This is the story of the second CSXT team attempt with major changes to the design and motor construction.
PRIMERA: SPACESHOT 2002
Another Step in the Quest to Reach Space
Written By Jerry Larson
This story began 15 seconds after the launch of the SPACESHOT 2000 rocket on September 29, 2000. Traveling in excess of Mach 4, at an altitude of 40,000 feet, the vehicle passed through a 100 mph wind shear in the jet stream – which exceeded the capabilities of the fin-bolting system. The vehicle had an immediate loss of stability, and – in a fraction of a second – turned completely sideways and ripped apart…filling the sky with debris that could be seen reflecting in the morning sunlight.
The recovered motor casing, a fin, and the flight recorders taught us two critical lessons. The most obvious: the fin bolting design was inadequate for the combination hypersonic flight and high-wind-induced angle of attack. Second: the propulsion system did not have enough impulse (power) to propel the rocket all the way into space. Armed with these two facts, Ky Michaelson and his Civilian Space eXploration Team (CSXT) set out to create the next generation space rocket.
The vehicle was not named until the rocket was nearly complete in the Spring of 2001. While the near-finished rocket was on display at a charity car show in Minnesota, the CEO of Primera Technology, Inc. asked how he could get involved. A shake of the hand and the rocket had a name: PRIMERA. The name, as if by destiny, felt perfect for a title of a vehicle built by a team striving to be the first amateurs in history to launch a rocket beyond the threshold of space.
The new design was comprised of a custom-built “S” class solid rocket motor that would produce 80,000 lbs-seconds (356,000 newton-seconds) of impulse. There was 60 more pounds of propellant than on our SPACESHOT 2000 “R” motor. This propulsion system would be the most powerful rocket motor ever flown by amateurs.
The fins were dramatically redesigned to withstand anything nature could throw them. So strong, in fact, that they would be the last thing to break off in the event of a rocket failure. Throughout the redesign process, Ky Michaelson pushed for stronger joints between the motor casing, payload, and the nose cone. The challenge: How can all of the rocket’s joints be bolted down – and still have a way to deploy the parachute?
For this answer I turned to a good friend and colleague of mine, John “Boom Boom” Gormely. John’s nickname came from his extensive experience working as an Ordinance Engineer on slightly larger rocket…namely Titan, Atlas, and Athena. After a month of experimenting with a number of spring based separation system designs, I asked John why not use what’s called a “linear shape charge” to literally cut the rocket in half to deploy the parachute like the big boys. He said, “Sure.”
Two days later, John not only had the design concept in hand, but also the shaped charge and detonators (both donated by aerospace companies that were intrigued by our project). Those materials would be enough for one ground test and one rocket flight. With this new separation system plan, the PRIMERA rocket could now be bolted together with 18, ¼-inch bolts with lap joints that would make a civil engineer proud.
The remaining major challenge was the avionics. I had personally built the last one for SPACESHOT 2000, and from that experience was determined to move it to an experienced group to make it. My request: Create the most sophisticated electronics package to ever fly in an amateur rocket.
One year later, a team of ham radio gurus had created – from scratch – an avionics system fully equipped with live video, GPS data overlay, backup GPS system, dual 3-axis accelerometers, a 3-axis magnetometer, a time-circuitry interface to the separation system, redundant detonators, and data telemetry broadcast down to our ground receiving stations. And if that wasn’t enough, they even went so far as to create a spin table to test the system under the same spin dynamics as the rocket would experience at burnout from the 4 canted fins.
Our vehicle design had gone from a Yugo (albeit a very fast Yugo) to a Ferrari. The CSXT rocket had been completely redesigned from tip to tail. Every single part had been changed, including its name.
PRIMERA was ready to fly, and the team could hardly wait another day. The original launch date was set for late September 2001, almost a year from the pervious flight. The events of September 11th changed a nation forever, and all hands at the FAA were now busy patrolling U.S. skies. Hobby rocketry was grounded for nearly a month. The decision to stand down our flight until 2002 was made to allow time for the FAA to work more pressing matters. In light of the horrific events, an amateur space launch could certainly wait.
The first attempt to launch PRIMERA came during the last week of June 2002. After the rocket was machined in 2001, the rocket was disassembled into two major subsections – each shipped to different parts of the country. The motor section of the rocket was sent to Tucson Arizona, where Rick Loehr, would manufacture the propellant grains and fit the rocket motor segments together. The upper section of the rocket was sent to Connecticut to integrate the electronics.
During my drive to our launch site in Black Rock, Nevada, I began to wonder where the lap joint ring was. This is an essential piece that mates the motor to the upper half of the rocket. The avionics section was shipped to me after the electronics had been integrated – and I knew it wasn’t with that. So, it had to be with the motor…or at least I hoped so.
The thought continued to weight on my mind. Finally, I pulled off the road at a gas station – and called Ky, to see if he remembered where it had been shipped. It was on the list to be shipped with the avionics section, but clearly it wasn’t there. I then tried to get hold of Rick, but he had already left for Black Rock (the days before everyone had cell phones).
So, the rest of the long drive felt even longer…as I worried that “the ring” had been misplaced and was not heading to the launch site with the rest of the rocket hardware. Without this part, the two halves of the rocket could not be bolted together.
Most of us arrived at Black Rock the day before our first scheduled work day. However, Rick couldn’t get there until the next day – further prolonging the agony. Finally, Rick arrived, and before he could even get out of his van I asked the million dollar question, “Do you have ‘the ring’?” He replied, “What ring?” Uh-oh! We’re in the middle of the desert…literally the middle of nowhere…and no lap joint ring. You’ve heard the term “rain on your parade” – well, this was a typhoon. No ring, no launch. Simple as that.
We raced to the nearest town to call our machine shop in Minnesota in a desperate attempt to find the ring. Nope. No ring. Fortunately, I was able to speak to the same machinist who made the original part. He suggested that he make a new one and air-express it to us. Sound expensive? It was. But after a year and a half of work and commitment, we had to do what we had to do. The machine shop worked all night (Monday night) on the ring. By Tuesday morning, the infamous ring was on a plane heading for Reno, where members of CSXT would pick it up and speed it to Black Rock. In less than 16 hours the PRIMERA rocket was whole again.
It soon became clear that the launch of PRIMERA in June 2002 was never meant to be. We survived the agony of the ring. But that was just the first of a series of events that would ultimately derail the launch attempt.
While we were busy setting up our rocket equipment, an ominous large dark grey cloud formed in the distance…and grew larger and larger until it was right on top of us. The mother of all dust storms hit with all the fury of 60 mph winds and demolished everything in sight. Much of our equipment was damaged. And our skin was raw from mother nature’s sandblasting.
The next day, we did our best to reassemble our desert camp and repair our equipment. But then another storm hit with nearly the same force. This battle went on all week, with winds never dipping much below 25 mph.
Finally, on the last day in our launch window, we decided to go through our countdown procedures and see if we could somehow squeeze in a launch. However, the winds were so high we couldn’t even fill the helium weather balloons that we have to send up before any launch attempt. They would just pop.
We were doing everything in our power be ready for the last-minute launch window…and hoping the winds would give us a break. Things kept going wrong. The wind was howling. The balloons were popping. And then, just when we thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, a car came out of nowhere and entered the range hazard area. Then another. And then another! What was going on!?
The range had to be absolutely clear of all people and vehicles before a launch. That’s the iron-clad agreement with the FAA. And now we had unauthorized people out on the range. Desperately, we started sending out our own people, in their own vehicles, to try to intercept this group of unknown visitors – and get them off the range. But as fast as we could send out a car, another unauthorized car appeared. This was all seeming very cruel, indeed.
And the icing on this lousy-tasting cake? One of our additional launch requirements was that we had to call a specific list of FAA radar control centers – prior to any launch attempt. The list was provided to us by the FAA. Ky’s job during the countdown was to call each one via a satellite phone. However, “Murphy” struck another blow: One of the radar centers, Fallon Air Station, had an answering machine on the phone number we were given. An answering machine! Without a live verbal “okay” from Fallon, we were a NO GO. But Ky kept calling. The winds kept roaring. And our weather balloons, well, almost all of them had popped by now.
And then the final straw. As I watched the CSXT circus all around me, here came an old pickup truck with and even older camper dragging its metal stepladder behind on the ground – right across the wires that ran from our Launch Control Center out to the rocket launcher a quarter mile away!
We were forced to packed it up. Unfortunately, the week we selected for our launch was the week prior to the 4th of July. And, as we discovered, that’s when people make their pilgrimage to Black Rock to camp for the week.
Taking down a fully loaded and ready to fly rocket was an event we never planned for, nor did we have any experience with. Unloading a 500-pound rocket out of a metal launcher that weighed twice the amount proved to be quite a challenge. Very few words were spoken as we gathered our tattered equipment and proceeded home.
That night, Ky Michaelson’s mother passed away at the age 93. The week earlier she had wished Ky good luck with the launch into space -- an event she longed to see happen. Three months later, in September of 2002, the CSXT would once again return to Black Rock…and calmer skies. After the rocket had been erected in the launch tower, Ky wrote the words “I love you mom” on the side of the motor with a felt tip marker. Ky dedicated the launch to the memory of his mother and his commitment to reach space which he had started out on nearly 7 years earlier.
One of the first orders of business for the September launch campaign was to move the 24-foot Launch Control Center(our electronics trailer) into position. I picked out a spot that was a quarter mile from the launch site and the Avionics Team wanted it right next to the tracking antennas. Jim Hoffman, “MacGyver” as he’s affectionately known to our crew for his continuous ingenuity, was at the wheel – and I waived him to back the truck into position. At a certain spot I motioned to him to stop the truck, which he did. He then hopped out of the truck to survey the situation. The truck’s parking spot wasn’t quite right; we needed to move it just a tad more to get it into perfect position.
While we were talking someone had gotten into the truck and was pulling the trailer forward. Seemed odd… but lots of people come out to our launches to help, and we are always appreciative of everyone’s assistance. Jim waived to the driver, to adjust the path of the truck. Strange, though, the driver seemed to ignore his every command and the van was now heading down range at a pretty good clip. And then Jim realized: THERE’S NO DRIVER!
We all watched as Jim chased down the Launch Control Center on foot. None of us realized what was going on until we saw Jim trying to open the driver’s door and climb onboard like a cowboy in a calf-roping contest. I will never forget the image of Jim, with the driver’s door open, one leg in and the other leg hopping along trying to keep up with a truck moving at what must have been 15 mph. Unbelievable! The truck had somehow slipped into gear while we were talking. Jim corralled the truck. And no harm was done. Did I mention this was an amateur space flight? Well, we all laughed “with” Jim as we started to set up shop. But in the back of our minds, we wondered what kind of sign this was…as we began our second launch attempt of 2002.
The first few days of weather were lousy. Cloudy. Cold. And that dreaded wind again. We would set up for launch, make our preparations, only to have to scrub yet again. The team was getting tired, working near ‘round the clock. But suddenly, our luck seemed to change. We awoke on the 18th of September to weather as good as it ever gets at Black Rock. There was barely a breeze, and the sky was completly clear of cloud cover. The weather conditions were right, the team and all of the equipment checked out perfectly, the rocket was in the launch tower, the surveillance plane (to scan for unauthorized personnel) was ready and waiting -- so we decided to give it a go during our last launch window of the day.
I announced over the communication network that comm checks would commence in one minute, and ordered the team to report to their stations as this was the real thing. The team was visibly nervous and scampering around to get into their respective positions. The high-altitude balloon went up without a hitch, and the second balloon went up to 10,000 feet, no problem.
And then – out of nowhere – a glitch popped up in the wind-weighting software (the software that analyzes the wind measurements from the weather balloons). In all my months of preparing and using the software, this hiccup was completely new, and it forced us to scrub for the day.
It was a disappointing blow, given the perfect weather and I was personally responsible. No fingers were pointed, and no one said a word…but I felt two inches tall, maybe three. I headed back into town to work on the software while the Avionics Team prepared the Wind sondes (the weather balloons’ data recording systems) for another go the next morning.
I immediately contacted my close friend Todd Watson and co-developer of the wind-weighting software. For the better part of two years, I came up with the software requirements, while Todd coded the system in Java. Todd wasn’t able to attend the launch, so he worked on the bugs from home. Over a two-to-three-hour period, I sat at a pay phone at Bruno’s “Country Club” and passed e-mail messages back and forth with Todd. Finally, at about 1 am, the software was fixed – and the launch was back on.
By the 19th, the team had been working near-continuously for four days – getting up at 3 am to inflate and launch weather balloons and then staying up late at night working out problems with various equipment. The vicious
cycle was taking its toll on the team. You could see it in their faces, even though they tried to keep a positive spirit. Ironically, a cycle of good weather was now upon us – but we were literally too exhausted to conduct a launch the next morning. So, instead of our 3 am setup and first-dawn launch attempt, we decided to give everyone a couple hours of sleep; the plan was to try for a launch at the very end of our three-hour window: 9:00 – 9:20 am.
The overnight temperatures dropped to nearly 40 degrees Fahrenheit at the launch site. A couple of donated wool blankets had been cut up and tapped around the rocket motor as an attempt to keep the motor warm. 55 degrees was the minimum temperature for launch. At daybreak, the motor temperature was reported by Rick Loehr, the head of our Propulsion team, to be 50 degrees. We pressed on, hoping that by the opening of the launch window the sun would warm the fuel grain to above the minimum allowable temperature.
The morning weather was even better than the evening before. All the equipment was set up and ready to go. After a number of delays and miscommunications, the high altitude balloon was launched. It was obvious that the previous days of ridiculously long hours had taken their toll, as now even simple tasks were difficult to think through. Just as the balloon reached the minimum required altitude of 45,000 feet (which is the burnout altitude of our solid rocket motor), we realized there wouldn’t be enough time to launch and collect data from the other balloons before the launch window would close.
From the first balloon launch, to processing the wind data, to conducting all of the countdown procedures, to the actual launch, is a complex process that takes 70 minutes. And we had less than that. Much less. Something had to give if we were to make a launch attempt that day.
I turned to one of the FAA representatives who was standing behind me and explained the situation. Then it hit me: Why not take one of the two remaining balloons out of the sequence? If we removed the 10,000-foot balloon from the plan, and skipped right to the 2,000-foot balloon, we would have just enough time to squeeze in a launch at the end of the window.
While the FAA met privately to consider the proposed change to the countdown manual, Steve MacMacken (“GNC” – Guidance Navigation Control officer) and I scrambled to modify the procedures. Just as we finished, the FAA came back into the launch van and gave us the OK to make the change – and the countdown continued.
At 8:30 am we continued to step through the countdown procedures. During the pre-countdown checklist, Rick stated that the motor was still below the temperature limit for launch. The motor temperature was rising with the morning sunlight, but would it be high enough at the final GO for launch poll at 9:15 am?
With our modified schedule in place, we launched our final balloon to 2,000 feet. We collected the data from the balloon’s Wind Sonde and – to my extreme relief – the wind-weighting software began to crunch the numbers. Its mission was to calculate the “firing solution”– the proper elevation angle and azimuth to point the rocket for its flight into space and allow for recovery in a government-approved landing zone. Our rocket is, after all, unguided. The way it leaves the launcher determines where the rocket will ultimately land.
The calculation seemed to take forever. The longer it took, the more I knew that the computer was having trouble finding a firing solution that would let us launch. Suddenly, the computer paused. The screen flickered. The result popped up on the screen. And my heart sank. The data showed that the launcher elevation angle was outside of the approved Launch Commit Criteria by one degree. One degree! The headwind at the launch pad would require that the tilt angle of the launcher be too steep for our FAA rules. The launch was heading for a scrub.
Our only hope was to send up another 2,000-foot balloon and see if the winds had changed enough to bring the firing solution back in bounds. The Balloon Team quickly discovered we were completely out of helium. Not a puff. As Ky and the team struggled in vain to get helium out of empty tanks, I made another request to the FAA: What if we set the elevation to the maximum limit and pushed the landing site four additional miles downrange? Those additional four miles were uninhabited (still part of the desert) – so the request was reasonable. The FAA again met in private…to decide our fate. While the FAA was talking, I met with a Bureau of Land Management (BLM) representative (who was also monitoring our launch) to ask his permission to change the flight plan.
The BLM agreed to the change, as it did not push the landing site into the Wilderness Area (a specially protected region of the Black Rock Desert). All the while Ky was pacing back and forth holding a saggy balloon that couldn’t lift a so much as a cracker.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably closer to five minutes, the FAA jury was out, and the verdict… was in our favor. We altered the flight plan and the countdown continued.
The next challenge was getting the launcher to match the firing solution with the modified elevation angle. The launcher is a thousand-pound piece of scaffolding that literally wraps around the rocket. It has four legs, each with a heavy-duty screw jack; by operating the jacks in each leg, we can adjust the elevation of the launcher and rocket. For safety, the launcher is a quarter of a mile away from our Launch Control Center.
Adjusting the azimuth of the launcher and rocket is even more manual. We have a dozen people (the “Tower Crew”) that not only operate the screw jacks, but also physically lift and rotate the entire 1,500-pound launcher-rocket structure to the proper azimuth. It’s not the most elegant approach – but it works. Did I mention this is an amateur endeavor?
While I watched the alignment telemetry on my computer in the Launch Control Center, the Tower Crew moved the launcher as I called out the numbers to them via our two-way radios. The azimuth and elevation data flickered as the adjustments were made – and finally they hit the exact solution on the dot. I got so excited I yelled over the radio “Stop! Hold it right there Pad Leader!” Little did I know they were holding the legs of the launcher with their arms. The Tower Crew looked at each other, laughed, and proceeded to move a set of hydraulic jacks under the rear support legs (supplementing the maximum travel of the screw jacks). A few tweaks, a bump here, a tug there, a shove, and the tower was set.
With the tower aligned, I then called over the radio to John Gormley, the Flight Safety Officer (FSO): “FSO, clear the pad area for arming!” There was only 10 minutes remaining in the launch window at that point. The urgency in my voice was evident as the crew ran to their vehicles to clear the area. After the vehicle’s arming was complete, the FSO, himself, left the pad area.
We had conceived, designed, built, assembled, and tested a magnificent vehicle. And now it was pointed in the proper direction for its history-making flight into space. All that remained was the GO / NO GO poll of the team…and a push of a button to see if PRIMERA would make history by the efforts of a group of amateur rocket scientists. Or so we thought….
Meanwhile Bruce Lee, our Range Safety Officer (RSO) was having problems of his own. Apparently, there was a train scheduled to pass our launch site between… you guessed it… 9:00 to 9:30am. Yet another Launch Commit Criteria NO GO situation. Somehow with some fast talking, Bruce convinced the train operators, stationed in the Omaha Nebraska Operations Center (Bruce had made arrangements in advance to be in contact with them during the launch), to hold the train at station until our launch window had passes. Another first for amateur rocketry.
With anticipation and excitement in my voice, I read over the radios and loudspeaker system: “Attention PRIMERA Launch Crew, this is the Launch Conductor. Prepare to give your GO / NO GO for launch.” The countdown procedures all boiled down to this. First on the list was Ky Michaelson, the Launch Director (LD). “LD?” I called out on the radio. Ky rang back with a punctuated “GO!” as if to say “are you kidding, I’ve been waiting two years for this re-flight and of course I’m GO, what a stupid question, let’s get on with it, I’m not getting any younger, and don’t ask me again”. We’ve been working together for so long, one word with the added tone and voice inflections said it all.
“FSO?” “GO!”
“LWO?” “GO!”
“RSO?” “GO!”
“GNC?” “GO!”
“Avionics?” “GO!”
“Propulsion?” “GO!”
In all of the excitement we had forgotten (except Propulsion) that the motor was too cold to launch at the beginning of the countdown start. The temperature of the motor had barely reached the lower limit of 55 degrees just five minutes prior the final “GO” for launch. It seemed everything was going our way.
This is the best feeling of the entire project. All of the hard work, the years of waiting and anticipation had all paid off. To now hear the exuberant string of “GO’s” from a team that has given their all – and put their lives on hold for so long – made everything worthwhile.
There was now only five minutes remaining in the launch window, and I’m practically yelling on the radio to complete final steps – as if the volume of my voice would make time slow down. To have everything finally fall into place, and then slip outside the launch window, was unthinkable. I pressed ahead….
“All systems are GO for launch, check step 2-25,” I announced. This is it. The work is over. All that remains is the terminal countdown sequence and PRIMERA will finally fly.
“T minus 60 seconds…mark.” Everyone scurried out of the Launch Control Center van, including myself. The countdown clock now switched over to my wrist watch.
“Stand by for T minus 30 seconds, on my mark… 3,2,1, mark.” Only an “emergency hold” situation could stop the countdown now. I moved over to stand next to Ky. He already had one hand on the arming key and the other on the firing button. “20 seconds.” It’s hard to describe this feeling in words, but the team’s hearts were collectively pounding in unison. You could feel it.
“T minus 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…ignition!” Ky and I both push the firing button together… and waited…and waited. But nothing happened.
Ten seconds goes by. We are now pushing on the button with more force than the “S” motor will produce at liftoff – as if our effort would somehow convince the electronics we really mean it. Continuous pressing didn’t work. So we moved onto Plan B: Pump the fire button rapidly up and down. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Ky said out load, followed by “Get me a match!”
After all we had been through – not just today, not just this week, but for the last couple of years – for the button to not work? The simplest piece of equipment in our entire arsenal. Our indicator light showed “continuity” (a complete circuit), but the rocket’s igniter didn’t light. Not even a puff.
I called the FSO on the radio to race out to the launcher to check the firing lines, and do... whatever. I’m sure he set some sort of speed record in his minivan as he raced the quarter mile to the launch tower. With all the calmness I could muster, I called out to John over the radio, “Four minutes to close of launch window.” What he knew I meant was, “No pressure, John, but if you don’t fix this FAST, we’re going to scrub on a perfectly good day.”
“Three minutes to close of launch window,” I announced over the radio…as the rest of the team stood in silence a we watched what looked like the FSO running circles around the tower. Then he hopped back in his vehicle and roared back to the Launch Control Center. John then bolted out of his van, ran to the launch control box, reset the safeing code, and with a shrug of his shoulders signified he had no clue why the rocket igniter didn’t fire. (Later that day, the FSO would say all he did was disconnect, reconnect, and wiggle a few wires. All standard procedures in high-pressure launch situations.)
At two minutes to the close of the launch window, the countdown was recycled back to the 60-second mark, and the terminal countdown sequence. RSO, Bruce, reported that the sky was clear of aircraft and again gave his official “GO” for launch.
We were number one on the runway. But would we ever get off the ground.
The countdown ran all the way down again ..3,2,1… ignition! At this point, feeling so completely snake-bit, no one (even me) believed the motor would light. But it did! Catching everyone off guard.
We could see the flame beneath the tower build, and I could hear the crew yelling, “There it goes, there it goes!. At 9:19 am PDT, on September 19, 2002, with only one minute remaining in the launch window, the PRIMERA rocket came to life – roaring out of the launch tower with the fury and thunder of 8,000 pounds of thrust! It all happened so fast I could hardly get out the required “Missile Away” call.
Straight and true, the vehicle climbed quickly and the sound of the motor was heard five miles away by one of the BLM workers guarding an entrance to the closed-off desert.
And then just as quick, a burst of flame followed by a load BANG! At three seconds into flight, the motor burned through its casing – and sent debris all over the sky…including 250 pounds of burning propellant raining to the ground.
The vehicle was only a half-mile up. Everyone took cover as we watched the debris falling to the ground surrounding the launch pad area. In a blink it was all over. That was it.
We all watched in total disbelief as the remaining propellant burned on the ground for the next five minutes. I watched resting on one knee, and my 11-year-old son came up to console his dad.
The combination of the week’s exhaustion, the three seconds of flight exuberance and adrenaline, and the final realization that years of work had just literally disintegrated was simply too much to bear. As we looked up at the sky, the winds (that were blowing towards us) carried paper debris over our heads. Pieces of business cards, personal pictures, small American flags, and other on-board personal items fluttered down...
Post-Flight Analysis
Following the flight failure of our SPACESHOT 2000 rocket, and all of the ensuing analysis and redesign, I really believed we had covered all the bases with the design of the PRIMERA rocket. For the thousands of things that went right that day, it only took one component to go wrong to end the mission. That’s the nature of rocketry.
Post-flight analysis showed a perfectly straight trajectory, and the roll rate of the vehicle was right on the money. Not so much as a clue before it blew. In hindsight, the decision to forgo a static test of the motor (that is, build and test a motor while it’s affixed to a ground test stand) was the real mistake. We had such great success in past flights with our large solid motors. We were essentially lulled to sleep by our previous good fortune – and didn’t consider the variables introduced in the new motor as we scaled up its impulse for a flight into space. A simple oversight, with catastrophic results.
CSXT’s quest to reach space is a story of perseverance and the human will to succeed against all odds. The strength of a team dedicated to the end goal remains as strong as ever, and no amount of failure will deter us from succeeding in our quest. I am proud to be associated with such a dedicated and resourceful group of people. The memories and friendships I’ve gained along the way far outweigh any glory to be gained by pushing an inanimate object a mere 50 nautical miles above the ground.
One of the enduring facts of life, is that we tend to learn and grow much more from our failures than from successes. This was true in the case of the SPACESHOT 2000 launch that resulted in a structural redesign that could fly through the winds of a hurricane. So also, it is with the flight of PRIMERA: The changes being made are inching the design and the team towards perfection. Persistence coupled with trial and error will eventually lead to success. In closing, let me quote a saying I once read: “For if they never should have bitter, they could not know sweet.” When success finally does come for the Civilian Space eXploration Team, we will humbly cherish the sweet.
To be continued….
This article was written prior to the "successful" launch of the Go Fast rocket which soared into space on May 17th 2004 setting a new speed record of Mach 5 and reaching an altitude of 72 miles. This was the first successful flight to space by an amateur team and to date has not been duplicated by any other amateur team. Just for fun, the CSXT Team came back together and did it again in 2014 and set new altitude record of 77 miles and speed of Mach 5.4.
From the article:
Putting the 'S' in CSXT
Making the Largest Successful Amateur Motor Ever
By Derek Deville
In November 2000 the CATS prize expired. Until this point Ky Michaelson had primarily funded the CSXT project, but the expense was getting to be too great. A skeleton of the next generation rocket was displayed at a trade show, and new sponsorship was found. Primera, a leading manufacturer of CD/ DVD duplicating hardware, came to the table with funds to help put the team on track for another launch.
The 2001 vehicle had undergone a significant growth spurt. It now stood at 18 feet tall with an S20,000 power plant containing 300 pounds of solid propellant; the fins had been reinforced; and the design had been carefully reviewed. The launch was scheduled to coincide with BALLS at the end of September 2001. However, the 9/11 terrorist attacks caused the FAA to temporarily rescind all waivers. The launch would have to wait.
Rescheduled for June 2002, the 550-pound vehicle had its sights set on 62 nautical miles, the edge of space. As fate would have it though, this vehicle would not get the chance to prove itself. Winds of up to 60 mph pounded the camp for the three day window of the difficult to acquire FAA space launch waiver. To make matters worse, when returning from the playa, Ky found out that his mother had passed away. She had been one of his primary sources of inspiration and a key motivation for the space shot. With his spirits dampened, Ky nearly pulled the plug on the project. As time passed, Ky regained his desire to fly and was even more determined to succeed to dedicate the flight to the memory of his mother.
In September 2002 the Primera rocket finally got its chance, but luck was not on CSXT's side: three seconds into the motor burn, hot combustion gases penetrated the casing, and the rocket broke up.
CSXT - Civilian Space eXploration Team
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