Spacesuit Selfie
At 70,000 feet above the Earth, I took this selfie—encased in a full-pressure suit inside the cockpit of a U-2 spy plane, one of the most iconic aircraft ever built. At that moment, I was the 11th highest person on the planet—only the astronauts aboard the International Space Station were higher. The thin, curved line of the atmosphere shimmered below me; above, the sky faded into the deep black of space.
This flight was the culmination of rigorous preparation—chamber training, physical tests, oxygen pre-breathing, and a surreal introduction to “tube food” (the chocolate pudding wasn’t bad). The U-2 itself is a marvel: designed in the 1950s by Lockheed’s legendary Kelly Johnson to out-climb missiles and outlast the Cold War. Essentially a powered glider with wings like a dragonfly, it still flies today—outliving even its successor, the SR-71.
Flying with Lt. Colonel Joe “Tucc” Santucci at the controls, I felt suspended between two worlds. Inside the pressurized bubble, silence reigned. Outside, the Earth unfurled like a vast, living map. The GoPro I mounted captured not just an image, but a visceral memory: the edge of the possible.
Before takeoff, they put me in a steel-reinforced chamber to simulate a sudden cabin breach. The pressure dropped instantly to 70,000 feet. I watched a bottle of water boil—an unforgettable demonstration of what would happen to my blood without the suit.
That suit saved my life. But the view changed it.
In that singular moment, with my hand raised toward the lens, I wasn’t just taking a photo. I was reaching out to capture the awe—the profound, humbling perspective that only comes from seeing our fragile world from the edge of space.
Spacesuit Selfie
At 70,000 feet above the Earth, I took this selfie—encased in a full-pressure suit inside the cockpit of a U-2 spy plane, one of the most iconic aircraft ever built. At that moment, I was the 11th highest person on the planet—only the astronauts aboard the International Space Station were higher. The thin, curved line of the atmosphere shimmered below me; above, the sky faded into the deep black of space.
This flight was the culmination of rigorous preparation—chamber training, physical tests, oxygen pre-breathing, and a surreal introduction to “tube food” (the chocolate pudding wasn’t bad). The U-2 itself is a marvel: designed in the 1950s by Lockheed’s legendary Kelly Johnson to out-climb missiles and outlast the Cold War. Essentially a powered glider with wings like a dragonfly, it still flies today—outliving even its successor, the SR-71.
Flying with Lt. Colonel Joe “Tucc” Santucci at the controls, I felt suspended between two worlds. Inside the pressurized bubble, silence reigned. Outside, the Earth unfurled like a vast, living map. The GoPro I mounted captured not just an image, but a visceral memory: the edge of the possible.
Before takeoff, they put me in a steel-reinforced chamber to simulate a sudden cabin breach. The pressure dropped instantly to 70,000 feet. I watched a bottle of water boil—an unforgettable demonstration of what would happen to my blood without the suit.
That suit saved my life. But the view changed it.
In that singular moment, with my hand raised toward the lens, I wasn’t just taking a photo. I was reaching out to capture the awe—the profound, humbling perspective that only comes from seeing our fragile world from the edge of space.