By Harry Warren

 

It was the summer of 1969, and school holidays were in full swing. Dublin was alive with the sound of children playing in the streets, their laughter echoing through the long, sunny days. For a nine-year-old boy like myself, these were days of endless adventure and boundless curiosity.

But that particular summer, my world was about to be consumed by an event that would change the course of history and leave an indelible mark on my childhood memories: the Apollo 11 Moon landing.
Space had always captivated my imagination. The night sky, filled with countless stars, planets, and secrets, seemed magical to me. Recognising my growing interest, my father encouraged it with stories of space exploration and delighted me by gifting a plastic model kit of the Lunar Lander, which we assembled together.

As the Apollo 11 mission drew near, my excitement became almost tangible. The idea of men walking on the moon felt like a scene from a science fiction film, yet it was unfolding in my lifetime
On July 16, 1969, the Apollo 11 spacecraft lifted off from Kennedy Space Centre. I remember watching the launch on our small black-and-white television, the grainy images doing little to diminish the awe I felt. My father sat beside me, his arm around my shoulder, explaining the intricate details of the mission. His knowledge seemed boundless, and his enthusiasm was infectious.

As the mission progressed, my anticipation reached fever pitch. My father had promised me something extraordinary: he would wake me up when the astronauts took their first steps on the moon. It was a promise that filled me with an immense sense of excitement and expectation. I could hardly wait for that historic moment.

July 20, 1969, finally arrived. The astronauts had landed on the moon at 8:17pm. I remember the exact time because my father made sure to mark it on our calendar, a testament to the significance of the event. He explained that it would be several more hours before they actually set foot on the lunar surface. He tucked me into bed that night with a promise: “I’ll wake you, son, when it’s time. You won’t miss it.”
True to his word, in the early hours of July 21, 1969, my father gently woke me from my slumber. It was around 3:56am, or in our local time, ‘the middle of the night’. The house was silent, save for the soft hum of the television in the living room. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and followed him, my heart pounding with excitement.

Continue reading in this week’s Ireland’s Own