Merzer reflects on covering the Challenger explosion
It was the 25th launch of a space shuttle and it was becoming routine. The most complex machine ever built, the pinnacle of 20th century American technology, had been tested 24 times and it had passed with flying red, white and blue.
Sure, some launches had been delayed by uncooperative weather or by mechanical glitches, but engineers had designed layer upon layer of backup systems and pre-flight tests.
Failure did not appear to be an option — until 11:39:13 a.m. on Jan. 28, 1986, when shuttle Challenger exploded after 73 seconds in flight, killing all seven of its astronauts.
Given the program’s previous success, most Americans no longer paid much attention to shuttle launches and most news organizations sharply curtailed coverage. Newsrooms had plenty of resources back then, but little desire to expend any of them on something as seemingly routine as a shuttle liftoff.
The only Miami Herald reporter at the Kennedy Space Center that frigid day was the education writer. She planned to write a sunny story about crew member Christa McAuliffe, assigned to be the first teacher in space. It didn’t work out that way.
In the immediate aftermath of the in-flight explosion, that reporter struggled to shift gears, as did newsrooms around the country. “Anyone here know anything about the shuttle or about the rest of the crew or about what might have gone wrong?”
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I was in the Herald’s newsroom that morning, having returned a day earlier from a Super Bowl-related story in Chicago, unpacking my bag and an epic head cold. My original assignment that morning, which I’m not making up: Write an amusing piece about that new topless donut shop in Fort Lauderdale because, you know, it’s really cold outside so…well…you know.
I opened my notebook, tried to conjure an approach that could be published in a family newspaper, glanced up at a TV monitor and…silence and a Y-shaped cloud of smoke and vapor and debris where the shuttle was supposed to be.
A moment of shock, then action. We know how to do this: Close that notebook and that computer file. Open up a new computer file. Get to work. Our first edition closes in four hours.
This is how my story began in that night’s newspaper:
It was their moment of triumph, a moment any parent could understand. Ed and Grace Corrigan's daughter, teacher Christa McAuliffe, was on her way into space, into the history books.
So they stood in the sunshine Tuesday, Ed and Grace Corrigan, arm in arm in the bleachers at Cape Canaveral, and they watched in triumph. And then in disbelief. And then in horror.
Something terrible had happened. And now, a NASA official was making his way to them. He was walking up the bleachers, slowly, row by row. And with every step, he was sealing their fate.
Finally, he arrived, as they knew he must. "The vehicle has exploded," he said. Mrs. Corrigan looked back at him, and after a moment, she could find only these words, an echo really:
"The vehicle has exploded?"
The man nodded, and he was silent.
NASA manager recalls Challenger tragedy
The next day, much of America drove with its headlights on, not much more than a gesture, but what else could we do? Many reporters, photographers and editors — people who considered themselves hard-boiled and tough-skinned — joined in that symbolic gesture, and they mourned, and they learned.
They — and all Americans — learned never again to take spaceflight for granted.
Martin Merzer, now of Tallahassee, served for 35 years as a reporter for The Associated Press and the Miami Herald. The day after the Challenger accident, the Herald assigned him to add the space program to his permanent duties. He covered more than 100 subsequent shuttle launches until he retired in 2008.