I was a Nasa medic in the space shuttle era. Artemis II's voyage gives me hope for a brighter future

Kevin Fong

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Kevin Fong, pictured when he worked with Nasa's Medical Operations Group at Kennedy Space Center, Cape Canaveral, Florida, in 1998.

(Courtesy of Kevin Fong)

There has always been great symbolism in moon missions. This one is no exception

After a successful launch last week, Artemis II is on its way. A tiny teardrop of a capsule, shared by four astronauts, floating weightless in a volume about the size of a minivan. They are hurtling now, across the ocean of space between Earth and the moon. Further and faster than any human has travelled for more than half a century.

I used to work as a doctor with the medical teams at Nasa's Kennedy Space Center, during the space shuttle era. Back then, on the day of a launch, they would sometimes take me along to stand with the emergency rescue crews so I could watch it go. It's not something you forget in a hurry.

At liftoff you see the flash, watch the clouds billowing around the launch pad, and then the rocket leaps into the air. It's all silent at this point. Happening more than two miles away. You're as close as anyone is allowed to be (apart from the fire crew sitting closer, hunkered down inside an armoured patrol car for their protection).

The sound has yet to reach you. And then it does. Beating through your chest. So forceful it wants to move you around, and just when you think it's reached its climax, it gets louder still. The thing you're looking at is a lump weighing more than 2,000 metric tonnes, climbing straight up into the sky, moving faster than your brain tells you should be possible, and yet somehow it is still accelerating.

The whole thing feels like a joyous assault on your senses.