Story Behind the Lens: The Joy of the Scrub
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that only a scrubbed rocket launch can create — the kind that sinks into your bones after rearranging your life again and again for a moment that never comes. By the time NASA announced a sixth attempt to launch the shuttle, I had already made five trips from home to Kennedy Space Center, cycled through five rental cars, and burned five days off work. Each time, the countdown stopped. Each time, the dream slipped a little further away. By the fifth scrub, I’d accepted defeat. I drove south to Miami, went to a WWE event, and tried to convince myself that maybe this launch just wasn’t meant for me.
But fate has a funny way of whispering.
On the drive home, somewhere between the hum of the highway and the static of the radio, I heard it on the radio: NASA was making a sixth attempt — that very afternoon.
As I approached the split between I‑95 and the Florida Turnpike, I slowed. Left meant home. Right meant trying again. I pulled into a rest area, popped open my camera bag, and felt my stomach drop — I didn’t even have the right lens. My longest glass was a 400mm, nowhere near ideal for a shuttle launch from the causeway. The shot would be tiny. Practically a speck, Logic said go home.
But when I reached the exit for the Turnpike, I didn’t turn. I stayed on I‑95, heading north — chasing the rumble I could feel more than hear, the one that had pulled me back five times already. When I arrived at Kennedy Space Center, the place was nearly empty in comparison to all before. Five scrubs had drained the crowds. I boarded the visitor bus expecting the usual shoulder‑to‑shoulder crush, but this time the seats were wide open. It felt eerie, like I was sneaking into a private showing of something sacred.
Then the driver crackled onto the intercom.
“We’re taking a small detour.”
The bus turned — not toward the causeway, but toward Banana Creek, the VIP viewing site normally reserved for astronauts’ families, dignitaries, and special guests. The rumor was simple: attendance was so low after the repeated delays that NASA decided to give the few who showed up something special.
Suddenly, my “wrong” lens didn’t feel so wrong. From Banana Creek, the shuttle framed almost beautifully at 400mm — a composition that would have been ruined by the 600mm or 800mm lenses I’d planned to use on every previous attempt
And then it finally happened,
The shuttle rose, slow and impossibly bright, the sound rolling across the water like a living thing. I lifted the camera as it rushed towards space, knowing the shot wasn’t technically perfect — but also knowing perfection wasn’t the point.
The point was that I was there. On the sixth try. With the wrong gear. In the right place.
The photo I captured that day isn’t my best or most dramatic. But it’s one of my top three images of all time because of everything behind it — the scrubs, the doubt, the detour, the unexpected gift of Banana Creek, and the reminder that sometimes the best moments happen when you stop trying to control the story and simply follow where it leads.
That’s the joy of the scrub. It teaches you patience. It tests your resolve. And every once in a while, it rewards you with a moment you’ll never forget.