Held Captive by an Identified Flying Object

To monotonously pristine blue skies, warm year-round temperatures and what seems the perpetual threat of a recall for some Thousand Oaks politician, add something else blase Ventura County residents take for granted: rockets blasting over their heads.

There are few places in the world where folks can look up in wonder at the majestic sight of a rocket’s red glare and not worry that some nutty dictator has finally decided to unleash a few missiles.

Yet here we are almost used to the display provided by what must be millions of taxpayer dollars ignited simultaneously in the blast of a rocket from Vandenberg Air Force Base near Lompoc.

Instead of running for cover, Ventura County residents run outside their homes oohing and ahhing--just in time to see what is usually a glowing trail.

For my wife--and by extension, me--this isn’t enough.

An impending launch can prompt us to get off work early, jump in the car and hurtle north for 90 minutes to experience, in person, the spitting flame and ground-shaking vibration of a launch.

Never mind that Lompoc’s notoriously cloudy skies can conspire to give us a view similar to that on a June day in Ventura.

But we are not to be denied. For we are rabid rocketeers. Or rather, my wife is.

I have very little to say about the matter, which is not to say I am anti-rocket. Growing up in England I vividly remember watching the Apollo moon landing at school. And I recall waking up in my University of Washington dorm room one day in January 1986, turning on the television and watching the space shuttle Challenger blow up over and over again.

But when I moved to Lompoc in 1993, I was not about to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night to watch rockets at the nearby Air Force base split the night sky (if it happened to be clear, of course).

My wife had other plans.

I would occasionally hear her excited shrieks from the living room balcony exhorting me to get out of bed at 2:45 a.m. For particularly significant launches, we would stake out a viewing spot with other fanatics to watch rockets ascend to outer space in all their power and glory. We also witnessed their failures, including the time an unmanned Titan IV rocket blew up with huge bangs and equally large clouds of smoke.

Driving 10 minutes from our Lompoc home for a clear view of a launch was one thing. Watching from our condominium complex’s hot tub was a uniquely California experience. And getting access, via my wife’s Planetary Society membership, to the restricted air base to watch the Clementine moon launch in 1994 was quite a thrill.

But when we moved to Ventura two years ago, I vowed we would not descend to the level of rocket groupies, compelled by some unrelenting force to make freeway pilgrimages to Lompoc. Especially given the distance involved, the capriciousness of the weather and the technical snafus that seem to routinely delay launches.

Guess that tells you how little I know.

Earlier this year, a Titan IV rocket--the biggest, loudest and most spectacular U.S. launch vehicle--was scheduled to take off from Vandenberg.

The possibility existed, my wife informed me, that it may be the final launch of a Titan IV from Vandenberg. Ever.

Proving that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, we made the decision not to miss the event.

That is easier than it sounds. For one thing, the launch was, as they often are, delayed repeatedly for a variety of reasons.

But one Saturday in October the launch appeared imminent--according to our sources on the Internet and Vandenberg’s own launch update line.

So we packed our binoculars. Dusted off winter jackets to prepare for the Central Coast’s evening chill. Carefully timed our departure. And promptly ran into a traffic jam as a wildfire threatened to close U.S. 101 near El Capitan State Beach.

Fortunately, we still made it in plenty of time to Moonglow Road, an evocatively named street in an unfinished subdivision--and a prime viewing location.

The anticipation was almost palpable. Ham radio types eavesdropped on mission control, their machines crackling with the launch outlook. Helicopters buzzed overhead, ensuring that the restricted airspace remained clear. Children impatiently ran around as darkness descended.

Then, 90 seconds before liftoff, high winds first delayed, then scrubbed, the launch.

The saving grace is that li’l ol’ blue-collar Lompoc happens to be home to an excellent Thai restaurant, with the less-than-inspired name of Thai Cuisine, in a hidden strip mall next to a plumbing store.

A couple of Singhas, shrimp on toast with cucumber sauce and honey-roasted duck with spinach (a family recipe) helped cushion our disappointment.

Our spirits raised anew, we pledged to return. About two weeks later, the launch was on again and we dutifully fled north once more.

As sunset approached, encroaching clouds gave us pause to wonder whether Ventura would have a clearer view of the launch.

Our concern rose as we arrived at the viewing site to find that we were alone. But vehicles soon arrived, just minutes before the advertised launch window.

Like clockwork, the rocket cast an almost blinding light as it pierced the low-lying clouds. After several long seconds the sound of the Titan was upon us, rumbling and roaring, muffled by the clouds but exhilarating and relentless.

Dogs barked. Car alarms sounded, triggered by its vibration. People cheered.

The rocket disappeared into a cloud bank, then reemerged, its brilliant light rising, then fading, as it shot heavenward.

“Now that’s a launch!” somebody exclaimed. Then, the free show over, we all rapidly bundled ourselves into our cars.

A celebratory Thai dinner awaited. And the long drive home.

Nick Green is a Times correspondent.