What an asshole!” It was striking: of all the things he might have said to me on first meeting, his low opinion of that astronaut was the most pressing. I just said, “Wow. You’ve met him.”
That incident really stuck with me. I would be horrified if a stranger met one of my colleagues and said, “Hey, do you know Chris Hadfield? I ran into him once. What a jerk!” I would be even more horrified if one of my colleagues, someone who knew me really well, heartily agreed.
It was a happy day for me when that astronaut left the office, but in retrospect, I learned a lot from him. For example, that if you need to make a strong criticism, it’s a bad idea to lash out wildly; be surgical, pinpoint the problem rather than attack the person. Never ridicule a colleague, even with an offhand remark, no matter how tempting it is or how hilarious the laugh line. The more senior you are, the greater the impact your flippant comment will have. Don’t snap at the people who work with you. When you see red, count to 10.
These are good rules in general but particularly in the space business. If I got into serious trouble on orbit—a medical emergency, say, or a catastrophic equipment failure—my crewmates would be my only hope of survival. For all intents and purposes, they’d be the last people in the world. That’s a thought I try to keep in the forefront of my mind every day, not just in space but on Earth.
If your crewmates are the last people in the world, they’re also the last ones you want to alienate or irritate. I grew up in a farmhouse with four brothers and sisters, so I’ve had a lot of firsthand lessons about the importance of consideration in tight quarters. But I needed another one, apparently, and got it during my last mission.
I’d been on the ISS about three weeks when I noticed my fingernails needed trimming. I’d never been in space that long before so hadn’t faced this particular issue, and I knew that without gravity, dealing with the clippings might be tricky. So I came up with a really great idea: I’d cut my nails over an air duct intake filter. My new-guy idea was that every small clipping would get sucked right into the intake. It worked! I even recorded this improvisation on video so people on Earth could watch a mundane task made oddly interesting by the absence of gravity. I didn’t think through all the
implications, though. That weekend Kevin Ford, the commander of Expedition 34 and the person who was responsible for cleaning that part of the Station, undid the screws so he could vacuum behind the filter panel, thereby launching a hive of my dead fingernails into his face and everywhere else. He did his best to catch them all with the vacuum, but it couldn’t have been pleasant. He came to me later and politely mentioned that next time I clipped my nails he’d appreciate it if I’d vacuum them off the intake immediately. I was mortified, but all I could do was apologize and make a note that the next time I felt smug about my cleverness, I should watch for the unintended consequences.
In the grand scheme of things, it was a minor mistake. But if I’d kept making more mistakes like that, it would have become a major irritant for everyone on board and ultimately, that could have chipped away at our effectiveness as a team. If you’re seen as being consistently inconsiderate, or just out for yourself, there’s a direct impact on communication and, usually, overall productivity. People simply won’t work as well with you as they would with someone whose behavior was a little more expeditionary.
Over the years I’ve learned that investing in other people’s success doesn’t just make them more likely to enjoy working with me. It also improves my own chances of survival and success. The more each astronaut knows how to do, and the better he or she can do it, the better off I am, too.
For Expedition 34/35, my last mission, Roman was commander of the Soyuz, I was the left-seater, or co-pilot, and Tom was the right-seater. The Soyuz is designed to be flown by two people; the right-seater has no designated responsibilities beyond looking after himself or herself, so doesn’t get detailed training. You could fly a suitcase in that seat, no problem. But Tom was eager to learn about the Soyuz, and to me, that seemed like a win-win proposition, both personally (he might wind up saving the day, noticing something Roman and I had missed) and in terms of our organization: the greater his depth of experience, the more valuable he would be to NASA post-flight. It took a little more of my own time and energy, training together after-hours and explaining procedures in detail, but it was a great investment, not just in him as an astronaut but in terms of his capability as a crewmate. Even in the sims, Tom could have the malfunction book open to the right page and point to the step Roman needed when something went wrong, or he could calculate how long the backup burn should be. If I’d said, “Look, Tom, just take care of yourself and we’ll get you to the Station and back, no problem,” our team would not have been as strong.
Having “overqualified” crewmates is a safety net for everyone, and I was lucky that Tom and Roman felt the same way and were willing to invest in my success, too. During training, when I messed up a Soyuz docking practical exam, Roman long-facedly commiserated with me, regaled me with stories about the times he and other cosmonauts had failed tests, suggested techniques and tactics I could use to improve my performance and then rejoiced with me when I retook the exam and passed. He did that not just because he’s a nice person but because the higher my skill level, the more peace of mind he had. He wanted a crewmate who could, in an emergency, be of some use.
It’s not enough to shelve your own competitive streak. You have to try, consciously, to help others succeed. Some people feel this is like shooting themselves in the foot—why aid someone else in creating a competitive advantage? I don’t look at it that way. Helping someone else look good doesn’t make me look worse. In fact, it often improves my own performance, particularly in stressful situations.
Once, I was doing water survival in the Black Sea where, in teams of three, we were simulating water landings in the Soyuz. The scenario was that we’d splashed down in the ocean and needed to get out of the capsule and into a life raft within half an hour, using the right techniques. I was doing this exercise with André Kuipers, an experienced astronaut who’s as big as you can be and still fly on the Soyuz, and Max Ponamaryov, a small, strong cosmonaut in his late 20s who’d just completed introductory training. It was summertime, we were wearing pressure suits and it was hot in the capsule—so hot that each of us had had to swallow a transmitter so our core temperature could be monitored for safety. All of us were sweating like crazy and basically just wanted out of that tiny capsule ASAP. But first we had to take off our pressure suits—awkward even if you have all the room in the world—and put on water survival suits, which are a little like down-filled snowmobile suits, then pull waterproof gear over them. In other words, we had to get a whole lot more uncomfortable before we could get out of there.
Focusing on the discomfort, though, was only going to make it worse. Instead, we decided to focus on how to support each other and make Max’s first experience as commander a big success. André, who’s a medical doctor, kept reminding us to drink more water so we wouldn’t get dehydrated, but Max, who doubtless felt some pressure as a rookie to prove how tough he was, was initially reluctant. So André and I started chugging water, which made it okay for Max to drink, too. Likewise, Max insisted on trading places with André, who despite being the biggest of us had been assigned the most cramped seat, the left one, and was having the most trouble getting out of his pressure suit. Just when the heat felt least bearable, I fake-shivered and said, “Brrr, it’s cold!” It provided not only comic relief but, for whatever reason, a bit of physical relief as well, so we all started doing it and for a glorious moment or two almost believed we weren’t bathed in sweat. André’s water survival suit didn’t fit but we helped him wriggle into it as best as he could, then did the egress properly and the end result was that Max emerged as a star commander.
Possibly we could have completed the sim in about the same amount of time if our attitude had been “every man for himself,” or if André and I had taken charge because we had more experience. But I doubt it. I think focusing on helping Max deliver a win helped us tough out the physical unpleasantness and improved our performance individually, too. The other group doing the exercise couldn’t get through the clothing swap and had to be rescued and get extra training the next day. The exercise really had a lot less to do with water survival than with deliberate teamwork.
It’s counterintuitive, but I think it’s true: promoting your colleagues’ interests helps you stay competitive, even in a field where everyone is top-notch. And it’s easy to do once you understand that you have a vested interest in your co-workers’ success. In a crisis, you want them to want to help you survive and succeed, too. They may be the only people in the world who can.
6
WHAT’S THE NEXT THING THAT COULD KILL ME?
JUST AS IT’S MORE DANGEROUS to walk through a rough neighborhood alone, a military pilot is more vulnerable flying solo over enemy territory. That’s why we learn to fly in formation: if you’ve got someone on your wing, you can keep an eye on one another.
However, you can also kill one another without too much effort. Flying in close formation requires laser-like focus; you have to be able to ignore absolutely everything aside from following the leader and executing the maneuvers precisely. The importance of this was driven home to me one of the very first times I ever flew in formation, during basic jet training. We were in our Tutors, four across, staggered back like fingertips; I was third in the row, boxed in, when I noticed something moving in my field of vision. Inside my visor, actually. A bug of some sort, so close to my eye that I had trouble making out exactly what it was.
Oh. A bee. A big one, a couple of inches from my eyeball.
It’s not unheard of for an insect to get trapped in the cockpit when you close the canopy, but I’d never had one inside my visor before. And this bee was crawling slowly and woozily—groggy, probably, because of the thinness of the air at that altitude. Disorientation might make it more defensive and more likely to sting, but there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t blow on it because I was wearing a mask—nor did I want to do anything to startle it. The key thing was to continue to fly my plane steadily. In the middle of the line, I was stuck. I couldn’t
safely peel away with no warning. If I broke formation I’d endanger the pilots on either side of me. Our planes were that close together.
Knowing how high the stakes were helped me override my instinctive desire to put a lot more distance between me and that bee. I can’t say that I was able to forget it was there—I had no choice but to look directly at the thing; shutting my eyes was not an option. But I did manage to hold formation until I had a chance to radio and ask the leader to let me fall back long enough to open my visor and lose the bee.
Nothing focuses your mind quite like flying a jet. That’s one reason NASA requires that astronauts fly T-38s: it forces us to concentrate and prioritize in some of the same ways we need to in a rocket ship. Although simulators are great for building step-by-step knowledge of a procedure, the worst thing that can happen in a sim is that you get a bad grade on your performance. In a T-38, an old training plane that’s fast but short on fuel and not all that responsive, you have to operate complex, unforgiving systems in a dynamic environment; the weather and winds are always changing. You’re constantly forced to make judgment calls, like whether to turn back or push on when you’re low on fuel or a storm is coming or there’s something wrong with the plane. Making life or death calls, without hesitation, is a perishable skill; flying T-38s ensures we maintain it.
Even during an uneventful flight, it’s crucial that you’re focused and ready to work any problem that arises. When you’re 150 feet off the ground and moving at 400 knots, which is common for fighter and test pilots, you have to concentrate on what’s directly in front of you. If you don’t, you’ll die. That kind of intense focus is less about what you include than what you ignore. And by ignore, I mean completely block out; the argument with your boss, your financial worries—gone. If it doesn’t matter for the next 30 seconds, then it doesn’t exist. You need to be able to disregard everything that isn’t going to happen in the next mile or so. There is only one essential question: What’s the next thing that could kill me? Focusing on that thing, whatever it is, is how you stay alive.
An Astronaut's Guide to Life on Earth Page 11
