I am not an astronaut. I’ve never been that high, but I have come close.
I recall a night about a half century ago, in a cockpit at 47,000 feet, above most of the atmosphere. Below me, the darkness of the Georgia swamps, punctuated by pinpricks of light joined by ribbons of glowing diamonds, the aurora of the larger cities peeking up at places on the horizon. Above me, stars so close, I only had to open the canopy, stick out my hand and scoop them up.
I am not an astronaut. I’ve never been that high, but I have come close.
I recall a night about a half century ago, in a cockpit at 47,000 feet, above most of the atmosphere. Below me, the darkness of the Georgia swamps, punctuated by pinpricks of light joined by ribbons of glowing diamonds, the aurora of the larger cities peeking up at places on the horizon. Above me, stars so close, I only had to open the canopy, stick out my hand and scoop them up.