Leland Melvin, R’86, shares his adventures aboard Space Shuttle Atlantis.
Leland Melvin, R’86, had waited nine years for this call. He answered his cell phone and greeted fellow astronaut Stephen Frick.
In a crisp military tone, Frick said, “Leland, I would like to congratulate you on being selected as a member of the STS-122 crew.”
STS-122 was NASA notation for the upcoming mission of Space Shuttle Atlantis. Frick would command the orbiter, and Melvin would wield the robotic arm. It would be his first foray into space.
Melvin snapped his cell phone shut and exploded with excitement. He ran through the house jumping, shouting, and pumping his fists. Within 15 minutes, he was savoring his good fortune as he sped along NASA Parkway toward Johnson Space Center.
When he joined the Astronaut Corps in 1998, Melvin felt called to space exploration, but NASA assigned him to other tasks. And the opportunity to fly in space seemed to be slipping away when the Columbia catastrophe grounded the shuttles for more than two years.
Columbia cost Melvin seven good friends, none better than Dave Brown. He would never forget what Brown’s father said to him, tears overflowing, on the night after the accident.
“Leland … my son is not coming back, and there is nothing we can do to bring him back, but the greatest tragedy would be to stop this program and not carry on the legacy of the Columbia crew.”
Inspired by those words, Melvin rededicated himself to the Astronaut Corps. “As a civilization,” he resolved, “we need to carry on this torch of exploration.”
T-minus-forever
Melvin wanted to take everyone with him on Atlantis, especially the thousands of children he met as co-manager of NASA’s Educator Astronaut Program.
Over the years he had visited hundreds of schools to encourage children to study hard, aim high, and eat their green beans. As best he could, he told them what it was like to fly in space—always with the disclaimer that he himself had never done it. That detail didn’t seem to matter to the kids, but it bothered Melvin. How could he pass the torch of exploration without carrying it first?
It pleased him now to think about those children. It also pleased him that his mission was generating excitement on the University of Richmond campus. (See Vantage Point.)
He welcomed many former professors, classmates, and teammates to a launch party at Kennedy Space Center. The University gave him several UR items to carry into space—including a T-shirt signed by everyone in the chemistry department and a football autographed by players on the 2007 team.
On launch day—Dec. 6—Melvin visited the University’s Web site and saw a giant banner hanging from the library tower that said, “UR salutes our first Spider in space.”
Melvin felt honored. He was ready, but Atlantis was not. Launch Control informed the crew that two fuel sensors were malfunctioning. NASA postponed liftoff until Dec. 8, but the problem with the sensors persisted. The mission was rescheduled for Jan. 10 … then Jan. 24 … then Feb. 7.
Quite a Catch
With a UR football scout watching, Melvin dropped a pass that would have been a touchdown in the homecoming football game at Heritage High School in Lynchburg.
As the scout was leaving the stadium, he heard the crowd roar. He turned around and saw Melvin celebrating the game-winning touchdown in the end zone. The team had run the same play again, and this time he scored.
Melvin did not drop many passes during his UR career. He caught more passes (198) for more yards (2,699) than anyone in the University’s history. He was an honorable mention All-American in 1984 and 1985 and a second team academic All-American in 1985.
Melvin played briefly for the Detroit Lions and Dallas Cowboys, but hamstring injuries ended his NFL hopes. By then, he was working on a master’s degree in materials science at the University of Virginia. He landed a research job at NASA’s Langley Research Center in 1989 and was accepted into the Astronaut Corps in 1998.
The delays were discouraging, but Melvin understood that another accident could be fatal—not only to him but to the entire shuttle program.
Atlantis says go
On Feb. 7, the shuttle was cleared for launch, but the weather was threatening. NASA officials gave liftoff only a 40 percent chance, but they decided to proceed with a countdown.
The astronauts half-expected another false start as they suited up. They rode to the launch site and performed a walk-around. They looked up at a magnificent machine stoked with 2 million pounds of solid propellant and 800,000 gallons of liquid fuel. Atlantis seemed almost alive—creaking, moving, breathing, telling them it was ready to go.
They took the elevator to the 195-foot level, and Melvin called his sister’s cell phone. Cathy Melvin Clarke was on a bus with their parents—Deems and Grace Melvin—and other family members and friends. Cathy held her cell phone up to a microphone so everyone could hear.
“I love you guys,” Leland said. “Hope we get off today. We’re hoping for a good launch.”
No one said goodbye. They dared not consider that possibility. “Okay!” shouted the crowd on the bus. They clapped and cheered and sang the chorus to “I believe I can fly.” Then Leland’s lifelong friend, Phil Scott, led them in prayer.
The astronauts boarded Atlantis and fastened their seat belts. As they flipped switches and reviewed procedures, they wondered if this would be another dress rehearsal or the real thing. Launch Control answered the question at T-minus-15 minutes.
“The weather looks great. We’re going.”
They cinched their straps tighter and tried to stay loose. The atmosphere in the orbiter reminded Melvin of being in the locker room with his Spider teammates before a big game. Some of the astronauts cracked jokes. They were anxious but having a good time. Hans Schlegel reminded them that he had been on a mission that was scrubbed after the main engines were lit.
Atlantis blasts off from Kennedy Space Center with 1.2 million pounds of thrust.
Not this time. At T-minus-six seconds, the main engines roared to life, and Melvin felt some vibration. The vehicle rocked forward slightly, and as it returned to vertical, the solid rocket boosters ignited. Liftoff!
Exhilaration—fueled by adrenaline—gripped Melvin’s body, mind, and soul. The flight-deck camera captured a big smile on his face as 1.2 million pounds of thrust catapulted him off the planet.
Look up
Rex Walheim nudged Melvin and said, “Look up.” Melvin used the mirror on his sleeve to peer through the overhead window, where he saw the East Coast of Florida dropping rapidly below.
One minute into the flight, the engines throttled down to keep the solid rocket boosters from ripping away from the orbiter as they broke through the sound barrier. A few seconds later, the engines went full blast.
The acceleration seemed infinite as the shuttle surged from 2,000 miles per hour to 10,000 miles per hour. Melvin felt as though he were in a human slingshot that had been pulled back and released. Centrifuge training had prepared him for the G-forces, but not the acceleration. There was no earthly equivalent.
Two minutes into the flight, the shuttle jettisoned its solid rocket boosters, and the ride became smoother. The astronauts still were experiencing nearly three Gs, but they were getting used to it.
“Coming up on two-engine TAL,” Melvin said, indicating that the orbiter had gained enough momentum to make a trans-Atlantic landing in Europe or Africa if one of its three engines failed.
Eight and a half minutes into the flight, the shuttle’s engines shut down, and the G-forces quickly dropped from three to zero. Melvin felt as though he were tumbling forward. He unfastened his straps, disconnected his hoses, and removed his helmet.
Schlegel popped up from the mid-deck and floated the video camera over to Melvin, who maneuvered into the overhead window. He filmed the orange fuel tank falling away from the orbiter, but his eyes focused on the blue Earth below.
“Wow!” he realized. “I’m in space!”
Space legs
Melvin relished his duties as mission photographer. Creating a visual record of the journey dovetailed with his plans to share the experience with as many people as possible.
His first full view of the planet, spinning 100 miles below, exceeded spectacular. The hues of blue and green were more vibrant than anything Melvin had ever seen, but gawking was not on his checklist. He struggled to remove his pressure suit—not so easy without gravity.
Melvin remembered to take anti-nausea medicine, but he failed to drink enough water with it. The barf bag attached to his sleeve came in handy when the medicine came back up. He sealed the pouch, put it in the wet trash, and kept working.
He was clumsy at first because everything was different in zero gravity. Tools and other items—especially food—floated away if he turned his back on them for a few seconds. Gradually, he acquired his space legs.
After a few hours of steady work, Melvin looked out the window again. He marveled at the gleaming aurora highlighting the curvature of the Earth over Australia. He was amazed by what he could see—thunderstorms, icecaps, mountain ranges—and he was struck by what he could not see—wars, borders, impediments to progress. He beheld one big blue planet.
Melvin operated the space station’s robotic arm to help Walheim (right) and Love install the Columbus lab.
“We’re all part of it, and we’re all responsible for it,” he thought. “I wish everyone could fly in space. It would change humankind for the better.”
Frick interrupted Melvin’s musings by telling the crew to get some sleep. It was a welcome reminder for the first Spider in space. The nervous excitement, the intensity of the launch, and his brief bout with “space adaptation syndrome” had drained him. He floated into his sleeping bag, attached it to the wall, and fell asleep.
One false move
After Atlantis docked with the International Space Station, Melvin focused on his most important task—using the station’s robotic arm to install the Columbus lab.
Wielding the robotic arm was similar to playing a video game, with infinitely higher stakes. One false move could kill Walheim or Stan Love, the astronauts who would make the first spacewalk to attach a grapple fixture to Columbus.
Melvin respected the risks but never feared doing his job because they had practiced the procedures so many times. Operating the real robotic arm in space was nearly identical to using the simulator on Earth, but the hand controllers were stiffer, more accurate. As he moved Love around on the end of the arm, everything had to be precise, including their oral communication.
“One foot starboard,” Love said.
“One foot starboard,” Melvin verified. “Starting motion.”
“Three, two, one, stop motion,” Love said.
“Motion stopped,” Melvin confirmed.
Melvin hams it up with his space family.
Everything went smoothly, and Melvin felt some relief when Columbus was secure, but he did not let his guard down, because in space even a small glitch can turn tragic.
Sure enough, on the final spacewalk, Love’s footplate on the robotic arm started rotating, shifting him to the wrong position. Realizing that something was askew, they called timeout and devised a solution. Walheim climbed up the arm and helped Love regain the proper orientation by locking the footplate.
It was a minor problem, and their training kept it from becoming a major problem.
Good neighbors
Living and working on the International Space Station with nine other astronauts was a transcendent experience for Melvin.
Everyone seemed to fit perfectly into their roles, and there was a strong sense of teamwork. He had experienced the same thing on the UR football team and in the Astronaut Corps on Earth, but in space the bonds seemed even stronger.
“We’re all so different,” Melvin thought, “male, female, black, white, Russian, German, French, Asian-American. And we’re all working together for the collective good of our civilization.” They hailed from all parts of the world they orbited, but for nine days, they were the closest of neighbors, a global community, a family.
Coming Home
Melvin maintains close ties to the University. He stays in touch with former professors and other longtime friends on campus. He also serves on the Richmond Council, an advisory group that brainstorms about the University’s future.
Melvin came back to campus in April to present various UR items that flew with him in space—a flag, cap, and pennant, (shown above) a T-shirt signed by everyone in the chemistry department, and a football autographed by players on the 2007 team.
He also participated in the inauguration of President Edward Ayers and received a distinguished service award from the University of Richmond Alumni Association. Then he hosted a community-wide event in the Robins Center called “Reaching for the Stars II.” More than 2,000 people—including many local schoolchildren—listened to him speak about his adventures aboard Space Shuttle Atlantis and the International Space Station.
Melvin returned to campus again on May 11 to deliver the keynote address at the University’s main commencement ceremony.
Melvin made a point of sleeping in the space station on their last night together. It made him feel even more connected to his new friends and the lofty goals they shared. The following day, they said their goodbyes and triple-checked to make sure everything and everybody was on the proper side of the hatch before closing it. Part of their mission was to deliver Leo Eyharts to the space station and take Dan Tani back to Earth.
This moment was particularly emotional for Tani, whose mother had died in a car accident during his four-month stay on the station. The Atlantis delays had cost him one last reunion with the woman he so admired. Before he floated through the hatch, he videotaped a tribute to her.
Gravity
The Atlantis crew shoved off from the space station and prepared to re-enter Earth’s atmosphere.
They began drinking lots of fluids to bolster their capillaries and prevent blood from rushing away from their brains as they returned to gravity. They set up a recumbent seat for Tani because he had been in zero gravity for 120 days. They secured the cabin, donned pressure suits, and strapped themselves into their seats.
Frick turned Atlantis around and initiated a two-minute burn with the orbital maneuvering engines to slow the shuttle down and allow gravity to bring them home.
Melvin felt some slight buffeting as the orbiter flew lower and slower. Through the windows, he saw bright orange and red plasma moving over the shuttle as atmospheric friction generated searing heat. Inside the cabin, the temperature remained 72 degrees. Outside, it approached 3,000.
The orbiter was slowing down, but it seemed to accelerate as it dropped closer to the Pacific Ocean. The astronauts focused on their checklists as the scenery flashed by. In a matter of minutes, they crossed the Yucatan Peninsula, spanned the Gulf of Mexico, and glided lower over Florida.
Melvin was not ready for the journey to end, but he kept thinking about Tani, who was lying in the recumbent seat on the mid-deck. Melvin aimed his video camera in that direction, and Tani smiled and waved.
“It’s important to get him home so he can honor his mother and reunite with his family,” Melvin thought as they landed at Kennedy Space Center.
The first Spider in space felt the full grip of gravity again, but his appreciation for life on Earth remained forever elevated.
Send comments about this story to krhodes@richmond.edu.
