Star struck
But not wanting to strike the star
To be honest I am star struck. Jeremy Hansen comes walking down the underground hallway in his blue Canada Space Agency coveralls.
He smiles at me and all I can say is “Hi” in a surprisingly squeaky voice.
“That’s Jeremy Hansen,” I whisper to one of the communication staff with the CSA. “He’s an astronaut.”
She looks at me sideways and raises her eyebrows.
“He’s made of gold,” she says. “We have to look after him.”
The 41-year-old fighter pilot from London, Ont. takes selfies with dozens of Canadian Forces personnel.
He jokes with the journalists. Then he gets the nod and gets to work.
I stand beside Hansen as he addresses a live Facebook feed and a scrum of TV journalists, and me, the only print reporter there.
I am entranced by his poise, his humour, how down-to-earth he is.
I have to remind myself to take pictures and notes and video.
Hansen introduces the training scenario. We will be in a room built like the inside of a navy ship. That room will start flooding with cold water straight from the Atlantic. Our task is to work as a team and plug the leaks.
Hansen and two members of the Canadian Forces enter the flood simulator and show us how it’s done.
And now it’s my turn. I join Hansen in the simulator, holding a bag with a wooden hammer, wedges and blocks, and cloth to stuff into the leaks.
We wade through water up to our knees. More water is gushing through a hole in the wall. A burst pipe is spraying water in my face, soaking my clothes and blocking my vision.
Hansen holds a wedge in place and asks me to pound it in.
Let that sink in for minute. He is asking me to swing a hammer at the hand of a Canadian astronaut, at the hand of a man who’s made of gold.
I think back to a painful childhood memory: roofing with my father. I remember him smiling at me, his patient explanation of the work ahead, him holding a shingle and a shingle nail and saying: “Go ahead. Pound it in.”
And then the cursing, the new vocabulary.
My father would never hold another nail for me his whole life.
And here is Jeremy Hansen, holding a wedge for me, asking me to swing a hammer at the hand that Canadian taxpayers have invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into.
I want to show him I can be a team player; that I can co-operate and take orders.
But this is Jeremy Hansen’s hand.
I’ve actually done almost this exact scenario for real a half dozen times. As a volunteer
firefighter I carry small wedges in my bunker gear to jam into sprinkler systems to stop the water. The sprinklers are always over your head. Your gear is soaked and heavy. You’re carrying an air tank on your back. It’s smoky and hot and you’re looking through a facemask into a steady steam of water, trying to jam the little wedge into the sprinkler.
If I could stop a sprinkler, surely I can hit this big wedge. Jeremy is smiling at me. “Go ahead. Pound it in.” I swing the hammer for all I am worth.
Water keeps squirting and I
keep pounding.
Jeremy holds another wedge and I swing again as hard as I can.
And then the exercise ends. The control staff turn off the water.
“How did I do Jeremy?” I ask. “You want the truth?”
I nod anxiously.
“You did great. You were in there and you were getting things done. And that’s what we’re looking for. People who can get things done.”
I doubt Jeremy wants me flying spaceships for Canada – but I’m happy enough that he trusts me with a hammer.