It's pretty clear that I have far less experience launching than most people here, but even I have a few amusing anecdotes of launches gone horribly wrong. Though I'm glad to say I've never burnt down a home for nuns, children, and puppies, some of my stories were still pretty comical.
I started in rocketry around the age of 10. By the age of 12, I had built quite a few models, and had launched some with varying degrees of success. With the zealotry that only a newbie can have, I considered myself quite the expert. I resented anyone that claimed to have more knowledge of the subject than I.
As usual, that summer my parents decided to give me the gift of a great summer experience by disposing of me for as many weeks as possible. I felt a little sorry for them, as they'd be all alone in the house during those weeks. I could never understand their eagerness to be rid of me. After all, what could two consenting adults do to occupy their time without a house full of kids to amuse them? It was a true mystery.
Anyway, off to summer camp I went. On the first day, we had to sign up for various activities. Among other things, we had to sign up for one afternoon "hobby." I always hated this. How many spray-painted macaroni portraits can one kid be expected to produce, after all?
Then I saw it -- a signup sheet for a new class: Model Rocketry! This was a dream come true. I'd show those morons a thing or two about how to build a rocket. I was the eagle in a sea of turkeys, and I would emerge from the class as the undisputed master of the art of rocketry. The other kids would fall to my feet and praise me as Propulsion God. Girls would throw themselves at me, threatening to give me a fatal case of cooties.
Of course, most of these kids were first timers. The Alpha III kits flew off the shelves in unprecedented droves. I, however, being Lord Almighty of Construction, opted for a more complex kit: The Mars Snooper. Skill level III. This was my ticket to social superiority. I had at last arrived.
I threw together my kit in record time, my sleek fins fairly dripping with excess glue as the other kids were still trying to figure out which end of the sandpaper was up. I had already outclassed them.
Even the camp counsellor was out of his league. "Uh", he stammered", "I think you're putting the launch lug on in the wrong place. It's supposed to go inside that bit there." Phht. Poseur. I knew where the lug was supposed to go. I'd done this at least 192783 times before. I was the expert, after all. "No, read the directions. Not glued to the body tube, put it inside this part here. It says so right in the directions." Yeah yeah, I replied. Launch lug, glue, yada yada. I can read. I know what I'm doing!
At long last launch day came. The sweet victory of my NASA-like superiority was at hand. One by one, the counsellor prepared other kids' rockets and launched them. Much to my dismay, most of them flew quite impressively. No explosions in mid-air, no burnt down rec hall, no deaths. Truly, the bar was set quite high for me. But I could do it. My rocket would be vastly superior.
And up it went. Slowly. Painfully slowly. There was an audible scratching sound as it struggled, with major effort, to get off the launch rod. Oh no! What had I done? I put the launch lug on wrong! There was too much friction!
My bird went up maybe 15 feet, then did its best immitation of a lawn dart. As it crashed unceremoniously back to Planet Earth, a fair distance from Mars, a fin broke off. This was met by a chorus of laughter from the other kids. "HA HA", they mocked, "Look at the so-called expert's rocket." I swear I could hear, in the faint distance, two grown women singing "You'll shoot your eye out, you'll shoot your eye out!"
Like the masterpiece that lay on the grass smoking, my spirit was crushed.
Then, like the punchline of a Road Runner cartoon, like the cavalry coming over the hill too late to save the day, the parachute popped out.
Rocket science can be humbling.
I started in rocketry around the age of 10. By the age of 12, I had built quite a few models, and had launched some with varying degrees of success. With the zealotry that only a newbie can have, I considered myself quite the expert. I resented anyone that claimed to have more knowledge of the subject than I.
As usual, that summer my parents decided to give me the gift of a great summer experience by disposing of me for as many weeks as possible. I felt a little sorry for them, as they'd be all alone in the house during those weeks. I could never understand their eagerness to be rid of me. After all, what could two consenting adults do to occupy their time without a house full of kids to amuse them? It was a true mystery.
Anyway, off to summer camp I went. On the first day, we had to sign up for various activities. Among other things, we had to sign up for one afternoon "hobby." I always hated this. How many spray-painted macaroni portraits can one kid be expected to produce, after all?
Then I saw it -- a signup sheet for a new class: Model Rocketry! This was a dream come true. I'd show those morons a thing or two about how to build a rocket. I was the eagle in a sea of turkeys, and I would emerge from the class as the undisputed master of the art of rocketry. The other kids would fall to my feet and praise me as Propulsion God. Girls would throw themselves at me, threatening to give me a fatal case of cooties.
Of course, most of these kids were first timers. The Alpha III kits flew off the shelves in unprecedented droves. I, however, being Lord Almighty of Construction, opted for a more complex kit: The Mars Snooper. Skill level III. This was my ticket to social superiority. I had at last arrived.
I threw together my kit in record time, my sleek fins fairly dripping with excess glue as the other kids were still trying to figure out which end of the sandpaper was up. I had already outclassed them.
Even the camp counsellor was out of his league. "Uh", he stammered", "I think you're putting the launch lug on in the wrong place. It's supposed to go inside that bit there." Phht. Poseur. I knew where the lug was supposed to go. I'd done this at least 192783 times before. I was the expert, after all. "No, read the directions. Not glued to the body tube, put it inside this part here. It says so right in the directions." Yeah yeah, I replied. Launch lug, glue, yada yada. I can read. I know what I'm doing!
At long last launch day came. The sweet victory of my NASA-like superiority was at hand. One by one, the counsellor prepared other kids' rockets and launched them. Much to my dismay, most of them flew quite impressively. No explosions in mid-air, no burnt down rec hall, no deaths. Truly, the bar was set quite high for me. But I could do it. My rocket would be vastly superior.
And up it went. Slowly. Painfully slowly. There was an audible scratching sound as it struggled, with major effort, to get off the launch rod. Oh no! What had I done? I put the launch lug on wrong! There was too much friction!
My bird went up maybe 15 feet, then did its best immitation of a lawn dart. As it crashed unceremoniously back to Planet Earth, a fair distance from Mars, a fin broke off. This was met by a chorus of laughter from the other kids. "HA HA", they mocked, "Look at the so-called expert's rocket." I swear I could hear, in the faint distance, two grown women singing "You'll shoot your eye out, you'll shoot your eye out!"
Like the masterpiece that lay on the grass smoking, my spirit was crushed.
Then, like the punchline of a Road Runner cartoon, like the cavalry coming over the hill too late to save the day, the parachute popped out.
Rocket science can be humbling.
...Anyway, we made the rockets out of wrapping paper rolls and file folders...needless to say there had been fires before and it was inevitable there would be fires again. 
