When
I was very young (from about age five or six) my ambition was to design
airplanes. This became such a key part of my identity that it still is an
ambition of mine, really. I was inspired by the curmudgeonly iconoclasts like
Burt Rutan, and fancied myself capable of designing an airplane different from
what other engineers had done that would be not just as good an airplane as
everyone else’s, but better. That’s what Rutan had done with the Long-EZ,
right?
What
I realize now is that Burt Rutan is a rare specimen whose formidable technical
and managerial skill is matched by an equally daunting expertise at marketing and technical
persuasion. The Long-EZ is an excellent and high-performance general aviation
airplane largely because of the good aerodynamics and low weight that comes
from designing with composites with true understanding of what the materials
allow. The configuration, the striking element about that airplane that makes
it a delight to look at and contemplate, gets in the way of fulfilling that
role as much as it enables it. If you disagree, just ask Beech how their
Starship sales are going.
I
know now that with enough time and resources I could indeed design and build at
least as good an airplane as anyone else’s, but there’s a good chance it would wind
up looking like everyone else’s in the process. There’s a reason why, if you go
to an airport, you’ll see lots of airplanes that tend to look and fly the same
way.
My
ambition evolved as I grew up. I still loved the romance, science, and aesthetics
of aircraft, but space vehicles seemed a more wholesome enterprise, and a place
where there surely was much more room for improvement. SpaceX and Blue Origin,
the two giants of reusable launch vehicles today, were in their infancy at the
time, and it took some measure of faith to believe that radical change
in the economics of space travel was possible. Nonetheless I believed, and
believed that this was something that would make humanity better, or at least
more enduring and connected to the cosmos. I guess that seemed better by inspection.
Buoyed by my childhood dreams of matching
wits with the great airplane designers, I fancied being something like the
Donald Douglas or Kelly Johnson of spaceflight, or at least a next sort of Werner
Von Braun. I was obsessed enough that my first email addressed featured one of
those names, and it’s the most embarrassing one on the list.
What
I realize now is that Douglas and Johnson and Von Braun and all the others didn’t
do what history credits them without hundreds or thousands of people laboring tirelessly (or more likely, very tiredly) in support. A canoe is a reasonable project for one man or woman, a nuclear
submarine not so much. So it is for the homebuilt and the Starship (Beech or SpaceX, take your pick). It's true that each person
who works on bringing a rocket or spacecraft to life is necessary to the finished
product. It's also true that you could remove any one person out of the thousand and
another capable engineer could fill their place like another raindrop from the
storm. In the course of history I suspect few people have been truly indispensable.
Today
being a parent is one of the most essential parts of my identity. Every day of
my life is structured around what I do for my children, and virtually every
decision I make links back to my service and support for them. I fancied myself
someone who had something to contribute to the next generation. I endeavored to do better by them than my parents did for me. I’ll spare you the details. I
don’t think that’s happened.
Around
the world the total fertility rate is collapsing. Despite that, the world has seven
billion, going on eight billion, people on its surface. Every day sees hundreds
of thousands of new faces added to the litany of human experience. Look around.
It’s hard not to think the world has enough people.
I’m
interested in people who become writers. Maybe I’ll be one some day (new
ambitions are fun). There’s some quality these people needed to make the
transition they made. Whether it was stubbornness, arrogance, or something in
between, they looked at a library full of books and decided that even if the
world has enough, there was still room for their stories.
The
passion to create seems to be one of the most fundamental aspects of the human
experience. Maybe this isn’t everyone’s experience, but it’s part of mine,
anyway. The discouragement comes when considering the mountain of creation that
exists and the small work a single creature can do by comparison. Humility encourages the ego to shrink when it contemplates narcissism. Nonetheless, we all seem called to carry on in a world that
has plenty of airplanes, plenty of rockets, plenty of babies, and plenty of
books. The plenty is there. So are you.
The question, then, is there for the asking. What
are you (yes, you) going to do about it?
