Launching in an abandoned truck driving school has its challenges. There’s this freedom in its abandonment and the bay view itself is beatufiul. That’s about all it’s perks :)
The difficulty and challenges that come with it however—infinite. Wind speeds: uncharacteristically dangerous. Trespassing charges: one police car away. Property damage: inevitable. Yet the most painstakingly outrageous of all of these challenges is recovering a rocket in the bushy fields to the right or the busy junkyward towards the left.
It is difficult to describe the emotions of losing months of work in not being able to find it. Maybe it’s easier to say that the magnitude of the loss is so grand and has happened so many times that I’m numb to it: that heartbreak has become the norm. But this heartbreak is a slow burn.
You see, when a rocket gets lost it’s a rollercoaster of emotions. First the rocket rises to apogee. Dopamine hit 1. Then you begin to pray that the parachute deploys. Dopamine hit 2. Dopamine hit 3 comes as the rocket cruises down at a normal speed. But then my gut twists as winds blow the rocket every which way, my mind praying it doesn’t move to the right or left (spoiler it usually does). This is the one instant I consider myself religious, as I’d give anything for the rocket to land safely.
As my team and I run through the field chasing for our hard work (legs deep in thorns, wet plants, and mud), our hearts dart every which way hoping to see our bright pink parachute.
Our record for these searches has been 2/20. 10%. Yet somehow, each time we run after our rockets, our hope never wavers.
Instead we’ve bought drones to search for us, tested airtags or GPS to aid. The reality of the situation is these tools weren’t made of the junkyard and they haven’t helped. But somehow, everytime that a rocket begins to drift and I entere that field to search, I have hope.
Optimism is everything :)