Last week, for probably the first time in my life, I got excited by the prospect of U.S. government bureaucracy. The Federal Aviation Administration took a step toward developing rules for space tourism, issuing more than 120 pages of proposed guidelines for “space flight participants.” The initial set of regulations is set to go into effect in June, and to me it’s a sort of tipping point, cementing the reality that in just a few years any one of us may be able to blast off into the cosmos the same way we can fly Jet Blue to Vegas for the weekend. That’s an awesome thing, in the true sense of the word. 

Right now, it’s mostly the super rich who are in line to take the first private commercial flights, including Richard Garriott. In its January issue, Texas Monthly has a terrific profile of the 44-year-old aspiring, uh, space flight participant. The story covers the race among a handful of millionaires to experience private space travel, but focuses on Garriott for good reason: He’s the son of NASA astronaut Owen Garriott, and he seeks to become the first second-generation space traveler. Jan Reid’s story is a fantastic read, particularly in the bits chronicling the Garriotts’ father-son relationship.

On a bright day last February, I joined members of the Garriott family on a visit to Nassau Bay. Garriott’s brother Robert drove us past the family home on Back Bay Court and around the old neighborhood. Later, at Space Center Houston, Owen gave us a walking tour of a model Skylab, where he once trained. A high point of the visit was a poignant exchange between Owen and Richard.

Owen was describing an unexpected difficulty during one of his 1973 space walks. Among the most important tasks was erecting a sail or a canopy that would deflect the sun’s rays from Skylab’s damaged shield. The sail would be hung from snap-on aluminum poles that had gone up stored in a canister. The astronauts usually practiced their space walks underwater, the environment most akin to what they would encounter, but they were afraid to chance corroding the poles with moisture. “So we rehearsed that one on land,” said Owen. “Now, holding the poles together was this snug elastic band. On the ground I could easily slip my hand under the band and slide it off. But in space I was wearing a pressurized glove, and there was no way I could get my fingers under that band. I had to squat down, grab the whole tube, raise it up three or four inches, and with the other hand, slide each tube out. That was the hardest thing I had to do in space.”

Richard interjected with a tale about one of his experiences with Space Adventures. For about $60,000, he had been exposed to eight days of orbital-flight training with Russian cosmonauts. The exercises included a simulated space walk in a neutral buoyancy tank while wearing a space suit. “Around the house, Dad always had these hand exercise grips,” said Richard. “I found out why he was always flexing them. The most horrifically strenuous thing is gripping something with your hands.” “That’s right,” said Owen.

“I was stunned,” Richard went on. “I’m in pretty good shape; I could do everything reasonably well. But if I had to grip with my hands, my heart rate would go way up, and I’d have to take breaks or else I’d make myself sick.”

Owen nodded and said, “In earlier missions—late Gemini, before Apollo—astronauts used to come back with bloody fingers.” In his expression there was not one hint of noting the difference between his real space walk and his son’s high-priced virtual one. Loving dads don’t pull rank.

Texas Monthly’s website has the story as well as a Q&A with Reid, but they’re available only to registered users. If you sign up, this month’s access code is: Midland.