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1988, Ready, hurry,.....incompetence. A true story of trust us
The above might sound like Doofenshmirtz’s Evil Incorporated slogan (the world should thank me for not writing hallmark cards), but realistically speaking is just a lapidary reflection on dodging responsibility, risk management and, sooner or later, mission success. 95% of air crashes are not lethal, but if you are in the 5 percentile, the 95 won’t warm up your soup. Especially in cases of avoidable disasters.
It was the 28th of January 1986 when NASA’s STS 51 L disintegrated at 14 km above ground. Barely above the clouds, reaching for the stars, plunging into sudden fire and darkness (elements that only in death mix so well). Some NASA genius had the idea to recruit a civilian to join the crew, and thus Christa McAuliffe, a 37 years old teacher embarked on her last trip. One life is not priced higher above others, but somehow it is understandably moving that directorial incompetence is quantifiable in victims that should be far removed from its reach. 1 in 11000. Her chance of getting in the program. 1 in 100000 chance of mission fail, according to NASAs higher ups. Only one of the two was a correct estimation. The wrong one implied that a rocket could fly on a daily basis for 300 years, as Feynman so well put it.
Accidents do happen. The question is: was the flight launch safe? Any serious warnings before clearance? Project scoping (is a teacher really needed?- HR is always booming with clueless idiots but now they call it “talent management”. Feynman would’ve “loved” this needles complication.)? Control of regulatory bodies (eg FAA -yeah, the same agency that gave clearance for Boeing 737 Max jets take-offs. The pilots received a couple of hours online training on I-pads, for a vastly updated vehicle)?
Some little guys cried out. A few opposed, almost none pleaded. None of the big guys really cared. Positions may “wobble”. They got muffled! Thiokol engineers (they produced the now infamous O-rings which were used to seal the joints of the SRBs) opposed launching during inclement weather (temperatures were below freezing point - as per formal guidelines, an absolute no go for launch). But fuck rules, right? The level of incompetence is indeed peaking in high places. It may come as no surprise if they don't even have a clue about what the mission is about. Evil or simple carelessness? It is easier (and more sensible?) to assume the latter.
In his last years, fending off cancer and idiots, Feynman was in great shape. As someone put it, Feynman could explain the process of paint drying and it would sound extraordinary. A real life Hank Morgan at the court of NASA, he diligently investigated the root causes of the Challenger disaster. The surface was only scratched when the O ring issue unraveled. It wasn’t as if no one knew, more like a “no one wanted to hear” type of affair. Leaks, fissures, mended pieces, tailored reports, disconnect between workers and engineers, engineers and bigwigs, and all sorts of Hydra’s heads emerged. Feynman was there to do the right thing. His overarching analysis was thorough, from qualitative criteria to presidential meddling. Committed to finding the truth, he dug and turned as many stones as he could.
And some poetry:
There are the rushing waves
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison
Ages on ages
before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, for what?
On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.
Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the Sun
poured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.
Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another
till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.
Growing in size and complexity
living things
masses of atoms
DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle
onto dry land
here it is
standing:
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the Universe.
142 years before, Anne Brontë wrote about a thing with feathers:
In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil, and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;
And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise;
That, sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;
And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest:
Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth,
Now blowing keenly from the North;
Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne'er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;
The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more.
'Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,
Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants supply;
Pleasure but doubles future pain,
And joy brings sorrow in her train;
Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth–
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,
Death comes, our labour to destroy;
To snatch the untasted cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can,
Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes;
Trust God, and keep his statutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill;
Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven;
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day.
The above might sound like Doofenshmirtz’s Evil Incorporated slogan (the world should thank me for not writing hallmark cards), but realistically speaking is just a lapidary reflection on dodging responsibility, risk management and, sooner or later, mission success. 95% of air crashes are not lethal, but if you are in the 5 percentile, the 95 won’t warm up your soup. Especially in cases of avoidable disasters.
It was the 28th of January 1986 when NASA’s STS 51 L disintegrated at 14 km above ground. Barely above the clouds, reaching for the stars, plunging into sudden fire and darkness (elements that only in death mix so well). Some NASA genius had the idea to recruit a civilian to join the crew, and thus Christa McAuliffe, a 37 years old teacher embarked on her last trip. One life is not priced higher above others, but somehow it is understandably moving that directorial incompetence is quantifiable in victims that should be far removed from its reach. 1 in 11000. Her chance of getting in the program. 1 in 100000 chance of mission fail, according to NASAs higher ups. Only one of the two was a correct estimation. The wrong one implied that a rocket could fly on a daily basis for 300 years, as Feynman so well put it.
Accidents do happen. The question is: was the flight launch safe? Any serious warnings before clearance? Project scoping (is a teacher really needed?- HR is always booming with clueless idiots but now they call it “talent management”. Feynman would’ve “loved” this needles complication.)? Control of regulatory bodies (eg FAA -yeah, the same agency that gave clearance for Boeing 737 Max jets take-offs. The pilots received a couple of hours online training on I-pads, for a vastly updated vehicle)?
Some little guys cried out. A few opposed, almost none pleaded. None of the big guys really cared. Positions may “wobble”. They got muffled! Thiokol engineers (they produced the now infamous O-rings which were used to seal the joints of the SRBs) opposed launching during inclement weather (temperatures were below freezing point - as per formal guidelines, an absolute no go for launch). But fuck rules, right? The level of incompetence is indeed peaking in high places. It may come as no surprise if they don't even have a clue about what the mission is about. Evil or simple carelessness? It is easier (and more sensible?) to assume the latter.
In his last years, fending off cancer and idiots, Feynman was in great shape. As someone put it, Feynman could explain the process of paint drying and it would sound extraordinary. A real life Hank Morgan at the court of NASA, he diligently investigated the root causes of the Challenger disaster. The surface was only scratched when the O ring issue unraveled. It wasn’t as if no one knew, more like a “no one wanted to hear” type of affair. Leaks, fissures, mended pieces, tailored reports, disconnect between workers and engineers, engineers and bigwigs, and all sorts of Hydra’s heads emerged. Feynman was there to do the right thing. His overarching analysis was thorough, from qualitative criteria to presidential meddling. Committed to finding the truth, he dug and turned as many stones as he could.
And some poetry:
There are the rushing waves
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison
Ages on ages
before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, for what?
On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.
Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the Sun
poured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.
Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another
till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.
Growing in size and complexity
living things
masses of atoms
DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle
onto dry land
here it is
standing:
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the Universe.
142 years before, Anne Brontë wrote about a thing with feathers:
In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil, and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;
And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise;
That, sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;
And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest:
Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth,
Now blowing keenly from the North;
Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne'er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;
The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more.
'Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,
Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants supply;
Pleasure but doubles future pain,
And joy brings sorrow in her train;
Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth–
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,
Death comes, our labour to destroy;
To snatch the untasted cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can,
Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes;
Trust God, and keep his statutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill;
Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven;
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day.