Atmosphere: A Love Story By Taylor Jenkins Reid - 10

Days later, every member of Group 9 stood on the tarmac at Ellington Field in front of a fleet of Northrop T-38 Talons—white jet trainers with glass cockpits barely big enough for two people. The T-38s were supersonic, meaning they could fly faster than the speed of sound. And they could go ten thousand feet higher than a commercial airplane.

As the ASCANs stood in front of the jets, Joan began to understand just how large the disparity was between the military astronauts and the mission specialists. She had not noticed the difference in the classroom, where it favored her. But here, in a flight suit on the airfield, with the wind drying out her eyes, the gap between them felt vast, its edges sharp.

“As you know, if you are not a military pilot,” the instructor said, “you will be a backseater for the entire time you fly here at NASA.”

Joan had already known she’d be relegated to the backseat and was grateful for it. But when she looked over at the rest of her colleagues, she could see that Vanessa’s jaw was clenched.

Soon the group was divided, and the military guys made their way to the other side of the tarmac.

Joan could not think of a single pilot she had gotten to know. Some of them, like Hank, seemed nice enough. But a lot of them kept making the kinds of cracks that irritated her.

At first it was things like “I’ve never been so up close and personal with so many women,” at the gym on campus. And then it was a comment one of them made about the women’s “sturdiness” during one of the facility tours. There were innuendos about skirts, cracks about penis envy.

Just yesterday, Lydia had been bemoaning the fact that they’d have to meet on the tarmac so early in the day, instead of easing in with classroom instruction first. Joan had disagreed and said that she was “glad to get the hard part done first.”

At which point, one of the pilots, Jimmy Hayman, said, “I’ve got a hard part you can do first.”

Joan stared right at him, unsure how to respond. But then Lydia laughed. And in the moment, Joan wanted to slap her.

Didn’t Lydia understand that if one of them made it seem like it was okay, the rest of them would be sidelined as humorless? Didn’t Lydia get that this was how the men kept them separate and underestimated? With these small jokes that made them look petty if they got upset? Couldn’t Lydia see how it worked?

“Hayman,” Griff had said as he walked into the room, “cut that out.”

Jimmy shut up then. Joan knew she was supposed to be grateful, though she resented the need for it at all.

“Thank you,” she whispered to Griff when she sat down.

He shook his head. “Don’t thank me for doing the bare minimum,” he said. “It does a disservice to us both.”

Obviously, the mission specialists weren’t immune to bad taste, but they weren’t as overt about it. And so Joan preferred it when she was grouped with Vanessa, Donna, and Griff. Even Lydia, Harrison, and the others were all right.

The instructor refocused on them as the pilots left.

“As mission specialists, you will be required to gain significant flying experience here at NASA, fifteen hours of flight time a month, for the length of your time in the corps. You will not take off and land the jet yourselves,” he said. “But you will learn a lot from that backseat—including how to navigate and, occasionally, how to handle the aircraft while in the air.

“As you know, flying is not without its myriad risks. Today we will start slow. You will watch the pilots from the ground as they take off, barrel-roll, and land,” he said. “Think of it as a flight show, knowing that in the future, you’ll ride shotgun.”

Joan looked to Vanessa, whose face showed nothing. But Joan already knew what she was thinking.

The flight instructor had to raise his voice over the sound of the engines starting.

“Before you are allowed in the planes,” he shouted, “you will have to learn how to survive being thrown out of one. First thing tomorrow you will be leaving for water survival training.”

In the swampy August heat, Joan, Griff, Donna, Vanessa, Lydia, Harrison, and the other two mission specialists, Ted Geiger and Marty Dixon, had departed for Homestead Air Force Base, in Florida, for three days to learn how to bail out over the ocean.

In their first test, they’d been strapped to a parachute and then tied to the back of a speedboat. One by one, each of them had been dragged through the ocean while attempting to keep their head above water for as long as possible. They’d had mixed results. Vanessa and Lydia kept calm. Marty almost drowned and had to take a rest on the boat. Donna and Griff ended up somewhere in the middle. And Joan took so much water into her stomach and lungs that she was burping for hours afterward. Her head was thrashed so hard by the chop of the waves that she still had a headache the next morning.

But still, she had done it.

The next day, in the open water, she had successfully swum beneath her floating parachute, come up for air on the other side, and inflated her life vest. It had taken her a few tries—and one full moment in which she thought she might be drowning—but again, she succeeded.

But today was the biggest test. One she was not sure she could pass.

They would start on the deck of a large boat, connected to both a parachute and a harness that were attached to a speedboat. When the speedboat accelerated, they would run off the edge of the first boat and let the wind catch their parasail, the speedboat pulling them high over the ocean.

When they were hundreds of feet in the air, they would disconnect their harness from the tether to the speedboat. This would send them crashing into the water, where they’d have to get themselves to the surface, inflate a life raft, and then crawl into it.

If, until this point, Joan had been able to convince herself that being an astronaut was a cerebral affair, she was cured of it now as she sat on a boat just off Biscayne Bay with a harness on, preparing to crash-land in the ocean.

She wiped the sweat off her forehead. She kept imagining the moment when she was supposed to disconnect from the boat.

Griff was guzzling water like his life depended on it. Donna was chattering away, as if talking nonstop would dispel her terror. Vanessa was silent, watching the wake behind the boat.

“There are sharks in the water,” Griff said to Joan under his breath. “Just because we didn’t see them the past two days doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Right?”

“Here, mostly hammerheads and tiger sharks,” Marty said. “I’d be surprised if we saw a great white, but it’s certainly possible. Maybe some bull sharks.”

“So then just say yes,” Lydia said. “Nobody needs a list.”

Donna had told Joan that Marty and Lydia had slept together that first Friday they’d all gone out to the Outpost. This had made perfect sense to Joan. Both of them were more in love with the sound of their own voices than listening to anyone else. She pictured them carrying on two conversations at once, talking only to themselves, and having the most wonderful time.

But today, Marty said something about Atlantic water currents and Joan saw Lydia roll her eyes. So, unless Joan was mistaken, it seemed probable that Lydia had ended it.

People say opposites attract, but Joan had found this to almost never be true. People just couldn’t see the ways they were drawn to exactly who they feared—or hoped—they might be.

Lydia and Marty were now quarreling, Griff and Ted looked seasick, and Joan could not stand to listen to Donna talk anymore.

She turned to Vanessa. With her hair pulled back, it was easier to see that Vanessa’s cheeks were a little rosy, her skin smooth without any makeup. Joan had always worn a little mascara, a little powder. She’d been beaten into it by Barbara’s taunts as a teenager. Plain Joan.

“You’re not afraid,” Joan said to Vanessa. She’d meant it as a question, but it came out as an observation.

“I am,” Vanessa said. “Specifically of the part where we have to get out from under the parachute.”

“But you seem so calm.”

Vanessa nodded. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“Braver than me,” Joan said.

“No, not braver than you.”

Their boat slowed as it met up with the speedboat.

“I’m . . .” Joan blew all the air from her lungs. “I’m terrified,” she said. “It doesn’t even make any sense. I passed the other two tests well enough. But today, I . . .” She would swear her hands were shaking except that she could see they were completely still.

“Do you know the difference between bravery and courage?” Vanessa said.

Joan considered the question. “I don’t think so.”

“My dad taught me when I was little. Bravery is being unafraid of something other people are afraid of. Courage is being afraid, but strong enough to do it anyway.”

“Oh,” Joan said.

“Neither of us are particularly brave right now,” Vanessa said. “But both of us are going to be courageous.”

Joan again imagined herself disconnecting from the boat.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Griff went first.

Joan watched every second. The sun blinded her as he got higher, but she could not look away. He detached from the speedboat and drifted on his parachute down to the open water. And then he was gone under the surface. She kept watching, holding her breath, waiting for him to pop up.

A second went by. Then another. And then there he was.

Joan inhaled.

She watched as he inflated his raft. It took him a few attempts before he could get himself onto it, but on the fourth try, he managed it. A second later, he put his fist up in the air.

“If he can do it, you can do it,” Vanessa said.

Joan nodded, unsure.

When it was Joan’s turn, she took a deep breath.

“Don’t think about it,” Vanessa said. “Just go do it. And then you can tell your niece how courageous you were.”

“Frances,” Joan said.

“Yeah, you can tell Frances.”

Joan got into position. They connected her harness to the speedboat. Her heart started to race. She stood on the edge of the deck, waiting for the go-ahead. She pictured telling Frances she had parachuted into the ocean from behind a speedboat. She laughed to think of it.

Okay, she thought, here we go.

When she got the thumbs-up, she took off, running as fast as she could. She felt the catch of the air as the speedboat accelerated. For a moment, she fought against the fear in her body. But then she gave in to it. She let herself feel the horror, and then it passed through her.

In fact, for a few slow seconds, Joan could feel nothing but the ocean air on her face. The smell of the brine of the sea overtook her nose and filled her lungs.

When she looked down, she could see the expanse of the dark blue ocean, how quiet it was, how steady, cut by the strong wake behind the boat.

When they gave her the signal, she put her hand on the latch of her harness and closed her eyes.

She disconnected.

Her parachute slowed her down, softened her descent enough that it felt like being cradled more than falling. And the view of the ocean drawing nearer felt a little mesmerizing. By the time her whole body landed in the water, she’d forgotten to panic.

Suddenly she was underwater, her ears clogged, her vision cloudy, her body dragged down by the weight of everything she was tied to. Her parachute darkened the ocean above her. She managed to get herself free from it and then twisted and turned, looking for the light of the sky. Soon she found it, just to her left, the sunshine diffused across the surface. She swam for it.

When she broke out into the air, she gasped and choked on the water. But when the breath rushed into her lungs, she wondered if anything had ever felt so good as breathing.

She inflated the raft and then managed to throw one leg over the side of it.

She dragged herself onto the raft swiftly, her back soon resting against the bottom, feeling the current of the ocean. She coughed up the salt water in her nose and her throat. She pushed her hair out of her face.

And then she looked up at the clouds, raised her hand in a thumbs-up, and smiled.

My God, she thought, what else can I do?

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