An Astronaut's Guide to Life on Earth

by Chris Hadfield

  Though I hoped for a somewhat less eventful ride home, as our time on Station drew to a close I felt a sense of real anticipation about my first Soyuz landing. I’d trained extensively for it and viewed it as a fitting end to my career as an astronaut: a rare experience right on the hairy edge of possible, approached with forethought and a sense of purpose. I’ve looked forward to every flight I’ve had as a pilot, but I suspected this would be one of the most memorable of them all.

  I was right.

  The last few days of a mission are usually a bit of a blur, because there’s so much to do. On top of the regular tasks, we have to practice landing procedures on a computer simulator and pack up our Soyuz meticulously, because where and how each item is stowed affects the vehicle’s centre of gravity, which in turn determines how much control we have over it. Typically, the last minute is also when you finally get around to doing all the little things you’ve been meaning to do for months: shooting a video tour of the ISS to show friends and family back home, taking photos of crewmates in bizarre, only-in-space poses and, just because you can, peeing upside down.

  But our mission did not end typically. We had that emergency spacewalk on May 11, a major undertaking just 48 hours before we were scheduled to undock, so everything thereafter was a scramble. Right until the minute we got into our Soyuz, we were flying around—literally—cleaning up the Station, throwing out old clothes and tying up loose ends.

  The pell-mell nature of our departure meant that nostalgia had no opportunity to take root, so our Change of Command ceremony on May 12 wasn’t momentous or elegiac. It was cheerful and rushed. I handed responsibility for the Station over to the new commander, my good friend Pavel Vinogradov, with a little speech and a big handshake (which didn’t work all that well in zero gravity, because our whole bodies moved up and down, so the effect was less than solemn), then got right back to my to-do list.

  While Roman focused on the Soyuz, Tom and I did some last-minute science and tried to help set Chris Cassidy up for success. He was going to be all alone in the American module for a few weeks, just as Roman had been all alone in the Russian module after Kevin Ford’s crew left. We urged Chris to have dinner with his Russian crewmates, make an effort to socialize and allow himself to enjoy some downtime rather than work round the clock. That evening, Tom, Roman and I finally added our crew patch to the wall. It was number 35 in the long, colorful row, which helped keep sentiment at bay: so many astronauts and cosmonauts before us, and so many yet to come.

  At 9:00 GMT that last night, I was reviewing my Soyuz checklists when the “Space Oddity” video was posted on YouTube. I wasn’t thinking much about it beyond hoping that it went well for Evan. It had been his idea, his responsibility, his baby, and he was the only person who was nervous about it—a good indicator of ownership. All I’d done was sing, strum and press record. Before I went to bed I quickly checked online to see whether anyone had watched it yet. I was shocked. There had already been close to a million hits.

  The very last day on the ISS was a bit like a travel day anywhere. Among other chores, I vacuumed my sleep station and cleared out the few remaining personal items, including my sleeping bag. The next crew would bring new ones; we take ours back with us in the orbital module, in case we have deorbit troubles and wind up having to spend a night or two on the Soyuz. If not, they’re jettisoned along with the module and burn up on re-entry. I took a few last photos, cleaned up the Japanese lab, worked a few experiments and reviewed the Soyuz checklists again to make sure I was refreshed.

  But despite the flurry of activity I felt a need to steal time, to find a way to be alone in this incredible place, physically and mentally. When I was 7 years old and my family moved from Sarnia to our farm in Milton, I’d had the same impulse. I distinctly remember walking around our Flamingo Drive neighborhood for a last look, fully realizing that my time in that place, which had been a big part of my life and had helped form me, was now at an end. On the ISS I did the same thing. I deliberately went to the Cupola and spent some time trying to soak up the feeling of being there, to internalize what it felt like and what the world looked like from that vantage point. I felt not sad but respectful. I wanted to acknowledge the significance of the time I’d spent on the ISS, and everything it had meant to me.

  Then the clock struck 3:30 and, like Cinderella, we were suddenly yanked out of one existence and thrust into another. We said hurried goodbyes to the other crew, tempted to linger with them in that remote place yet knowing we had to stick to the time line. Then we hustled into the Soyuz and closed the hatches. I would not be back in the ISS again, but that was all right. Earth is home to everyone I love.

  Once in the Soyuz, the pace slowed abruptly. It was a dramatic shift, a bit like complete silence after listening to Beethoven’s Fifth at top volume. We have to do meticulous pressure checks before we trust our hatches, and it takes about two hours before the temperature settles—at first, the Soyuz is chilly—and we can be absolutely sure that we have a tight hermetic seal. The week prior, we’d brought the vehicle out of hibernation and checked the thrusters and motion control system. Since then, Roman had been packing—alone, as only cosmonauts are allowed to pack a Russian vehicle, and under considerable pressure. When Kevin Ford and his crew had returned to Earth, Kevin’s seat shock absorber had failed, so he’d experienced a higher g-load, and there was some concern that the issue might have been the way their Soyuz was packed. So Roman had to make sure ours was done just so, and it was.

  The re-entry capsule was jammed with medical samples in cold packs and broken hardware that needed fixing—so full, in fact, that we’d had to leave personal belongings on the ISS in “wish to return to Earth” bags. I’d sent a few things back in March, but there were items I’d still needed on board—a favorite shirt, the “recording in session” sign from my sleep station—and now I had to leave them behind and hope they wouldn’t remain on orbit permanently. Someday there might be space for them in another vehicle.

  One thing I wasn’t going to leave behind was my Maple Leafs shirt. After a very long dry spell, the team had qualified for the Stanley Cup play-offs, and tonight was the seventh game of the Eastern Conference quarter-final series. I’d been following it avidly, albeit belatedly, on Station; while running and cycling, I’d watch day-old games the CSA and NASA sent me via data uplink. Leafs fans are stubbornly, some might say irrationally, loyal, not the sort of people who care that they’re not supposed to wear team jerseys under their spacesuits. It was May 13, the Leafs were playing the most important game of the season so far—what other choice did I have? I put my shirt on over my long underwear and settled into the left seat. It felt good to be in my spot again in this sturdy little rocket ship.

  I was no longer in charge. Roman, our Commander Soyuza, was, and he’d flown home in a Soyuz before. Tom and I hadn’t, and we also hadn’t been in the vehicle for five months, so during the pressure checks we reviewed all the things that could kill us next, talking through what we’d do if the undocking hardware didn’t work, for example, and which page we’d turn to if we didn’t accelerate properly during the deorbit burn. Roman is a confident, genial leader, and he ran us through the procedures and checks efficiently. Then we started getting into our Sokhols.

  They were noticeably more snug. Without the pressure of gravity, the cartilage between the vertebrae in your spine expands and your body lengthens; this was taken into account when our suits were fabricated, but nevertheless, it was surprising to discover at the age of 53 that I’d grown an inch or two. It took each of us about 15 minutes to find a way to scrunch down into our suits, and afterward we closed off the orbital module that had given us a modicum of living space five months earlier, on our way to the ISS. Unless something went wrong and we got stuck in space an extra day, we wouldn’t need it; descent only takes three and a half hours. The module was now full of garbage, ready to be jettisoned.

  Finally, when we were well cocooned and strapped firmly into our seats
with our knees wedged up against our chests, I pushed the command to undock from the ISS. We were on our way.

  Undocking is a peaceful contrast to the fiery pageantry of launch. It takes about three minutes for the giant hooks and catches to release. Our Soyuz is a small barnacle clinging to a massive ship, but gradually little springs push us away and we drift off as our friends watch from the windows of the ISS, waving farewell.

  We travel slowly at first, just 4 inches a second, but after three minutes, we fire our engines for 15 seconds and start to pick up speed. Then we coast, relying on orbital mechanics to take us well clear of the Station. We need to get a safe distance from the ISS before lighting our engines again, or the exhaust and spatterings of waste fuel would batter her big solar arrays, in the same way a windstorm batters a ship’s sails.

  This puts us on a slightly different trajectory than the ISS as we orbit the Earth. Moscow calculates all the new data, such as our deorbit burn time, and we pencil it onto our checklists. It’s calm now, but I take anti-nausea meds. I know tranquility is only temporary.

  After about two and a half hours it’s time: we turn the ship tail-first and set up for deorbit burn, firing the engines for 4 minutes and 20 seconds. There’s a critical moment during the burn when there’s no turning back—you’ve decelerated so much that you’re committed to falling into the atmosphere. We passed this point and felt the vehicle pushing on our backs, like a solid hand. The sensation is that you’re accelerating in the other direction, but actually you’re slowing down.

  What follows is a wild 54-minute tumble to Earth that feels more or less like 15 explosions followed by a car crash. The Soyuz’s trajectory changes from a circle to an ellipse, and when we hurtle down to the low point we begin brushing into the upper atmosphere, where the denser air instantly starts slowing us. It’s like sticking your hand out a car window when you’re flying down the highway, and feeling the drag of the wind. Then, 28 minutes after firing the engines, the explosive bolts blast open, lobbing the orbital and propulsion modules away to burn up. I think of Yuri, Peggy and So-Yeon, and hope our Soyuz did its job. The loud staccato bangs as the bolts exploded had sounded right, and I saw the fabric that covers the vehicle flash by the window. Then the drag of the air starts to stabilize us and I know we’re good. We still have some roll, but there’s no way a reluctant module is still hanging onto our capsule.

  It’s getting hotter and more humid, despite the tough protective hide of the ablative shield. Looking out, I see orange-yellow flames and a stream of high-speed sparks pouring off the vehicle, and hear a series of bangs. Either there’s a flaw in the shield or some trapped moisture, or we’ve got a real problem. I don’t say anything, because what is there to say? If the shield fails, we’re dead. We are a fiery bullet slicing through space, coming into sunrise.

  Two minutes later, at 400,000 feet, the air gets perceptibly thicker. The temperature inside the capsule is still climbing, and my Maple Leafs shirt is drenched with sweat. Now there’s even more drag and a rude welcome back to gravity, which squashes us back in our seats. The g-force builds rapidly to 3.8 times Earth weight, which is crushing compared to the weightlessness we’ve enjoyed for the past five months. I can feel the heaviness of the skin on my face as it’s mashed back toward my ears. I take little cheater breaths; my lungs don’t want to fight gravity. My arms seem to weigh a ton, and suddenly it’s a strain to lift one even a few inches to flick a switch on the control panel. Going from weightlessness to max g and then back to the 1 g experienced on Earth only takes 10 minutes, but it’s a long 10 minutes.

  Once we’ve slowed significantly—picture a rock sinking in a deep pond—our drogue chute opens to cut our rate of descent. At 17,000 feet, the main chute opens and we’re laughing, yelling, “Yeehaw!” The Soyuz is spinning and whipping around crazily, rattling and twisting too quickly, even, to make us sick. Then suddenly, bam! We’re stabilized, hanging tautly under the parachute. We jettison the thermal shield that ensured we didn’t burn up when we re-entered the atmosphere; our windows were blacked over from the heat, but now an extra layer of covering peels off and we can see the blue morning sky. All remaining fuel has already been vented to ensure we don’t burst into flames when we hit the ground.

  We try to catch our breath, weak after the multi-axis disorienting tumble, the wildest of amusement park rides. To complete the effect, our seats suddenly slam upward, rising automatically to the top level of their shock absorbers to cushion us from the brunt of what’s about to happen. The crush of acceleration helps us tighten our straps. We know the moment of impact will be bad; the seats’ liners were custom-built to mold to our bodies so that our backs don’t break. Just before impact no one says anything, not even Roman, who’s been narrating our descent as he is supposed to, talking a mile a minute the whole way down, telling the ground what’s going on. We’re all clenching our teeth, lightly, so we don’t bite through our tongues.

  Our little gamma-ray altimeter waits for an echo from the ground, and then, two seconds before impact, sends a command to fire our optimistically named Soft Landing Rockets—gunpowder charges that cut our descent rate to 5 feet per second. They turn a horrific car crash into a survivable one: we hit the hard ground of Kazakhstan, a ton of steel, titanium and human flesh. It’s windy on the steppe, so our chute drags us over onto our side like a chopped tree, and we roll end over end a few times until Roman flicks a switch to cut the parachute lines, and we … stop. The Soyuz rests on its side. I’m upside down, hanging heavily in my straps from the ceiling, stunned, shaken, stirred.

  A normal landing, right on target: we hear the drone of the search and rescue helicopters. We inhale the burnt, acrid smell of our spaceship. Tom points to the window: where moments before there had been space, now there is pale brown, powdery dirt. We hear a jabber of voices—the Russian ground crew.

  We’re back on Earth, at last.

  Next thing you know the hatch is being pried open and there’s blue sky, bright sunshine, the smell of fresh air and living things, a commotion of voices. Arms reach in to lift Roman out of the capsule. Someone else digs out the samples and science, the things that need to be put in a freezer or on a plane right away. Tom is carried out next, then it’s my turn. I was NASA’s rep at several landings, so the ground crew knows me, and the guy who lifts me out says, in Russian, “Chris, the clip is magnificent, it made us proud.” He’s talking about “Space Oddity,” I realize, and he means he’s proud of this business we’re both in. It’s a nice way to be welcomed back when you’ve fallen from the sky.

  I’m pale and blinking after months without sunlight, and so weak and rubber-limbed that I need to be carried over and propped up in a canvas chair beside Tom and Roman, who is already joking with the medical staff and looking great, like he’s ready to play a round of golf. I am not. Doctors and nurses are wiping the dirt off my forehead; I accidentally touched the charred edge of the Soyuz while getting out and then touched my face, so I look as though I’ve been smeared with charcoal. They’re asking if I’m all right, tenderly, and covering me with a blanket. NASA and CSA officials, local dignitaries and Russian soldiers are buzzing around. It’s overwhelming, after being with no more than five other human beings for the past five months, to be surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers, especially after the physical excesses of crashing down to Earth.

  My helmet comes off and someone hands me a satellite phone. Helene. A few reporters press forward for the photo op: E.T. calls home. I hear my wife’s voice, sure and clear, relieved and happy. I tell her I love her, then ask the question: Did the Leafs win the game? No, she tells me, they’re out of the play-offs. They’d gone down in flames, just like me.

  I’m smiling, doing my best to impersonate a person who doesn’t feel disoriented and sick. But my arms feel so heavy I can barely lift them, and I stay motionless, to reduce exertion. Every part of my body feels sore or shocked, or both. It’s like being a newborn, this sudden sensory overload of noise, color, smells and
gravity after months of quietly floating, encased in relative calm and isolation. No wonder babies cry in protest when they’re born.

  After sitting still for 15 minutes, and handing over my personal belongings to a support person who will make sure they don’t mysteriously disappear (anything that’s flown in space is a collector’s item), I’m carried, chair and all, into a hastily erected medical tent to be transferred to a cot. By this point I’m retching, feeling just terrible. Medical staff clean me up, help me out of my Sokhol and my Leafs shirt, now soaked with sweat, and into my regular blue flight suit, then put in an IV to give me more fluids so I don’t faint.

  Next, along with Roman and Tom, I’m loaded into an armored vehicle, a long, low-ceilinged thing that reeks of diesel fumes, to be carted a few hundred yards to a helicopter. Not a peak experience when you’re nauseated. We each get our own MI8, a Russian military transport helicopter with a bed, nurse, support person and doctor. I’m most interested in the bed. I’m dazed, and every time I move my head I feel like I’m spinning through space and time. I fall asleep almost immediately.

  Landing at the airport in Karaganda about an hour later, I’m at least refreshed and strong enough to sign the vehicle’s door (one astronaut or cosmonaut did it once, a spur-of-the-moment impulse that was instantly institutionalized as a must-do—and it is kind of cool to add your own signature to those of colleagues you know personally or by reputation). Tom, Roman and I are helped into a car and whisked off to a ceremony where a local VIP presents each of us with a purple robe and black hat that look a bit like something Merlin might wear, and a two-stringed gourd-shaped guitar. Young Kazakh women in formal dress provide standard offerings for travelers: salt, bread and water.

  Then there’s a press conference and the first question is, “Did you know that ‘Space Oddity’ has had seven million hits?” I didn’t, actually. The number sounds unbelievable and I’m really feeling sick now, but need to explain that Expedition 34/35 was not about a music video. Rather, the purpose of the music video was to make the rare and beautiful experience of space flight more accessible. I babble something in Russian about the importance of having human beings in space, not robots, then some merciful person trundles me off to the bathroom, where I can be sick without worrying about bad press.