When businesses promise things
they really can’t deliver, they call it “overselling.”
Overselling is not something to
take lightly. For instance, driverless
cars are being promised but, they are no closer to being reality than flying
gas ranges. Still, we are told they are
just around the corner.
I think it would be great if I
could visit my local watering hole for some Olympic-class drinking. Then, I could climb into my self-driving Yugo
for a safe trip home. Along the way, a
state trooper might stop me to learn why I was seated in the passenger portion,
rather than the driver’s area, where the steering wheel and other driving
necessities are located.
All this has the makings of a
sitcom. Yet, it is overselling those
miraculous vehicles which may, or may not, be available upon my demise.
Since I loved it since I was a
little kid, it was with interest that I read about the National Aeronautics
Space Administration’s big announcement of an upcoming rocket launch.
In early spring, NASA plastered
the news with stories about a rocket experiment based upon something they
dubbed Terrier-Improved Malemute Mission.
Not only does it contain lots of
big words, they are also generally undefined and sufficiently vague.
This mission was promised to
launch a rocket into the sky then, after 3 to 5 minutes, some soda can-sized
canisters would be deployed to explode and dazzle people from New York State
to North Carolina
This whole exercise began in some
weeks ago, with a series of errors postponing this scientific exercise.
Excuses such as too many clouds,
too much rain, not enough clouds, some crabbing boat in the launch zone, a
sailboat convoy passing through the Eastern Shore, Father’s Day celebration, a
Delmarva Shorebird’s loss, the dog ate the launch codes, Uber was running late,
and my car wouldn’t start, were just a few reasons for the delays.
Finally, today, June 29th,
that Terrier-Improved Malemute Mission was scheduled to launch.
My sainted wife, Smokey, and I,
were the only stirring creatures awake for the 4:25 AM launch. That’s right, 4:25 in the morning. This is the 14th try, and I was
prepared for each launch.
Bleacher-style seating on my deck
provided a viewing platform second-to-none.
All three of us took our places in anticipation of this spectacular,
once-in-a-lifetime showing presented by the nation’s premier rocket launching
agency. I suppose it’s the only rocket
launching agency. But I digress.
A portable marine radio helped
listen to the communications over the horizon with a United States Coast Guard
representative barking out orders and times.
This is where it is good to point
out I live six miles form NASA’s Wallops
Island
The Coast Guard voice crackled
over the radio, “T-Minus 30 seconds.”
I squirmed in my seat in
anticipation of a breathtaking vision.
Then, “T-
Minus 10, 9, 8…”
And so it went until we saw a
flash across the near pitch-black sky, and then heard the delayed sound of the
engines firing. Smokey stared at the
cherry-red ball, and even my sainted wife took notice.
We patiently waited for the
prescribed three minutes, then five, six, and seven. Eight minutes passed and
we realized it was too dark to see anything.
The Coast Guard ceased broadcasting, a neighborhood dog began barking,
and Smokey became bored.
It was at this time I realized we
were amidst one of those overselling moments.
Morning website reports posted
photos of the colorful dots of clods in the sky; we saw nothing. If I was unable to see this spectacular, I’ll
wager New Yorkers and North Carolinians were
equally handicapped.
I now hate NASA.
