Most of us would panic if we were stranded in space without a firm return date. But Sunita Williams and Butch Wilmore aren’t like most of us.
Ms. Williams and Mr. Wilmore, two NASA astronauts, left for the International Space Station on June 5 for what was intended to be an eight-day mission. They have now spent six months and counting in space. Technical issues on their spacecraft, involving thruster malfunctions and helium leaks in the propulsion system, rendered its return ride too risky for human flight. Last week NASA announced that the retrieval mission — originally set for February — is again up in the air.
And yet I suspect that Ms. Williams and Mr. Wilmore aren’t about to lose their cool, even with this latest twist in plans. When I spoke to them at a news conference in September, they seemed remarkably at ease with the situation. These trials “make you stronger,” he said, even as he described missing his youngest daughter’s senior year of high school.
For decades, NASA has been working hard to identify and mitigate the countless hazards that might emerge during crewed missions to deep space. But as space missions get longer, the protagonists of these journeys are one thing that cannot be precisely assessed. Their vulnerabilities, terrestrial needs and ability to live together in small spaces for years are only a few of the considerations that make up what the agency calls the human factor of spaceflight.
Ms. Williams and Mr. Wilmore’s predicament, as unfortunate and troubling as it is, serves as an important test for the space agency’s efforts. How well the two are able to adapt to their changing circumstances will reflect not only their own mettle but also NASA’s ability to select astronauts who can handle this type of unexpected setback. The future of interplanetary space exploration — by NASA, other countries and private companies like SpaceX — will depend on astronauts adjusting to wildly unpredictable circumstances like these.
For a long time, NASA’s strong engineering culture gave little thought to the psychological challenges facing the humans inside its precisely designed spacecrafts. (“These soft, squishy humans are completely unfathomable to engineers,” Jack Stuster, an anthropologist who studied life on the International Space Station, once told me.) The Soviet Union’s launch in 1986 of Mir, the first modular low-Earth-orbit space station, transformed that mind-set. Suddenly astronauts not only flew to space but also had to live in space for long periods. A Mir-stationed astronaut in 1995 described his extreme isolation, warning that he might not “make it” if his mission got extended to six months.
Around that same time, a small group of psychologists known as the behavioral health and performance unit, was quietly assembled in the bowels of NASA’s Johnson Space Center in Houston. Focused on long-duration missions to the soon-to-be-deployed International Space Station, the unit was tasked with maintaining astronauts’ mental stability during the separation from their terrestrial lives.
The psychologists quickly realized how tricky it would be to persuade the astronauts to open up to them. These were high achievers — graduates of elite schools who went on to become decorated combat and Navy officers. Why would they risk their chance to go to space by admitting their fears?
But individuals need to be prepared for the countless events that will unfold while away from Earth. Births, graduations, breakups. Sometimes these events are unexpected, even devastating. Take six months on the space station that I examined for a documentary film project. During that time, from December 2010 to May 2011, one astronaut’s mother died unexpectedly; Representative Gabrielle Giffords, the sister-in-law of Scott Kelly, a mission commander, was shot; and a tsunami devastated Japan as crew members watched.
To help astronauts manage the stress caused by the intense separation, during these monumental moments, NASA’s psychologists have made great efforts to gain their trust and even began to take on an extraordinarily familial role in their lives. NASA filmed one astronaut’s wife when she gave birth while he was in space. The agency orchestrated a wedding between an astronaut stationed in orbit and his Houston-based fiancée.
As NASA prepares for longer and deeper space missions, to the moon and eventually Mars, real-time communication will no longer be possible. The risk for technical malfunctions and the length of these missions — a trip to Mars and back would take about three years — could amplify the astronauts’ sense of being disconnected from loved ones. During a Mars mission, there could be a total loss of communication, Dr. Al Holland, a NASA psychologist, told me, adding, “You have to prepare for the worst-case scenario.”
In an attempt to predict the psychological pitfalls, the Johnson Space Center has transformed into the world’s largest isolation laboratory. It has placed mock astronauts in Mars-like habitats for a whole year, studied journals of seamen stranded near the South Pole in the early 1900s and deployed artificial intelligence companions to keep lonely astronauts company. Most important, it has started looking for astronaut candidates who can withstand the mental strain of prolonged isolation.
Aside from an innate desire to explore, the qualities NASA now screens for paint a very different portrait from the daredevils of years past. Gone are the larger-than-life test pilots who were perfectly tailored for dangerous, short missions; they are now replaced with a humble, even-tempered group of team players who are expected to communicate well and have good judgment. NASA psychologists conduct long interviews with the final astronaut candidates and observe how they interact with other candidates. They screen for the ones who seem most driven by wanting to learn about others, the world and themselves. It is the search for the imperfect astronaut, one who understands that when astronauts fail in space — which happens often — they can ask for help and should.
On a three-year mission to Mars, crew members will become the astronauts’ new family; the spacecraft and habitat, their new home. The ability to evolve in this way, to assume a temporary new life, makes this new breed of astronauts seem that much more human. Like so many of us immigrants, they go through the same patterns of uprooting themselves and learning to adapt. As Ms. Williams and Mr. Wilmore are showing us, they will thrive. She said it best at the September news conference while he was joyfully spinning next to her: “This is my happy place.”
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