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At least ten days before the launch the crowds began streaming in—those without press passes or VIP badges, families with young children, groups of students. They came out of curiosity to see a sensational event, but plainly also with a strong sense of patriotism. Thousands converged on the Cape by boat; 3,000 craft of every description gathered on the Indian and Banana rivers. They also came in jalopies of no recognizable genus, in Skampers, Starcrafts, Swingers and Shastas, in Lo-Liners, Open Roads, Trade Winds and Nomads, packing the campsites and motels. Long-Distance Runner Bill Emmerton, 49, arrived on foot, having jogged 1,034 miles from Houston.
On "T-minus-three" (for takeoff-minus-three days), as NASA labeled the Sunday before the launch, most journalists who covered the event were already on hand. Close to 850 came from abroad, representing 54 countries and speaking in languages ranging from Spanish to Punjabi. Old hands at space reporting set up a telephone watch of the countdown and otherwise filled the evenings with beach parties, dancing at George's and lots of "Hemingway daiquiris" (Papa's recipe: grapefruit juice, lime juice, Bacardi and a dash of grenadine).
In contractors' hospitality suites, private houses, hotel ballrooms and on yachts, the cups never ceased running over. CBS commenced the nonstop round of parties with a "Come and Meet Walter Cronkite" bash Sunday afternoon. While Cronkite mingled affably in his role as a national institution, a clerk for an airline took reservations for the firm's "first charter flight to the moon" and trotted out a "space age" stewardess encased from head to knee in a plastic bubble. "You can't win in this town," muttered Norman Mailer as he walked past her.
NASA's distinguished guest list included General William Westmoreland, Terence Cardinal Cooke, Charles Lindbergh, Johnny Carson and Jack Benny—not to mention 205 Congressmen, 30 Senators, 19 Governors, 50 mayors and 69 ambassadors. Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson flew in from Houston, representing President Nixon, and dined on launch's eve with NASA Administrator Thomas Paine. On launch day, the VIP grandstand was a miniature Who's Who of white America; it was disturbing to note that black faces were scarce.
Soon after the relentless Florida sun came up, coats, ties and even shirts came off. The long wait grew wearisome, until the announcement: "T-minus-two minutes." Idle conversation halted. Tedium evaporated. "We have lift-off," said Mission Control. People shouted "Go! Go! Go!" and whispered "God bless you." In another two minutes, there was nothing to see but the blue sky. For those incredible two minutes, said the Rev. Ralph Abernathy, who led 250 Poor People's Campaigners in a protest march, he was so stunned by the sight and so proud of the astronauts that he forgot there was hunger.
He would soon remember. But Abernathy—and the thousands of others who were on the scene—would probably also recall that moment last week as the biggest historical event of their lives. A radio newsman thrust a microphone into the face of William F. Buckley. "You're an eloquent man, Mr. Buckley," said the interviewer. "How would you describe what you've just seen?"