Where general aviation meets the stars

In 1958 the Space Race kicked off in earnest.

Essentially a weapons program disguised as a scientific quest to explore space, NASA and its contractors found themselves in a marketing jam. How does a government agency get the public excited about something as foreign in nature as sending men to space?

Please take note, the gender specific role of astronaut was intentional. Like an adolescent boy’s treehouse, the astronaut corps was a “no girls allowed” zone. So, with an exclusionary set-up like that for a program intended to mislead the public as to its true intent, what’s a government marketing man supposed to do?

The solution was obvious. NASA and its partners in the press would create the first rock stars. Seven military pilots were selected through a grueling process best depicted in the book and movie “The Right Stuff.” The book authored by Tom Wolfe. The film brought to life by Philip Kaufman.

The story of how Shepard, Grissom, Cooper, Schirra, Slayton, Glenn, and Carpenter were transformed by circumstance into the smartest, bravest, most capable men on the planet became fodder for every media vehicle available in the nascent days of television.

In the early 1960s the idea of lifting a human off the face of the Earth aboard a capsule hardly larger than a phone booth was science fiction come to life. Taking that idea a step further, establishing him in orbit only to launch him off to the moon for a short walk on the lunar surface was unbelievable. Truly, out of the realm of understanding for the vast majority of viewers gathered on the beach to personally witness a launch. Or sitting with rapt attention in front of their black and white televisions at home. Or tuned into an AM radio station in the car.

The world was changing. Humans were going to space. And if those brave astronauts survived the journey, backed by the brainpower of thousands of engineers and technicians, it would prove once and for all that the United States of America was Number 1.

Or at least that was what the marketing materials suggested.

In truth the successes of the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo programs were met with Congressional cost cutting that ended the programs. The government that urged us to go higher, farther, and faster at all cost changed its mind and relegated those same seven astronauts, along with the Next Nine, and The Fourteen to a future of limited space travel that left the earth’s atmosphere, but just barely.

What caught little attention back then was the amendment of the entrance requirements for the astronaut corps. Initially limited exclusively to white, male, military test pilots, by the time The Fourteen came on board the test pilot requirement had been lifted. The prerequisite they be white males with military background remained.

And so it was for many years. Space was the domain of government agencies that set the rules for who could go, when they could go, where they could go, and how long they could stay there. For years — decades in fact.

And then something wonderful happened.

Some guy named Rutan who lived and worked in the desert out west began making aircraft so unique, so remarkable, a crazy billionaire or two decided it was worth throwing a bunch of money his way. Their wacky, way-out plan was to build and fly the first privately funded spaceship.

And so they did.

Rutan’s company, Scaled Composites, built a vehicle called SpaceShipOne. It was designed to be launched from a mothership that carried the craft nearly nine miles into the sky. The system harkened back to the days of Chuck Yeager in the X1 slung in the belly of a B-29.

In both cases the aircraft and spacecraft worked flawlessly.

This is where things start to really change in the space flight game. The pilot of the first private spacecraft to actually reach space was, now brace yourself for this, a high school drop-out.

Mike Melvill, like the Wright Brothers a century before, was largely self-educated. A tinkerer who built his own airplane so well, a Burt Rutan design known as the VariViggen, Rutan hired Melvill and his bookkeeper wife to work for the company that would years later launch Mike to space.

There is a rumor that Rutan was in greater need of a bookkeeper than a pilot, but the two-for-one deal worked out for all concerned. Perhaps the only time in history an astronaut got his shot because his wife opened the door for him.

All of a sudden, after only 46 years of space-faring efforts, a general aviation enthusiast designed a rocket to go to space. A general aviation enthusiast piloted that vehicle up and out of the atmosphere. And a general aviation enthusiast flew that spaceship back to earth, landing on the runway at a general aviation airport. The same airport where he’d parked his car after driving to work that morning.

Innovation comes from individuals with drive, ambition, strong creative impulses, and a willingness to fail repeatedly on their way to success. The paths they take will vary. The goals they seek may differ. Yet, in the end this is proof the average man or woman on the street has the potential to change the world if they choose to do so.

Elon Musk, revered by many, reviled by a similar number, founded SpaceX, then developed and launched programs like the Falcon 9, StarShip, and StarLink. Just weeks ago, SpaceX launched the Polaris Dawn mission. A privately funded jaunt to earth orbit that saw two civilian astronauts perform a spacewalk. One male. One female. Both entirely successful.

Sitting in the pilot’s seat of that Crew Dragon capsule was a man named Kid Poteet. A quick perusal of his Wikipedia page will show you a resume that includes a stint with the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds, his combat experience, and his entry into the world of aerospace business on the private side.

What it does not show is that he got his start in aviation as a line-service worker at the Skyhaven Airport in Rochester, New Hampshire. His employer and early mentor was a reader of this very column in General Aviation News who brought this tidbit of history to my attention.

The man who piloted the Polaris Dawn spacecraft learned to fly in a Piper Colt with a measly 108 hp pulling him into the sky. Just as any one of us might do today.

There are kids out there today working the line and taking flight lessons who will fly us to Mars. They will be civilians. As brave, smart, capable, and dedicated as the Mercury Seven ever were.

Everything is changing. And general aviation has become the all-important feeder that will power humanity’s ultimate journey to the stars.