From the outset of space flight, engineers dreamed of reusing rocket boosters. This 1964 study, written by W. E. Ruhland and R. H. Lipp of the Chrysler Corporation’s Space Division, lists some possible methods to make that happen. Chrysler was the prime contractor for the S-IB first stage.
As a reminder, the S-IB first stage was for the smaller Saturn variant, and was the rocket that launched Apollo 7, Apollo Soyuz Test Project and as crew transportation during the Skylab program. Its booster had eight engines powered by RP-1 kerosene and liquid oxygen. It used the Saturn S-IV as its second stage, and an Apollo CSM if it were being used on a crewed mission.
NASA document listing typical Saturn IB specifications.
One of the Orbital Science Corporation’s Antares 130’s Russian-made AJ26 engines ruptures fifteen seconds into the flight of the failed Orb-3 mission. The result was a spectacular RUD. Photo: NASA.
In the world of aerospace engineering, even the smallest miscalculation can lead to catastrophic failure. And in the past few years, a phrase has emerged as a humorous way to describe those unfortunate events: “rapid unscheduled disassembly,” often shortened to RUD. This technical-sounding euphemism, often deployed in the aftermath of rocket explosions, has become a staple in modern spaceflight jargon, and is widely used when a rocket fails. But where did the phrase come from?
Polaris AX-1 launching on September 24, 1958 from Cape Canaveral Photo: US Navy archives
On September 24, 1958, the first Polaris AX propulsion test vehicle was launched from Cape Canaveral’s Launch Complex 25. What happened next quickly became a part of local lore, with residents referring to the event for many years later as “The Banana River Ballistic Missile.”
Launch of The Banana River Missile
The Polaris rocket is a name familiar to many people of a certain age, as its existence was no secret and in fact, was widely discussed in serious circles as a major weapon in the Cold War.
A UGM-27A Polaris 1 missile launches during underwater testing. Date unknown. Imagte: missilery.info
Indeed, Polaris was a cornerstone of the United States’ nuclear deterrent in the Cold War era, and was deployed from 1960-1978 aboard US Navy submarines as the country’s first Submarine Launched Ballistic Missile (SLBM) system. Initially, it had a 1,400 mile range and could carry a single one-megaton nuclear weapon. It was built by Lockheed Corporation, and used Aerojet (now L3 Aerojet Rocketdyne) engines.
September 24, 1958 was the debut launch of the Polaris, and at the time, any missile launch from Cape Canaveral was big news and a local draw. Launches happened far less than today, and in the early days of rocketry, a lot less predictable than a typical launch from the Cape is now. In short, launches were spectacular, were in vogue and were must-see events if one found themselves in east-central Florida.
Polaris AX-1 being prepped for its launch. Date unknown. Photo: US Navy archives.
Heavy crowds had gathered in the Cape Canaveral and Cocoa Beach areas to watch the launch, and they were treated to quite a spectacle. The missile launched, rose about one half of a mile, then problems began as the first Polaris missile launched from the Cape failed due to wild spinning from what was later determined to be a programming error.
Once it was clear that the test flight was not going according to plan, the errant missile was issued a self-destruct order by the Range Safety Officer on duty. The problem is that the second stage survived self-destruction and came crashing down in the Banana River, just offshore from the town of Cape Canaveral in the Banana River, much to the shock of the local residents.
Unfortunately, few pictures of the launch, the crowds or the aftermath of the launch failure are available today, and the event is largely beyond local living memory as we lose that generation to aging. Newspapers of the time covered it quite well, all considered, and here’s the story as they told it immediately after it happened:
Reactions In 1958
Oddly — or perhaps not so oddly — the major local newspaper on the Space Coast, The Cocoa Tribune, half-heartedly covered the event:
Cocoa was the hub town in the immediate Cape Canaveral area at the time, and it had the largest paper in the region. Their article consisted of this:
Cocoa Tribune article.
Other newspapers in Florida were far more thorough:
The front page of the Orlando Sentinel on September 25, 2024
Newspaper accounts of the incident quote one R. B. Brossier, a Cocoa Beach developer at time: “It looked like it was coming right toward me,” Brossier said in 1958. “[The missile] went straight up in a normal flight. Then, at about 2000 feet or so altitude it suddenly turned southwest toward Cocoa and the mainland.”
The September 25, 1958 edition of The Miami Herald
The September 25, 1958 edition of the Miami Herald got an account from one of their employees (not a reporter), John E. Corea. He described the launch saying, “There was a crowd on the beach to watch. Everyone panicked. Mothers with kids tried to get the children out of the way but no one knew where to go.”
Corea then said that “It was 12:20 when it took off. It went up, I’d say, about a mile, then burst and started screaming down.
“The pieces fell right in the middle of the Banana River about 200 yards offshore. It came close to a trailer park west of Cocoa Beach.”
Corea concluded his account by saying, “Then smoke and bubbles started boiling out of the middle of the river. It looked like a geyser out there.”
AP Photo of the Polaris AX-1 plummeting to Earth.
The Orlando Sentinel’s article described the missile’s crash by recounting a Mrs. Brett Carver, who said that the failed missile landed just offshore from The Hitching Post trailer park, where it crashed into shallow water. Carver told reporters that the crashing Polaris second stage ‘flung a terrific mass of mud possibly as much as 1,000 feet skyward as the burning missile seemed to blow as it hit went under.’
Carver then added, “That’s when Bert and I started running towards our house. It threw debris up on shore. You could see quite a mass of debris in the water at first as it steamed and spewed after exploding and then it seemed to settle out of sight. That’s getting too close for me!”
Reporters at the time commented that the sight of the falling Polaris was visible as far away as Rockledge, some twelve miles southwest of Cape Canaveral. They also commented that no flames were visible from that far, which makes sense considering that only people nearby the crash scene reported seeing any fire.
300 yards to the left of the “Hitching Post Trailer Ranch” is the location where the errant Polaris missile second stage crashed in Cape Canaveral on September 24, 1958. from Google Maps
Aftermath
While undoubtedly the US Air Force, associated contractors and perhaps even local officials gathered together to piece together what happened that day, there were no high-profile investigations reported in the months after the event.
Cocoa’s newspaper — which had barely mentioned the incident in its pages in the days after the event, had a few quips in the following months from local columnists who made light of the misfire, calling it “The Banana River Ballistic Missile.” The name stuck.
From the Cocoa Tribune in 1958
Life in Cape Canaveral and surrounding towns went back to normal quickly after the event, but for decades afterwards, local lore kept a place for the Banana River Ballistic Missile, even if the exact story of what happened the day it was launched was largely forgotten.
Today
This reporter inquired at the Sands Museum if anyone there had any memories of the Banana River Ballistic Missile event, but unfortunately no one could be found to give Talk of Titusville a first-person retelling of the event. That’s no surprise, given that it happened over sixty years ago.
Visiting the site of the missile crash reveals no sign of the event’s occurrence, again, no surprise given the number of years that have passed. Looking at the crash site is hardly different than any other view of the Banana River in Cape Canaveral: quiet, beautiful and a nice place to fish or go boating but otherwise wholly unremarkable, save for the occasional dolphin surfacing or perhaps the water glowing on a summer night from natural bioluminescence.
The site where the Banana River Ballistic Missile crashed today. This bucolic riverside scene is a peaceful place today enjoyed by neighborhood residents, but on September 24, 1958 it was anything but peaceful. Photo: Charles Boyer
The Hitching Post trailer park is still there, albeit with a different name, “Sea Shells.” Sea Shells is a quiet neighborhood tucked off of bustling A1A, across the street from Cape Canaveral’s City Hall. One of the streets in this neighborhood still bears the name “Hitching Post” and for all intents and purposes, it appears that little has changed at the location save for the homes present on the lots.
Location of the old Hitching Post trailer park in Cape Canaveral. Photo: Charles Boyer / Talk of Titusville
Could It Happen Again?
In a word, no. Today, such an event as the Banana River Ballistic Missile is highly unlikely in the extreme.
Compared to the 1950’s, safety requirements are far more stringent, and a launch trajectory that would allow a missile to land anywhere near a populated area is simply not allowed. If anything, “safe” trajectories are far more conservative than they were sixty-odd years ago.
Secondly, self-destruct systems on rockets are far more advanced than they were sixty-six years ago, and new rockets have automated systems that destroy a rocket when it deviates from the planned flight path far more thoroughly than in the old days.
In short, this was a one-off event and while it is an almost humorous bit of space history as seen through the lens of today, it almost certainly was something that was taken very seriously at the time and immediate improvements to safety systems was a short-term and a long-term result.
Roughly thirty minutes west of Saint Augustine and I-95 in Florida, a Space Shuttle relic sits abandoned in Green Cove Springs near a dock on the Saint Johns River.
Some stories are almost forgotten about Apollo 11’s launch from Pad LC-39A — seemingly small stories that actually had a huge effect on the mission happening as it did. One of those stories concerns a hydrogen leak late in the countdown on the third stage of the Saturn V that was poised to launch on July 16, 1969 – if it was not remediated, Apollo 11 would not have launched on the day that it did.
Stephen Coester, an engineer on the console that day has an excellent recollection of the events that morning, and Talk of Titusville would like to thank Mr. Coester for allowing us to share them here. Presented in his own words with only light editing for continuity, here is “Apollo 11 Final Countdown LH2 Leak That Could Have Changed History“
Launch Control Staff Member Stephen Coester’s Recollections
“My favorite Apollo memory was performing my final walkdown of the LUT just before launching Apollo 11. We were so aware of the enormity of what we were about to do. The MSS (mobile service structure) had been rolled back revealing the enormous Saturn V to full view. It was after dark and the spotlights were casting their cones of illumination on the stack.
“I was virtually alone on the tower as I examined every component of the LH2 system to be as sure as I could that “my” system would do its job. It was just me and the Saturn V with a bright moon overhead. I would look at the moon, then at the rocket and think, ” I don’t want to be anywhere but right where I am right now.”
“Long forgotten is the fact that the Apollo 11 launch was almost scrubbed on July 16. I was assigned to the launch console (C4HU) that maintained 100% liquid hydrogen level in the Saturn third stage which was used to propel the astronauts from earth orbit to the moon. Late in the propellant loading as we were beginning the S-IVB replenish operation, a large liquid hydrogen leak at -423 degrees occurred on the third stage replenish valve on the 200 foot level of the launch umbilical tower.
The scene in the Apollo 11 launch control center on July 11, 1969. Standing right, Apollo Program Director Lieutenant General Samuel C. Phillips monitors pre-launch activities for Apollo 11. Photo: NASA
“Loading was terminated and the lines drained to prevent a fire or explosion and a Red Crew went to the Pad to fix the problem. Using troubleshooting that I developed the Red Crew torqued packing and flange bolts and cycled the valve. then we resumed liquid hydrogen flow, but were unsuccessful in stopping the leak which prevented maintaining the 100% fuel level in the Saturn third stage. Without a full tank of liquid hydrogen there would be no launch.
The area of the leak. Photo credit: Stephen Coester
“Here is the location of the leaking valve (at left.)
“Finally the leak was isolated by freezing the valve by pouring water over it, but that made the critical valve inoperable. We then developed a way to use the large main fill valve which was not intended for that purpose to maintain the level and the launch countdown could finally continue. For several hours another engineer (CPH1) manually cycled the valve from his console as I reported the tank level as it fell below or exceeded 100%.
“See the PCR (procedure change request) that I wrote:
Via Stephen Coester’s personal papers
“If we hadn’t controlled the leak and maintained proper LH2 level the moon launch would have been scrubbed for at least July 16 and probably for several days.
Personnel within the Launch Control Center watch the Apollo 11 liftoff from Launch Complex 39A today at the start of the historic lunar landing mission. The LCC is located three-and-one-half miles from the launch pad. Photo: NASA
“I was twenty-eight years old when we landed on the moon, responsible for loading 600000 gallons of LH2 on the “moon rocket”. The managers were in their early thirties and someone over forty was “the old man”. Exciting times!”
In Summary
Exciting times indeed. Mr. Coester and the launch crew of Apollo 11 made indelible world history, and it was their work that made it possible for Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin to take humanity’s first steps on another celestial body some four days later on July 20, 1969. History will always remember Armstrong, Aldrin and Command Module pilot Mike Collins, of course, but it should always remember the names Coester and so many other as well. It truly was a national effort.
Talk of Titusville would like to salute Mr. Coester and every person still living that helped the US launch the most important mission thus far in space exploration.
Video of Inside the Launch
Fran Blanche, a noted film historian, assembled this video of what it looked behind the scenes that day. This is well worth watching.
1953 Patrick Air Force Base Vicinity Map, Now Declassified.
To understand the way things are now, it is helpful to understand how they started and then changed along the way. The Space Force is as much a part of the Space Coast area as is NASA or any of its contractors — in fact, the Space Force has two bases in Brevard County that not only help provide for the nation’s defense, but also to its economy: companies with contracts or other business with the USSF are located in the region and in turn they purchase from their own suppliers, many of them locally or regionally based. That, of course, creates jobs, and those jobs pay good salaries that are then spread out through consumer spending. The end effect is profound.
Notes on source and government security classifications:
“The following maps are the official 1953 maps of Air Force bases within the “Zone of the Interior,” now known as the continental United States. Originally classified as “Restricted,” and subsequently classified as “For Official Use Only” due to the restricted classification being phased out. The entire collection was declassified in accordance with official guidance by the Air Force Historical Research Agency (AFHRA). The original documents are held at the 37th Training Wing Historical Office.”
It’s funny how when you see something often enough, you never forget it — even decades since the last time you saw that thing. For me, one of those things is my grandfather giving the “OK” or “go ahead” point of his finger. He did it whenever we left his house when I was a little kid, and I saw him do it to others. He gave it to me and to my cousins when we rode bicycles.
VL Pinson Sr. Signals His Team Is Ready For Launch
I saw this old video, “Biography of a Missile” that was made for CBS television back in the early days of rocket science: the goal at the time were long range missiles and the race to get them working and reliable in service of America’s self-defense. It was an all-out effort with nearly as many failures as launches. As the title suggests, it was the story of one such missile, culminating in its launch and liftoff.
My grandfather, VL Pinson, was a part of Hardtack Teak nuclear testing in 1958. They were conducted above the Johnston Atoll as part of Operation Newsreel, and the weapon was carried aloft by a Redstone missile — making it one of America’s first attempts at constructing an intercontinental ballistic missile. The bomb was 3.8 Megatons in power, and exploded at an altitude of 47.7 miles. Teak, along with HARDTACK-Orange were the two largest high-altitude nuclear explosions in US history.
As for my grandfather, he worked as a telemetry engineer, making him and his team responsible for maintaining communication with the missile throughout its flight. That was required in order to have command and control of the rocket itself, as well as gathering information not only from the rocket but also the weapon as well.
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