11
Under the Ocean and Over the Clouds

On Saturday, March 1, 2008, one of this country’s most accomplished space pioneers retired from active astronaut status. In his sixteen years with the Canadian Space Agency, Doctor Dave Williams flew on two shuttle missions, did three spacewalks, spent 687 hours on orbit, and travelled almost twelve million miles in the process. In ceasing active flying he was leaving a career that was outstanding, and he had truly earned the accolades that came his way. His work reflected well on him, on the CSA, and on this country. He was a leader, a mentor, and yes, a hero to all who looked at his wide-ranging accomplishments and wished they could be more like him. And perhaps most important of all, he was looked up to by thousands of youngsters who hoped to someday become astronauts themselves.

But Williams, who as Maclean’s magazine points out, “has a CV that makes mere mortals feel distinctly inadequate,”¹ is modest, quiet, and to anyone who has interviewed or written about him, straightforward, and accommodating. Like us all, he is a product of his past, and in his case, that past embodies what was once called the two solitudes of this nation. Dave Williams is a Western Canadian by birth, and a Quebecer by upbringing. He was born in Saskatoon, and educated in Montreal. Then he did postgraduate studies in both Canada and the United States, practiced medicine in several cities, and by the end of his CSA tenure became the first Canadian to have lived and worked in both space and the ocean. He is also a husband, a father, a pilot, and a university professor. In fact, he was working in this latter role when he first learned that he had been picked as an astronaut. While the story of his being chosen has been told before, it bears repeating because it is so reflective of the man himself.

The members of the second class of Canada’s astronauts were informed of their selection in the spring of 1992, on the afternoon of Saturday, June 6. That day, Doctor Williams was at the Sunnybrook Health Science Centre in Toronto, where he was about to speak to a crowd of nurses about emergency medicine. Despite the fact that the day was a pleasant one outdoors, the business at hand was inside, and those that were there wanted to be there. No one in the audience that day would have known, nor could they have guessed, that they were about to witness something that was highly unusual, and as far as their lecturer was concerned, one of the most significant moments of his life. In fact, they would leave the auditorium an hour later, none the wiser.

When Doctor Williams’ pager went off, no one in the room gave much thought to the fact that he stepped into a nearby hallway and answered a phone. “After a brief, non-committal call, he hung up, and without commenting on the interruption, began his lecture. No one else in the room knew he’d just been informed that he’d been selected … as one of four new Canadian astronauts.”²

Nor did he show it, largely because the Space Agency swore to secrecy those chosen that day. “I was trying not to look excited,” he told a reporter later, “because I was not supposed to let anyone know this was happening. But inside I was jumping up and down.”³

That phone call, like the ones received by Williams’ new astronaut colleagues, came as a welcome relief after long, tension-filled weeks of waiting. Right after his lecture, and as soon as he could reasonably extricate himself from the nurses around him, he phoned his wife and told her the wonderful news. Then he did his best to internalize the significance of the phone message, and how everything it embodied would impact on him and on his family. But one thing he was sure of: Cathy Fraser, his wife, would be supportive in whatever transpired. She was an Air Canada pilot and had not attained success in her profession without being dedicated, determined, and professional. Now she would be as thrilled as he by the good news of his selection, even though neither of them could quickly grasp what it might mean, or where it might ultimately lead. Ironically, it was she who had suggested he apply for the astronaut job when the first postings appeared in the papers.

Dave Williams was still a toddler when his family left Saskatchewan. That has never taken away his affection for the Canadian West, nor from the admiration that the people of Saskatchewan feel about “one of their own” having reached the pinnacle of success in arguably the most glamorous profession there is. The prairie media outlets have always carried glowing reports of his space launches, and of his work, both on the shuttles and out of them.

When he was a boy, Williams was interested in, and attracted to, the larger-than-life individuals from the United States who were going into space and exploring all the new unknowns that it embodied. However, like so many from this country who wanted to become astronauts, Williams found that his desire to explore the same frontier was not an option for Canadians. As we know, all that changed with Marc Garneau in 1984, but until then, Williams had to put his hopes on hold.

“When I was growing up in Canada, I remember watching the original Mercury astronauts on television. And of course, in those days, having a TV was just something incredible in itself, and a little black and white image and you’d watch the amazing flights of the original astronauts, small little capsule, short duration missions, but seeing images of the earth for the first time from space. That was what really captured the desire in me to become an explorer.”⁴

At that point, because he could not go into space, the teenaged Williams turned to another unknown that was equally enticing. He resolved to explore the world under the surface of the sea. Again, what he saw on television was a factor in this decision.

Around that time TV documentaries involving the nautical exploits of French oceanographer diver Jacques Cousteau were widely broadcast. Dave Williams had seen them all, and had been entranced by the possibilities they presented. In tandem with the Cousteau exploits, the work of a well-known Canadian also played a role.

Doctor Joseph MacInnis was an Ontario boy from Barrie, who, after he graduated from medical school at the University of Toronto, went on to an illustrious career involving many undersea exploits. MacInnis was the first human being to dive under the ice at the North Pole; he was the man who discovered the largely-intact remains of the ship Breadalbane that sank in northern waters in 1853; he was a consultant to the Titanic discovery team; and he participated in a great number of undersea expeditions in this country and elsewhere. In short, his work and his fame greatly influenced Williams, who decided to do something about it. He learned to scuba dive at the age of thirteen. Then, in due course, he became a doctor and, ultimately, an astronaut.

Canadian astronaut Dave Williams participates in underwater simulation of extravehicular activity (EVA) in the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory, near the Johnson Space Center at Houston, Texas.

But first, he embarked on what to most people would have been several careers, all of which earned him satisfaction, praise, and collegial respect. He did postgraduate work on advanced invertebrate physiology at the University of Washington, in Seattle. Later, he became interested in a wide variety of aspects of emergency medicine, everything from the evaluation of the retention of cardiopulmonary resuscitation skills, to studies of patient survival after heart attacks, to the efficacy of tetanus immunization in the elderly. His work in critical care had ever-expanding roles: from serving as an emergency physician, to the training of ambulance attendants and paramedics. For varying periods he was an assistant professor of surgery at the University of Toronto, medical director of the Westmount Urgent Care Clinic, director of emergency services at Sunnybrook, and, after becoming an astronaut, manager of the Missions and Space Medicine Group in the Canadian Astronaut Program. No wonder his presence and skills would be welcomed on board a space shuttle during an emergency.

Doctor Williams first flew on Columbia on STS-90. That flight is often referred to as the Neurolab mission, because of all the medically-related studies that were done on it. Dave Williams played a vital role. Shortly after that successful mission, he was made director of the Space and Life Sciences Directorate at the Johnson Space Center. In assuming that role, he became the first non-American to hold a senior management position within the NASA organization. Surely this was a long way, in every way, from his birth in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan on May 16, 1954.

On the morning of April 17, 1998, Dave Williams, the man who at one time thought he would become a marine biologist because no Canadians were flying, roared aloft on Columbia, and less than ten minutes from the pad at Canaveral, found himself weightless in space. The launch itself, although delayed for a day because of a mechanical glitch, was flawless when it came. On board were seven souls, four of whom were doctors. Dave Williams was one of three Mission Specialists. Kay Hire, also a Mission Specialist, was the sole woman on board. Back in the province where he was born, the Regina Leader-Post told its readers that “Canadian astronaut Dave Williams rode a bright-orange plume of flaming rocket fuel into the heavens, during a spectacular liftoff of the space shuttle Columbia.”⁵ The paper also mentioned that “among his musical selections for the trip [was] the Canadian rock classic, ‘Oh What a Feeling.’”

As soon as the shuttle reached orbit, every member of the crew set about performing the many tasks at hand. Even though there was much to do, and much accomplished, Dave Williams did not cite his work when he was asked about his favourite parts of space flight. His response reflected the personality of the man: “For me, I think, there are two favourite parts. One is simply being there and enjoying the experience, and floating, looking out the window at the sun setting and listening to ‘What a Wonderful World,’ for instance, or ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon. It’s an absolutely incredible experience to float around looking out at the earth going by underneath you and just take it all in, the spectacular beauty of our planet. The other element, which is as exciting for me, is working together as a team.”⁶

The team on STS-90 was extraordinary. There were so many professional scientists involved that it came as no surprise to NASA that the mission was as successful as it was unique. In the laboratory in the cargo bay of Columbia was an incredible menagerie of critters, all of which were playing a specific role in the advancement of medicine and science. Among them were rats, mice — many of which were pregnant — snails, fish, and hundreds of crickets. As well, the human subjects on board, were prepared to, and did, involve themselves in several experiments. The spaceship was as unique as any laboratory anywhere, but in this case it was a lab that circled the world every ninety minutes.

The liftoff occurred at 2:19 on a Friday afternoon, and it was seen by the usual thousands and thousands of enthusiastic observers. Among them were many who began their weekend early and didn’t care if the boss condoned or cared. The launch was the most exciting thing that happened that day in Florida, and being present was far more memorable than watching the same thing on television at home.

Among the throng that day were members of the Williams family. Cathy Fraser brought their son and daughter, and she was completely enthralled by what she saw. Their son knew what was going on, but his little sister was too young to understand. Nevertheless, they all watched as Columbia soared from sight; until it was a tiny speck in the brilliant blue of the sky over the Atlantic. Then, the shuttle was gone. Later on, Fraser described the moment for a reporter.

“After I started breathing again, I just felt overwhelming joy,” she said. “I wasn’t particularly scared; I was just really excited.” And in a somewhat more reflective mood she explained what the launch and lead up to it had been for her: “This whole thing has been a very positive experience and very enjoyable. I’m a firm believer that this is really a safe adventure and I feel really exhilarated.”⁷

As she was speaking these words, her husband and the rest of the Columbia crew were already halfway around the world, stowing their launch gear, and learning to adapt in an environment that only a select few have ever known. The first moments in space were unforgettable for them all, so much so that later they would be at a loss for words in trying to describe the wonder of the world they had entered. In researching this book, our astronauts often told me how difficult it was for them to adequately explain to the earthbound what it was like to be in space; how amazing it was, how thrilling, and yes, at first, how unpleasant to have to cope with feelings of nausea. Having experienced dives, rolls, and tight turns in a fighter jet, I felt I had a passing understanding of what I was being told. However, a fighter jet soon lands; spaceships go on for days and days. A significant number of astronauts experience space sickness, particularly at the beginning of missions, but they know they can cope with the discomfort, and that within a couple of days the problem generally disappears. They also know NASA has little interest in making the subject a high priority in press releases.

In all, some twenty-six individual life science experiments were done during the STS-90 mission. Every member of the crew participated, while the test animals and insects that were brought along played the roles required. Many of the animals, such as the rats and mice, did not complete the trip. They gave their lives for science in some of “the most complex animal dissections ever done on orbit, removing the brains of rats so scientists could see how the nervous system changes in weightlessness.”⁸

By the end of the flight, most of the rodents were killed and their body parts preserved for later study in university labs. Dave Williams and his American colleague, Doctor Jay Buckey, performed the majority of the dissections in which the animals were “beheaded one at a time with a tiny guillotine or given an anesthetic overdose in a sealed laboratory chamber with glove-like openings for astronauts’ hands.”⁹ There were dozens of snails and fish that were killed as well, but many of the crickets on board would be dissected after the return of the shuttle. They had been brought on the flight in order to allow researchers back on Earth to attempt to determine if being in space had affected them in any way.

Because the mission was intended to advance neuroscience research, the effects of microgravity on the brain and the nervous system were principal focuses. That was why the brains of the rats and mice were used, and it was why the humans on board became test cases for other long-planned and highly anticipated studies. In fact, eleven of the twenty-six experiments involved shuttle crew, although for perhaps obvious reasons, the doctors on board were the ones most directly involved. In fact, Dave Williams was not only the crew medical officer — the first on a shuttle — he was, along with his colleagues, a test subject as well.

One of the experiments involved the sleep that the astronauts were able to get during the flight, and how weightlessness affected their rest. Various sensors were attached to the bodies of those being studied, and while the sensors might have been bothersome and not conducive to ensuring sound sleep, they were accepted because they were necessary. Other studies involved spatial awareness, hand-eye coordination, and the like. Attention was given to the differentiation of up from down, which is often initially disquieting to humans in space. In the early part of the period in orbit, Dave Williams mentioned the spatial factor in an interview he gave during a downlink telecast to York University students in Toronto. In answer to a query about the disorienting effects of weightlessness, he explained: “I felt like I was standing on my head on earth where all the fluids shift from your lower extremities and your head feels very stuffy and congested.”¹⁰ Then he added that getting around in space was “very similar to being under water.” And as we know, a great deal of astronaut training is done under water — in the massive pool built for that purpose near the Johnson Space Center in Houston.

The effects of microgravity can cause astronauts to confuse a floor with a ceiling, or vice versa, and “these sensory balance barometers gone awry may also explain why the elderly suffer from falls.”¹¹ It was that kind of very common earthly effect that Dave Williams and his colleagues hoped to learn more about. That was one of the reasons why he regarded the Neurolab mission as being so important. Right after trips into space, astronauts sometimes have trouble walking, until they get accustomed to gravity again. They suffer bone and muscle loss in orbit, and the longer the mission, the more profound that can be. In a similar vein, bone and muscle wasting are often problems for the elderly. It was hoped that a mission such as STS-90, and the experiments done on it, would supply medical data for treatments on Earth.

In addition, the operations done on the rats and mice were intended to assist astronauts in acquiring proper techniques for emergency treatment of colleagues, in case of injury or accident while in orbit. Such things as a cut that was bad enough to require stitches would require specialized attention where gravity was not present. In fact, Dave Williams alluded to such a problem during a panel discussion in Ottawa several months before the flight. He said it was important to learn how to treat patients in unusual environments, and then added: “That’s what’s exciting to me — to be a doctor in orbit, understanding how to treat humans who get ill. How do we deal with simple things like cuts and nosebleeds, or appendicitis? We’re going to go on after the space station back to the moon, and after the moon, to Mars. To be able to support missions like that, we have to understand how to treat conditions in space.”¹²

In the years since Dave Williams made his first trip into space, much more research has been done on most of the matters that the Neurolab mission highlighted. By the time he got the chance to go on his second flight, the lab itself had been retired; the great multinational space station was nearing completion, and the scientists at NASA and elsewhere were more optimistic than ever that problems arising on long-term space deployment were solvable. But all that was still in the future. As far as STS-90 was concerned, this ninetieth shuttle mission was essentially over.

The noon hour skies over KSC were clear as Columbia landed on Runway 33, after orbiting the Earth 256 times. Commander Richard Searfoss glided his craft to a gentle touchdown, 1,694 feet past the threshold of the concrete strip, and then rolled 9,949 feet farther along, until the spaceship came to a complete stop. Then it was quickly surrounded by service trucks of all kinds — including medical transport vehicles. Inside there were stretchers that were used to carry Dave Williams and four of his colleagues off the shuttle.

But not because they were ill; the five crewmembers were carried off Columbia so that their weightless state could be preserved as long as possible, for scientific study. They were given immediate and extensive examinations, the results of which were intended to assist medical personnel on the ground in determining the effects of gravity — and the absence of it — on the nervous system. The sooner the five could be studied, the more reliable the examinations and the results of them would be. In all, the group would spend six hours being checked over before the initial round of tests were completed. Then the fliers would have real reunions with family members; not just the greetings permitted as the medical examinations were about to begin.

Because the day of the landing — Sunday, May 3 — was a special one for Dave Williams and his wife, both were particularly conscious of it. It was their twelfth wedding anniversary, but out of necessity private celebrations had to wait until the medical examiners had completed their work. Cathy Fraser had a fleeting chance to see Williams though, and reporters asked her about him. She told them that he was in good spirits, but he said that “his arms felt very heavy and he found he couldn’t move his head too quickly because it felt like the room was spinning. He wanted to know about the kids, and then wished me a happy anniversary.”¹³

And then he was gone, to be pricked, prodded, measured, observed, and examined, all in the name of science. An hour later, he was telling those around him how good a hamburger would taste.

When Dave Williams retired from active astronaut status, he was feted, praised, and his exploits in space were widely acknowledged. His work under the sea was mentioned less often, and that is unfortunate. During the time that he was involved with marine examination and exploration he gave that work as much undivided attention as he did to the furthering of medical research in the space shuttle lab. In the underwater facilities where he worked, he was equally conscious of how medicine might be practiced there. The constraints might not have been as pronounced as they were in space, but they were still highly restrictive.

The United States has an underwater research facility in Key Largo, Florida. A program there that is affiliated with NASA is called NEEMO. Astronauts there are involved in missions of varying lengths, the briefest being a week. They spend the time in Aquarius, an undersea research habitat where they learn to live and work underwater. Williams explains its purpose: “We use that as an analog to help astronauts train and prepare to go on board the International Space Station, but we also use it as a testbed to develop technologies before we send them into space. One of the great technologies we can access there is remote medical care.”¹⁴ In today’s world, perhaps more than ever before, medical care can be an urgent need anywhere — from the peaks of our highest mountains, to the depths of our deepest mines. As Dave Williams postulates: “How can you deliver health care in a totally isolated environment?” His answer is both practical and succinct, and it involves “being able to use high-speed telecommunications technology, whether it’s satellite technology or whether it’s fiber-optic cabling, to enable physicians to communicate with either other physicians, other health care providers or, in many cases laypersons to deliver health care in remote, isolated environments.”¹⁵

If anyone, anywhere, is cognizant of what all this means for the future, it is Dave Williams. He spent much time in space, as we know, but his eighteen day mission as Commander of NEEMO was perhaps just as significant. Indeed, his contribution to science and medicine on Earth, above it, and underwater has been second to none.