A Clattering of Windows

I remember the first time I was jolted awake by a rocket launch, maybe 20 years ago. It began with a sudden but elongated clicking sound that intensified until the house began to vibrate. The vibration became a rumble, a rolling growl so deep that it was everywhere. Vandenberg Air Force base is about 30 miles to the north and west, just over the mountains, and this was the wee-hour launch of some sort of weather satellite booster. These space age launches seem to contrast oddly with the bucolic hills and old cattle ranches of the Gaviota area, but proximity to the south-facing coast and low density of population render the base well-suited for the purpose, and it has been used this way since 1958.

In his eloquent introduction to Cattle Upon a Thousand Hills (The Bagaduce Press, Santa Barbara), the late Bob Isaacson, a beloved local rancher, described the surreal sight of an Atlas missile launch during a post-branding barbecue he attended at Las Cruces Ranch in the early 1960s. Cowboys fell silent as the white column collapsed and spiraled in the wind, and someone stood up and booed. “We knew things would never be the same,” he wrote, thus confirming that there were always elements of dissonance and incongruity about these launches.

But there was something undeniably exciting about them also. That first time I was awakened, I leapt out of bed and ran outside to scan the sky. I could see no trace of the launch, but the growling vibration continued, and everything on earth seemed to be holding its breath waiting for it to pass. The air was unexpectedly mild, and the orchard smelled green and sweet. It had been drizzling earlier, and the deck was still wet. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I perceived the shapes of the hills, the depth of the woods, the hush and wonder of all that was always there. The night held life within its shadows. I could sense its wildness and mystery. It seemed that I was bearing witness to some vast and wondrous secret, an older kind of miracle that had been out there all along. I stood in my bare feet listening for a long time until the shuddering of space noise receded into stillness. I knew that something special had transpired, and it stayed with me in the days that followed.

Now, decades later, the launches have become so frequent, my excitement has been displaced by unease. I’m all for science, but when I think about the egos behind these endeavors, and the range of motivations, I have an unsettling feeling that we place great trust into questionable entities. Even more tangibly, I picture debris, pulverized or in chunks, hurling into space or splashing into the sea, and toxic gaseous plumes of fuel depleting the ozone layer. I probably reap the benefits of improved communication, but my instincts lean toward caution.

There was another launch just a week or so ago. I happened to be out walking with a friend in the backcountry, and we were aware that this was scheduled, but there was nonetheless something startling about it, and the sonic boom that followed nearly knocked us over. I guess you could say the thrill is gone.

But we stood still, simply looking, seeing with new clarity. As the rumble subsided, the natural world reclaimed itself with a deeper level of quiet. The rocky ground upon which we stood was warm and radiant with sunlight. In the far distance, the ocean was sparkling, and there was a band of white light at the horizon. A state of enchantment came over us, and in the same way I had begun to understand this decades earlier, I saw again that the rocket launch had merely punctuated a greater miracle, the one that had been there all the time.

I recognized this phenomenon when I came upon these words in an essay by Orhan Pamuk: “To sense that life is deeper than we think it is, and the world more meaningful, does a person have to wake in the middle of the night to clattering windows, to wind blowing through a gap in the curtains, and the sounds of thunder?” Once in a while, yes. 

And it’s still there: all the amazement, all the mystery, all the depth of inner space. The wonder is in the aftermath. The wonder is in the before. Maybe the wonder is happening now.