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This is a personal account, written by Jim McDade, of an accident that occured while he was launching his own rockets. We decided to post this letter in hopes that you will understand the dangers of launching rockets without proper training, tools, and equipment.
July 17, 1967 was a typical hot and humid mid-summer day in Montgomery, Alabama. From June until November each year, the Montgomery climate is comparable to a torrid sauna room. You can actually feel the humid air sticking to your skin. Several neighborhood kids had gathered around the small, sandy "test site" next to the carport of our modest brick home that day. I had built my first "black powder" rockets the year before and had been very lucky to survive several "accidents" with only minor burns and a temporary ringing sound in my ears. I had hidden in the bushes more than once while local police officers searched for the source of the mysterious explosions sometimes reported around south Montgomery. I was just thirteen years old and totally focused on being the world's next great rocket scientist. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm overcame my sense of caution. A disaster was about to take place.
July 17 was the day that I would conduct my first "ground test" of a more advanced liquid-fuel rocket engine. I had constructed a small combustion chamber from scrap materials scavenged from all over town. I had learned how to melt down certain metals and construct molds from easily obtainable materials. In the 1960's dangerous materials such as asbestos insulation and explosive chemicals were much more freely available than they are now. The toughest item to obtain was an oxidizer to mix with my fuel in the combustion chamber. Auto racing was a very popular sport in Montgomery and I knew a couple of kids whose dad's helped build racing engines. The garages that these kid's dads worked in, usually stored cans of a certain gas that I had assumed would fit the bill for an oxidizer. Unfortunately, I was all too correct in that assumption.
My "test area" was equipped with certain safety features that I was sure would prevent any serious injuries to bystanders or myself. I carefully marked off a perimeter line and instructed the other kids present not to cross it during the test. A pressurized water hose was on standby at the site and the nice, clean, "quartzy" Alabama sand around the experiment would allow me to "drop and roll" if my clothes caught fire.
We conducted a ten second countdown and I released the pressurized oxidizer and fuel into the chamber. The flame was very visible at first but then it suddenly became almost transparent in the bright sunlight of a southern summer afternoon. I could see heat ripples as the air boiled in the hot flame. Unfortunately, one of the kids did not believe the flame was there and he started to cross my safety line for a closer look. I ran toward him yelling for him to move back. I felt a hot flash and heard a sizzling sound. It felt like two-dozen giant Maine lobsters were all pinching my legs at once. Flaming globs of burning rocket fuel were burning away great blotches of flesh on my legs. I immediately pointed the water hose at the burning flesh while everybody scattered this way and that. Fortunately, none of the other kids were injured. One of them asked me if I needed some help but apparently in a state of shock, I just told them to go home. I ran into the house to call my mother at the pharmacy where she worked as a clerk. Blood was running down my legs and in my confused state of mind I though she would be more upset about seeing blood on her furniture than my injuries. Before picking up the phone, I laid out some plastic sheeting to protect the bed from bloodstains. I told my mom that I was burned and probably needed to go to the doctor. She immediately came home and was shocked at the extent of my injuries when she saw them.
We rushed to the hospital after she called our family physician. Second and third degree burns on the front of my legs from the bottom of my shorts down to the top of my ankles. I had yet to cry because I was still in a state of shock. The first phase of that 1967 state of the art burn treatment was about to bring me painfully to full awareness of my condition. The pain was suddenly and overwhelmingly at the center of my consciousness. Imagine having some of your skin peeled off and then cleansing the wounds with metal scouring pads and abrasive cleanser. The doctor and nurse were actually using clean water and cotton "sponges" to clean the wounds and remove the fried, dead skin but I had never imagined cotton could be such an instrument of torture. My mother was crying and the nurse was crying while the doctor was apologizing profusely. When the wound cleaning was over and the appropriate anti-microbial fluids applied to the wounds, clean white bandages were carefully wrapped around my legs.
Red blotches quickly grew on the surface of the bandages. I knew that those red blotches indicated places where giant scabs would form. I knew it was going to be really bad all over again when they had to pull those bandages off. I did not realize that this excruciating treatment would have to be repeated many times in the coming days. The nauseating smell from the wounds and the constant pain kept me from sleeping peacefully for many days. I had to take three baths a day in a solution of water and a hexachlorophene solution. The use of that particular solution was later discontinued when it was found to be a possible cancer-causing agent.
My first summer as a teenager was ruined. The summer of 1967 and the start of school in September was a lot of fun for most American kids. The impact on my social life was just as devastating as the pain of the burns. I was just too self-conscious about the bandages and scars to go swimming or wearing cut-off jean shorts in the popular style of the day. I especially did not want my girlfriend to see my scars because I was afraid she would be repulsed. I gave up amateur rocket building for good but never lost my enthusiasm for the real space program that was going on all through my teen years. I never got real emotional at a movie until I saw OCTOBER SKY. It brought back so many memories from my own youth. I am thankful that my family, friends and teacher persisted in loving me while I dealt with my exaggerated apprehensions and embarrassment about my bandages and scars. Later on in life, I became a one-man space program advocacy campaign. I was fortunate enough to have my space articles and commentaries published, gave presentations to students and teachers about space and got to meet astronauts Neil Armstrong, Alan Shepard and many other space celebrities whose names are world famous.
Sadly, 1967 was also the year of a tragedy far, far greater than my personal one. Astronauts Gus Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffee lost their lives in a launch test fire at Cape Kennedy. Even the "real" space pioneers were and still are constantly living in the shadow of tragedy. The American public grew more skeptical about the worth of space exploration after that terrible Apollo fire. The heartbreaking loss of life in some cause always makes society contemplative about where we stand as a people. My personal tragedy with "rocket science" caused me to re-think my own individual course down the pathway to the stars. I continued to love space despite the tears and pleas from my mother to take an interest in something else. We all must stay true to our dearest dreams. I did learn one very important lesson however: Never again build a rocket from "scratch". From that point until now I have thoroughly enjoyed the much safer commercially available rocket kits. I hope no kid will ever have to go through what I did just to see a rocket defy the bonds of earth.
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Students - Tough Lessons Learned From Rocket Fun