THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, July 20, 1994 TAG: 9407200401
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A7 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: LAWRENCE MADDRY
LENGTH: Medium: 84 lines
I once had the honor of introducing astronaut Michael Collins at a meeting of the Man Will Never Fly Society - a foolish organization that spoofs aviation each year on the eve of the Wright Brothers' flight anniversary.
Holding a plastic and anatomically correct cow in one hand and a hunk of green cheese representing the lunar surface, I turned to Collins and asked him to explain exactly where he was in that relationship on July 20, 1969, the day of the moon landing.
His brisk mind wasn't loafing even in that indolent and alcoholic atmosphere. He sauntered to the microphone, surveyed the audience with a pair of twinkling Irish eyes, pointed to the underside of the cow and replied: ``I was the udder astronaut.''
The answer was characteristic of Collins, a man who achieved immortality before his 39th birthday. Author Norman Mailer once wrote that Collins was the man nearly everybody was glad to see at a party because of his good and graceful manners.
It is ironic that a man so convivial would have been so isolated on that eventful day a quarter of a century ago. Then, there were 3 billion people on one side of the moon, including Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. And there was Michael Collins, the pilot of the spacecraft Columbia, all alone on the other.
He recounted the experience in his biography ``Carrying the Fire'' - the best and most literate of the books written by astronauts:
``I don't mean to deny a feeling of solitude. It is there, reinforced by the fact that radio contact with the earth abruptly cuts off at the instant I disappear behind the moon. I am alone now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life . . . I feel this powerfully. . .
``Outside my window I can see stars, and that is all. Where I know the moon to be, there is simply a black void; the moon's presence is defined solely by the absence of stars. To compare the sensation with something terrestrial, perhaps being alone in a skiff in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on a pitch-black night would most nearly approximate my situation.''
Although he was the other astronaut, the one who didn't step on the moon, the mission would have been impossible without Collins' skill and remarkable coolness as he guided the Columbia around the dark reaches of the moon at 3,700 miles per hour.
He was later to link with the lunar module Eagle bringing the moon walkers home aboard his spacecraft.
Mailer noted that Collins was from that school of Irish gentility that believes, above all things, that a man must not take himself seriously.
On the 25th anniversary of the Apollo 11 triumph, Michael Collins - our neighbor who lives in the village of Avon on Hatteras Island - is as modest as ever. But he speaks out for space exploration even though he no longer pilots shuttles.
In a speech to Congress many years ago he dealt with the same issues that face our country now as we question space agency expenditures at a time of huge national debt.
Collins said: ``We cannot launch our planetary probes from a springboard of poverty, discrimination, or unrest; but neither can we wait until each and every terrestrial problem is solved. Such logic 200 years ago would have prevented expansion westward beyond the Appalachian Mountains, for assuredly, the Eastern seaboard was beset by problems of great urgency then, as it is today.''
Today, Mike Collins keeps such a low profile that hardly any of Hatteras Island's tourists - and few of the locals - know him by sight. When he pulls up at the Avon Shopping Center in his used Ford Explorer to pick up groceries, he looks pretty much like any other vagabond on a fishing vacation: old T-shirt, walking shorts, running shoes.
You might spot him jogging his 10 miles on the beach in the early morning - not bad for a fellow in his early 60s - or catch a glimpse of skipper Collins if you are passing offshore. He's a fishing nut and steers his 20-foot boat out into the Atlantic for miles, chasing Spanish mackerel or false albacore - a fish he says tastes poor but fights hard. You might even catch him at a local library or bookstore, although his wife, Pat, is the more voracious reader.
Man has always gone where he's been able to go - some more and further than others. Nice to know Mike Collins chose the Outer Banks as the place to go for his retirement.
The fishing is good. The beaches are wide. The Wright Memorial honoring a pair of loners from Dayton is just up the road. And even the name of the place - Avon on the Outer Banks - seems to fit him - both poetically and philosophically. by CNB