Just over two years ago, when I interviewed Red Bull Stratos extreme parachutist Felix Baumgartner on the tenth anniversary of his 127,852-foot jump from the edge of space, I casually asked if one of the suborbital space companies offered him a free flight, would he take it.
I was surprised by his answer. “One of those guys called me when William Shatner went up, and we discussed it. My answer was that if you want me to get on one of those rockets, you’ll have to pay me.”
Why? Because tourists on such flights don’t wear space suits. A sudden loss of cabin pressure would kill everyone aboard in less than a minute. Blood boils at the Armstrong Line (around 60,000 feet) without sufficient pressurization. These suborbital flights go above 250,000 feet.
I was a suborbital ticketholder for nearly 14 years. I recently had my deposit returned because of a number of things, one of which was people effectively cutting in line to do “research,” and reportedly paying a good deal of money to do so.
As for the pressurization thing, I hadn’t thought too much about it. Some American extreme-altitude military pilots I met reinforced Baumgartner’s supposition, though. These guys, as a matter of course, fly higher than the Armstrong Line on their missions, and, as such, wear space suits. When I told them that, as a younger man, I had gone up to 84,000 feet in a MiG-25 Foxbat without a space suit – just G pants, an oxygen mask and a communications helmet – they said I was crazy.
Baumgartner, who wore a space suit during his jump, suspects a big reason that suborbital space companies don’t require suits is cost. The suits are very expensive, bulky and heavy, and would probably diminish the number of passengers per flight. That revenue loss would cut into the bottom line, unless the companies raised ticket prices enough to offset the added costs.
Baumgartner went on to say that he believes it’s just a matter of time before we see a depressurization on a flight. “One day, something will happen, and all of the insurance companies will mandate a failsafe system with redundancies,” he said. “It always takes one major accident to make people change the way they think.”
As an extreme adventure journalist, I’m relatively careful about risk. First, for any given story, I try to differentiate between the real risk and perceived risk. They are not the same thing, and that’s an entire story in itself.
When I drive at 170 mph around Daytona International Speedway, for example, and I do that regularly, it’s arguably safer than a person on the highway in a passenger car doing half of that speed. A NASCAR racecar is specially built to survive an accident. Plus the driver is strapped in with a five-point safety harness system, in addition to wearing a fire suit, helmet and Hans Device. In an SUV, what protection do you have at 80 mph – one seat belt and an air bag? Good luck.
Once I’ve identified the real risks associated with a potential adventure, I then look at how badly I want the experience. Do the real risks outweigh my desire? If I make that determination, I won’t do it. But if I really want to try something, I’ll take on more real risk, to a point. And I think that’s pretty standard with any adventurer.
I’m not going to fault space tourists who have signed up for flights, and layed out big bucks to do so. Many a baby boomer’s dream is to go to space. I understand that. It was my own dream at one point. But ticket-holders need to calculate the real risks associated with these rides, if they haven’t, then honestly weigh their own desires to board a rocket.
Is the risk worth it? To many tourists waiting in line, it clearly is. But not to Felix Baumgartner or the extreme-altitude military pilots I spoke with. There’s something to be said in that.