This seat on the middeck of Endeavour was my duty position for liftoff on September 30, 1994. Here, I’m strapped in for our countdown rehearsal in early August. I’m in the next-to-rightmost seat position (of four) on the middeck, adjacent to the gray panels of our four sleep stations (bunks) shown at upper left. Jeff Wisoff was strapped in to my left, just out of reach of my outstretched arm.
To orient you in this view, the middeck ceiling is above my head. The right wall is off my right side, and my feet are resting on the floor. The middeck rear bulkhead is behind the seat, but in this view is covered by gray work platforms and protective fireproof cloth covers. Of course, on Pad 39A, the orbiter and middeck are tilted 90 degrees aft, so true “up” is the direction I’m facing, or the top of this photo. I’m lying on my back.
The orange Launch and Entry Suit (LES) is a pressure suit designed to keep me alive, in case of a cabin leak, until the orbiter can get back into the atmosphere where we can breathe again. My orange fabric harness attaches me to the parachute on my back; I’m lying on the chute. Beneath my right hand is the “green apple” activation knob that would release an emergency oxygen supply (stored in the chute harness) into my pressure suit. That oxygen would be used in an emergency egress or after a bailout and parachute descent.
The black seat straps are a five-point harness with a quick-release rotary knob at my waist. The orange hose routes cooling air into my suit from a suit fan that circulates cabin air through the suit torso and out the neck dam (when the helmet is open). Not visible is the oxygen line that feeds ship O2 into a regulator on my left thigh.
On my right knee is my kneeboard, holding a few checklist pages and notes–for “What to Do” during ascent and upon reaching orbit. There’s also a card that reminds me how to exit the cabin if the orbiter breaks up during ascent–a legacy of the Challenger accident. My LES gloves are tucked under a strap on my left thigh. The white box on my left shoulder strap is my communications controller, with a couple of buttons for talking on the intercom or radioing outside the shuttle. My wristwatch is around my left forearm.
Coming out of the helmet are the two orange velcro tabs that pull the neck dam slightly open, for cooling and comfort. The white “snoopy cap” communications cap holds headphones and those two gray boom mikes. The gray handle on my helmet’s left side is the “bail” that when swung down, closes and locks the faceplate. There’s a dark visor atop the helmet I can also swing down, but for this exercise, I’m wearing a less-damage-prone clear lexan visor.
This isn’t a comfortable setup. The parachute and its survival gear beneath my back are lumpy and unyielding. I had a lumbar air bladder beneath the small of my back which I could pump up with a squeeze bulb to relieve some of the back pressure. And with my lower legs and feet up in the air here, the head feels congested and the kidneys work overtime to deal with the headward blood shift–it’s a good thing I have that diaper on. Three hours of this, and the violent experience of liftoff will be welcome relief.
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