April 16, 1972
On the day of the launch, my parents left early with Mrs. Moore for the launch site.
We, being underage, were not allowed to go.
Instead, the older Moore children, along with other families connected to NASA, took us to the beach. From there, we had a clear view of Apollo 16 standing on the platform.
As the countdown approached, I stood at the edge of the water, my feet in the sand.
And then—I felt it.
The moment we were all waiting for
A deep, powerful vibration moved through the ground. My feet began to sink slightly into the sand beneath the water. At that moment, one of the adults quickly called us out, afraid we might lose our balance.
There are no words to fully describe what we felt as we watched the rocket rise.
At first, it seemed almost unreal—so powerful, yet so distant. For a moment, it looked as if it were tilting sideways, almost falling. But later, we learned that this was part of its trajectory, as it followed the curve of the Earth.
And then… it was gone.Out of sight—but never out of memory.
Even now, I can relive that moment every time I watch the films my father recorded.
Perhaps that was one of the first moments I understood what it means to feel in resonance with something far greater than ourselves.
In the days that followed, we watched the mission closely.
It was no longer just a launch we had witnessed from a distance.
Now, it felt personal.
There he was—Charlie—walking on the surface of the Moon.
Moving lightly in that silent landscape, in a way that felt both surreal and deeply human.
I remember trying to understand how someone connected to our lives could be so far away—and yet, right there before us.
At one point, he left a photograph of his family on the lunar surface—a quiet, deeply human gesture in the vastness of space.
Looking back at these moments, I realize how much of them lives not only in the places we visited, but in the people I shared them with—and how deeply I still carry them with me.”