The catastrophic explosion at Complex 36 Pad A will not soon be forgotten. Nor should it ever. Space, like so many other businesses out there, is hard… really hard. The technology we develop, the propellants we use, and the machines that we fly don’t care about schedules, headlines, or the pressure to accelerate. Thursday May 28th, we saw that truth play out again when Blue Origin’s New Glenn rocket suffered a catastrophic explosion during a hot-fire test at Launch Complex 36 down here on the Cape.
From the videos and initial reports, it was an unforgettable sight. A massive fireball, devastating damage to the pad, the transporter erector once connected to the rocket along with a lightning tower obliterated, and the rocket itself, and far too many parts to count.
First and foremost, in any event like this…Thank God for no injuries and no loss of life, and that’s what absolutely matters the most, with no close second. But it’s still a very tough day for the Blue Origin team. I’ve been around this business long enough to know the sting that comes with watching months, even years, of work seemingly vanish in the blink of an eye. My heart goes out to every engineer, technician, and leader who poured their soul into that vehicle and pad. This isn’t abstract for me. I lived it.
Step 1: Breathe…
Now, here’s what I want to say first and loudest: Take a deep breath and don’t rush to conclusions.
In my experience, that’s exactly where things can go off the rails. When Columbia was lost on February 1, 2003, the immediate aftermath was chaos. Debris was scattered across Texas and Louisiana. We were instantaneously in the middle of recovery, both emotional and physical. Searching for pieces, identifying those pieces, supporting families and colleagues, and trying so very hard to understand what happened. The pressure to explain it quickly was enormous. The public wanted answers, the team wanted answers, the media wanted them yesterday, and inside the agency there was a natural human urge to point to, or distract from, the most obvious thing and call it a day in an attempt to have that mystery solved and to move forward.
But that’s dangerous. Real dangerous.
The Truth Will Set You Free
The data has to lead. So, what do you do now? First, you collect everything you can—telemetry, video, debris analysis, test records, witness statements, simply put…everything. You let the facts build the story, not the other way around. Jumping ahead risks locking the team into a narrative that might be wrong, and once people are dug in, it’s twice as hard to course correct. I saw it firsthand during Columbia. Some early assumptions about what could or couldn’t have caused the breach didn’t hold up once the full investigation unfolded. Those premature calls wasted energy and, more importantly, delayed getting the entire workforce aligned on the real issues to focus on.
Today’s world makes it even tougher. We’ve got 24-hour news cycles, social media, and everyone trying to be first. Clicks reward the hot take. “Sources say it might be this…” or “Experts suspect that…” Before the smoke even clears, you’ve got theories flying around that sound plausible but haven’t been tested against hard data. I get it…people are excited about space, about sharing their own thoughts, they’re invested, and they want to feel like they’re part of the conversation. But for the folks actually responsible for fixing it and flying again, that noise can be distracting and pull the investigative focus in the wrong direction.
Lessons From the Past
I remember the Columbia investigation and the return-to-flight effort. We had the Columbia Accident Investigation Board doing their thorough work. Meanwhile, inside NASA we had to resist the temptation to simplify or downplay things just to get back on schedule. Sometimes we were successful in doing so and sometimes, not so much. The foam strike was visible, sure. But understanding why we allowed the culture to get comfortable with known issues to persist…well that took a deeper dig, and a lot more work. Same with Challenger. The O-ring problem in cold weather wasn’t a surprise to everyone, but the organizational pressures that let it fly anyway? That’s where the real lessons lived.
From accident to return to flight on Columbia, I was involved in ways that still stick with me. Flying endlessly over debris fields, reliving the trajectory by collecting one piece of our beautiful spaceship at a time, sitting in so many meetings where we dissected every decision leading up to launch. The lessons from Challenger were supposed to be fresh in our minds. The normalization of deviance, listening to dissenting voices, managing risk honestly. But we had drifted. Seriously drifted. Bringing those lessons back to life wasn’t just about writing reports. It was about applying them, day in and day out, in how we made decisions, how we spoke up, how we tested, and how we flew.
Respect the Process
That’s why I do what I do now with PreventFailure.com These aren’t old dusty history lessons. They’re invaluable guideposts for our future. When something like yesterday’s New Glenn event happens, my hope is that every organization out there, Blue Origin included, leans into that discipline. Catch your breath. Secure the site. Protect the data. Investigate without bias. Communicate facts as you know them, but don’t fill the gaps with speculation that might steer the team wrong.
I’ve spoken to thousands of people over the years. From engineers just starting out, to senior leaders…most with huge responsibilities, and even students who dream of doing our work one day. The audiences may vary, but the message is always the same: respect the machine, respect the team, and respect the process. High risk and reward endeavors reward patience and rigor more than brilliance alone. The smartest people in the room can still miss something if they’re moving too fast or listening only to what they want to hear.
Work Hard and Keep the Focus
To the Blue Origin folks: I know it hurts today. Use it. Dig deep, let the data speak, bring the whole team along honestly, and come back stronger. The road from this dark day to the next successful flight will be paved with the same kind of hard honesty that got us flying again after Challenger and Columbia. It’s not glamorous work. It’s hard…it’s crazy hard. It’s detailed, sometimes uncomfortable, and it takes longer than anyone wants. But it’s the only way that actually works.
We all want to see New Glenn fly again. We want heavy-lift capability, more access to space, more progress. We know commercial space is the key to our future success. But progress without discipline is just another name for risk. Let’s honor the people who build and test these vehicles by doing this the right way…from day one after the anomaly, all the way through a perfect landing on a future mission.
Today the chapter of recovery begins. For my part, I will humbly continue to share these important stories and these invaluable lessons learned as far and wide as possible. Because every time we choose to apply them instead of just filing them away, we make the next flight a little safer. That’s the real purpose of all this after all.
So please, stay focused, stay humble, and only fly when you’re ready to fly.
