Dear Diary
Apollo 13 and the Stories that Make a Life
There are big stories, and there are little stories.
Recently I discovered my diary from 1970, the year I started high school.
Between its red covers, I found hundreds of little stories.
Outings with girlfriends: to the beach, the mall, the roller skating rink, riding bikes, and sleepovers where we talked late into the night.
Stories about boys: who likes (or might like) who and who is going with who and who is breaking up or might break up with who, in endless mini-dramas.
The 8th grade trip to Washington DC (on the train), football, basketball, and baseball games, piano lessons, and babysitting for a thrifty family (three kids, six hours, four dollars).
Family gatherings and youth group at church, the death of a great uncle, the bell-bottom jeans and vest my mother sewed for me so I would look amazing at the Steppenwolf concert.
Every single story in that diary was little, except for one.
Apollo 13. The mission, its failure, and survival.
With my diary on my lap, I watched the liftoff on our black and white TV. I wrote 10–9–8–7–6–5–4–3–2–1–0. “There it goes. Boy that’s neat. It gives me chills every time one of those rockets goes off. This is the 3rd manned one to the moon. Boy that’s beautiful.”
Jim Lovell, Jack Swigert, and Fred Haise were heroes in a big story — they would fly to the Moon and explore the Fra Mauro region, collecting samples and leaving instruments to transmit scientific data.
But 56 hours into the mission — 200,000 miles from Earth — the astronauts were stirring the oxygen tanks as directed by Mission Control when they heard a loud “bang,” followed by Jack Swigert (Command Module Pilot) reporting, “Okay, Houston, we’ve had a problem here.” (Famously changed by the time of the 1995 movie to Tom Hanks saying, “Houston, we have a problem.”)
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The big story became a gigantic story.
This is when I wrote my April 14 entry in the photo above: “Dear Diary, Last night there was a tragedy in space. The main part of the rocket burned up & the astronauts had to move into the landing module. They’re coming back, but the trip will be dangerous. I feel sorry for their wives!” And I added some irony I was feeling: “It’s funny. Apollo 13 — disaster on the 13th of April (?).”
The explosion disabled both oxygen tanks on the Command Module (CM). This forced the astronauts to move into the Lunar Module (LM) and fire its engine so that it could slingshot around the moon and send the spacecraft to Earth even after the CM was powered down.
But this “lifeboat” was not built to support three astronauts for four days. The main problem was scrubbing C02 so there would be air to breathe. Without official parts to work with, the astronauts adapted the LM’s C02 system using plastic bags, cardboard from a procedures manual, hoses, and duct tape. It worked!
The trip back was dangerous, as I wrote in my diary. It was below 40 degrees in the LM. Food and water were strictly rationed. As the time for splashdown arrived, there were concerns about the heat shield and whether everything would work as planned.
I stayed home from school with a cold the day of the splashdown (unclear whether I faked that) and watched it on TV. Dear Diary, I wrote — the splashdown was “beautiful” — and “Thank God” for it. Prayers had been answered, including mine.
Each generation has its big stories where everyone seems to be watching the same thing, holding their breath together. Apollo 13 was one of mine. It had everything: drama, creativity, teamwork, and compassion for the family waiting at home.
Of all the “big stories” happening in 1970, I wonder why this one made it into the diary and all the others did not. Today I credit my dad, who took me and my friends Carole and Melanie to a beach near Cape Kennedy so that we could see the FIRST moon launch the year before, Apollo 11 (photo below).
After the glorious splashdown on April 17 at 1:07 p.m. my life did not change. I went back to recording the little stories.
I tried playing tennis. I went to the beach with my sister Ann and friends. I cleaned church pews with the youth group. I turned in my science project.
A few years ago, I began to journal again. My journals are still full of little things — a morning walk with my husband Chuck, a yoga class with my favorite teacher Shamita, and catching up with my friend Susie after a long time apart.
I am still interested in the big stories, especially when they remind us that failure does not have the last word.
But where I live and breathe and love is in the little stories. These aren’t the stories that make history books, and no one will make a movie about them. These are the stories that make a life.
This is where we laugh and hug each other tight, worry and pray, make mistakes and try again. This is where we practice compassion. This is where we find grace.
Originally published at https://alexandrahedrick.substack.com on August 16, 2026.
