No Dream Is Too High

• CHAPTER THREE • SHOW ME YOUR FRIENDS, AND I WILL SHOW YOU YOUR FUTURE.

Choose your heroes wisely, and be careful who you idolize. Why? Simple: You will become like the people with whom you most often associate. The people with whom you surround yourself will have an impact on you, either positively or negatively. It is a timeless truth that bad company corrupts good character, but if you walk with the wise, you will become more like them.

I’ve been blessed with some great friends, people who have not only given of themselves to help me, but who have helped to bring out the best in me. Other than my father, one person who was a great friend to me, as well as my most influential mentor, was Jimmy Doolittle, the famous aviator. When my dad introduced me to Doolittle, I was just a kid, but the world-renowned pilot took time with me and encouraged me to pursue my own dreams of flying.

When my father passed away, Jimmy Doolittle, more than any other person, encouraged me and helped me to deal with my dad’s death, and to keep moving forward with my own life.

Another of the places where I experienced that sort of friendship and camaraderie was in the Air Force.

A year before I graduated from West Point, I went along with my fellow cadets on a social science tour of the Far East, studying General Douglas MacArthur’s occupation of Japan. When I awakened after my first night in Tokyo, the newspaper headlines read: “NORTH KOREA ATTACKS SOUTH KOREA.”

To the world’s surprise, 75,000 North Korean soldiers had poured across the 38th parallel, the boundary between the Soviet-backed Democratic People’s Republic of Korea to the north and the pro-Western Republic of Korea to the south. As an ally of the United States, South Korea sought our help, and the United States was determined to come to the aid of our friend. As far as Americans were concerned, North Korea’s unprovoked attack against South Korea was an example of communist aggression, and many people felt certain that the communists would not stop at Korea, that this was a blatant step toward communist world domination.

Consequently, by July 1950, American troops entered the war on South Korea’s behalf. Although I still had another year to go at West Point, I knew that if the war continued, I would soon be fighting in Korea.

My father had urged me to attend the Naval Academy—“You can still fly in the Navy,” he said, but my friends and I wanted to be where the action was—and that was in the skies above Korea. Of course, my natural interest in aviation nudged me more toward enlisting in what had until recently been known as the Army Air Corps and eventually became a separate branch of the military, the U.S. Air Force.

By the end of the summer, U.S.-led allies pushed the North Koreans out of Seoul and back to their side of the 38th parallel. But as American troops crossed the boundary and headed north toward the Yalu River, the border between North Korea and communist China, the Chinese started squawking about what they called “armed aggression against Chinese territory.” Chinese leader Mao Zedong even sent troops to North Korea and warned the United States to keep away from the Yalu boundary unless we wanted to engage them in a full-scale war. With China threatening to get involved and images of World War II still fresh in our minds, many people worried that we were getting dangerously close to World War III.

I graduated number three in my class at West Point, and by December 1952, even though negotiators were trying to bring the war to a close, I put in for combat duty stationed in Korea. I had already earned my wings and qualified as a pilot of the Sabre F-86; I soloed in prop T-6’s at Bartow Air Force Base in Florida and then flew jets at Bryan Air Force Base in Texas, so I sure didn’t want a desk job!

Flying the Sabre F-86 swept-wing fighter jet and chasing the enemy’s superagile, Soviet-made MiG-15 jets were some of the most exciting moments of my life. I flew 66 missions over the war zone, had a few close calls, and I shot down two enemy MiGs.

The MiGs could fly higher and faster than our fighter jets, and they carried a vicious 37-millimeter cannon and two 23-millimeter automatics that could shred an F-86 with one burst of fire. But what the American-made planes lacked in altitude and speed, we more than compensated for with advanced technology, much as we would in the space race in the 1960s and 1970s.

On May 14, 1953, I was flying on patrol, hunting for enemy aircraft in the skies just south of the Yalu River. Because the North Korean ground war effort had almost disintegrated, they had moved many of their best planes as far north as possible, close to the Yalu in a location my buddies and I referred to as “MiG Alley.” On a good day, it could be like picking off ducks in a shooting gallery, with “free” shots at enemy planes still on the ground. On a bad day, an F-86 pilot could experience his worst nightmare—a faster killing machine with deadly firepower on his tail, or worse yet, two or three MiGs surrounding him in a dogfight that was certain not to last very long.

On that day in May, I was the pilot with the advantage. Flying just south of the Yalu, I spied a MiG cruising ahead of me, straight and level. Apparently, he didn’t know that I was nearby or he would not have been so lackadaisical. I aimed my guns at him and fired, lighting up the MiG.

The enemy fighter jet spun hard and pitched toward the ground. The pilot, still alive, succeeded in ejecting from his cockpit, but his plane streaked toward the Earth. The camera on the gun of my F-86 recorded the whole episode, including the pilot’s ejection and the plane veering toward destruction. Actually, I’m glad the pilot ejected, and I like to think that he escaped harm, even though I shot down his plane. I’ve always thought of myself as a “gentle” fighter pilot!

Our military public relations guys, however, loved those videos of “kills,” and several photo frames from the incident appeared in the next issue of Life magazine, one of the premier news magazines of that time.

About a month later, I was flying a mission with three other pilots attached to the 16th “Blue Tail” Squadron, and following four other, newer Sabre jets from the 39th “Yellow Tail” Squadron. Just as we were taking off, my wingman aborted his flight, so I radioed my commander for permission to join up with the Yellow Tails. That was okay at first, but the newer F-86 Sabres were much faster than my older F-86 model, and I was having a tough time staying with them. When they dove toward a valley near the Yalu, blasting away at an enemy airfield, I couldn’t keep up with them, even with my airspeed indicator pegged.

I spotted some enemy MiGs racing down the runway, hoping to get into the air, both to save their planes and to engage the Sabres. Just then, an enemy fighter jet streaked across my sight from left to right. Because I had been unable to keep up with my buddies, I was behind them, and if I could stay calm, I had a shot at the MiG. If I missed him, he’d be right on the tail of my buddies.

I tried to slow my aircraft before he saw me, but the MiG pilot spotted me and banked hard in my direction. The good news was that I had pulled him off my friends. The bad news? He was coming after me! Worse yet, I realized that as fast as I was flying, I was bound to sweep right into his line of fire. My only hope was a desperate, dangerous maneuver that pilots referred to as a “scissors” move, cutting across the enemy’s path, with both aircraft crisscrossing back and forth, each trying to seize an advantage. We ripped through one set of scissors moves and then I banked so steeply that my wingtips pointed straight down to the ground as I raced above the enemy runway, flying sideways. I could hear enemy antiaircraft fire all around me, but I hadn’t been hit. The MiG rolled off to avoid a mountainous ridge below us, and I knew this was my chance—probably my only shot.

I tried to fire, but the aiming dot on my gun sight jammed! Still flying with my left wing pointing toward the earth, I used my plane’s nose as a sight and pressed hard on the trigger of my .50-caliber machine gun.

I saw something spark on the MiG, so I quickly rolled back parallel to the ground, pulled hard on the throttle, and gassed it for all the F-86 was worth. The MiG was still in front of me, and he was going into a steep right-hand turn to come back after me. I fired again and saw tracers sparking across his wing, but he was still going! We were too close to the ground for this fight to last much longer; I knew one of us was going down. The enemy rolled out of the turn and dove, so I fired two more rapid bursts from the machine guns, just as he turned up toward me.

It was like a slow-motion movie as I watched the enemy plane’s nose come up and seem to hang in the air, the engine stalling. The canopy of the jet opened, and I saw the flash of the pilot’s ejection flare. Whether he had time to open a parachute, I don’t know, but the MiG definitely beat him to the ground.

There was no time to celebrate. I had been going so fast that I had little idea where I was, but I figured I was about 20 miles north of the Yalu, and there were more Russian and now Chinese planes as well, rising off the runway below. I turned south and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could, fortunately picking up the Manchurian Express, a jet stream that helped me fly even faster with less resistance, which was another stroke of luck, because I was running low on fuel. I had no idea where my buddies were, and as I was climbing out, I suddenly realized that I still had my speed brakes engaged. I felt like an idiot, but fortunately I was able to correct the mistake and make it back to our base.

The Air Force awarded me an Oak Leaf Cluster as well as the Distinguished Flying Cross for dropping the first MiG, and although my gun camera clearly showed that I had destroyed the second enemy plane, there was a question as to which side of the Yalu River I had been on when I shot it down. Consequently, I received no special honor for winning one of the most dangerous battles of my life. But I was thrilled that I had helped to protect my buddies and that I had taken another enemy of our nation out of the sky. As with many conflicts I’d encounter in life, it really didn’t matter who got the credit. What mattered was taking care of each other.

I’m certainly not infallible, and I’ve had some experiences that some of my friends and colleagues might be ashamed to admit. But we all make mistakes and sometimes cross some lines that we shouldn’t. A few of my mistakes almost cost me my life.

On another occasion, I almost ran out of fuel while flying close to the Chinese/North Korean border. I had to stay calm and nurse my fuel supply all the way back to base. As I’ve often said, fighter pilots don’t have emotions; we have ice in our veins. That quality served me well when, 16 years later, the Apollo 11 computers began to malfunction, just as Neil and I closed in on landing on the Moon. I’ll tell you more about that later!

ON ONE PATROL OVER NORTHERN KOREA, I was flying in formation with good friend and wingman Sam Johnson when we lost contact. The wingmen looked out for each other, flying side by side and watching each other’s backs. Sam and I flew all the way to the Yalu River, the boundary American pilots were warned not to cross.

We saw some movement on the ground and some other things going on that we might be able to do something about, but we had no orders from our commanding officers allowing us to attack, and we were too close to the Yalu River and the Chinese border, plus I was concerned about our fuel levels. It was a dangerous situation.

I said to Sam, “It’s time to head back.” I looked out my cockpit window, expecting to see Sam behind me to the side, but I couldn’t spot him and he didn’t respond. That wasn’t like Sam, so I got worried.

“Sam, where are you?” I asked. “I can’t see you.”

Suddenly, through the familiar sound of Sam’s gunnery fire, rat-a-tat-tat; ehh-ehh-ehh-ehh, I heard Sam’s voice on my headset. “I’ll be right with you, Buzz!” More gunnery fire: Ehh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhhh. Clearly, Sam was engaged with the enemy somewhere in the skies nearby. I swerved my F-86 hard, turning around quickly, as my eyes searched for Sam’s plane. If my buddy was in trouble, I had to help him.

Next thing I knew, Sam was flying right beside me. We chased the MiGs as far as we dared, but they were too fast for us to catch up. We zoomed out of the danger zone and headed back to South Korea, watching our fuel gauges all the way.

When we finally got back to our base and landed, we got chewed out royally by our commanding officers. I didn’t mind the scolding. After all, there was no way I was going to leave my friend when he needed me most.

To me, that is one of the most important principles of life: Never leave your friends behind. Consequently, throughout my lifetime, I’ve tried to keep in touch with my buddies, even though it has not always been easy, because most of us have stayed quite busy. In times past, I’d burn up the telephone lines; these days, text messaging has become my preferred method of communication, a great way for me to stay connected with my friends. But don’t kid yourself. Keeping in touch requires intentionality. You must consciously make the effort to stay connected with your friends, or it won’t happen. You’ll gradually slip away from each other, like a married couple that once loved each other but allowed the sparks of passion and the flame of love to be snuffed out.

Time goes by and we all get caught up with daily responsibilities, priorities, and the tyranny of the urgent. It is easy to get so busy that we forget about those people who have played such important roles in our lives, so every so often, I will swing back to see how my friends are doing. It doesn’t take a lot to do that. Maybe a quick phone call or a text message, perhaps a letter or a card in the mail. But it is important to stay connected, because life gives none of us any guarantees. I’m proud to say that the West Point class of 1951 keeps in contact regularly. For instance, my friend and West Point classmate Jack Craigie and I have known each other since we were 18 years old. Today, with both of us past 86 years of age, we still make the effort to keep in touch.

I did my best to keep in touch with Sam Johnson, too. In 1966, while I was working on the Gemini program, Sam flew in Vietnam. During his 25th combat mission, he was shot down and was incarcerated in a North Vietnamese prisoner of war camp, a place so desolate, with such inhumane living conditions and treatment so despicable, that he later described it as “Alcatraz.”

During the war, many Americans back home wore bracelets reminding us of captured soldiers wallowing in the sweltering POW pigsties in ’Nam. I wore a metal bracelet with Sam’s name, rank, and serial number engraved on it, along with the date that he was shot down. It was a symbol of hope and solidarity with our troops. I wore that bracelet to the Moon and back.

Sam didn’t know that I had been on Apollo 11, because he had been kept in the dark in the Vietnamese POW camp. Even when he heard the news over a crackling radio in the prison camp that human beings from America had walked on the Moon, Sam’s Vietnamese captors tried to convince him that it never happened, that it was, in fact, the Russians who had landed on the Moon. Sam refused to believe what his tormenters were telling him. My good friend Sam endured seven years as a POW in Hanoi, including 42 months in solitary confinement. It wasn’t until after his release from the Vietnamese POW camp that Sam learned that his former wingman buddy had walked on the Moon.

Sam served our country in the U.S. Air Force for 29 years, flying with the precision demonstration team, the Thunderbirds, as well as on combat missions in Korea and Vietnam. Later he ran for office in the Texas state legislature, and then he went on to become a multiple-term U.S. congressman, serving the third district of Texas.

After years of separation, we reconnected, and we still keep track of each other to this day. I regard Sam as one of the best friends I’ve ever had and one of the best men I’ve ever known.

You never know how people you meet today will have an impact on your future. Another friend that I first met in Korea played a significant role in my future, because of his impact on the space program. His name was John Glenn, the Mercury program astronaut who in 1962 first orbited the Earth three times, which in the early days of America’s space program was a major accomplishment. John and I flew F-86 Sabre jets together in the waning days of the war, and he succeeded in shooting down three Russian MiGs near the Yalu River, one more than I did.

Regarding his initial spaceflight, John later quipped, “As I hurtled through space, one thought kept crossing my mind: Every part of this rocket was supplied by the lowest bidder.” He went on to become a U.S. senator representing his home state of Ohio. While still a sitting senator, at 77 years of age, John went back into space for a nine-day mission aboard the space shuttle Discovery, and to date he is the oldest person ever to travel into space.

John and I still share a passion for space exploration, although neither of us could have imagined such a thing when we first met in 1953. But your friends do rub off on you.

Serving my country in Korea was a marvelous time in my life. After chasing Soviet MiGs all day, my buddies and I would gather together and tell our stories. We were intensely competitive with each other, but we also shared a special camaraderie, much like the relationships I would have with NASA astronauts a few years later. It was an experience like iron sharpening iron, similar to our time at West Point, where we brought out the best in each other. Eventually—often after a few adult beverages—someone would break into a song. We had an entire repertoire of fighter pilot songs that I still sing sometimes, even after all these years. And when I sing those songs, in my mind, I’m right back there in Korea with all those great friends.

Besides stopping the Soviet-supplied communists from North Korea in their efforts to overrun South Korea, the war also created a fringe benefit for America that often goes unnoticed. That is: Most of the early U.S. astronauts were not veterans of World War II. Most of us were fighter pilots who flew during the Korean War. In addition to the missions flown by John Glenn, Neil Armstrong flew 78 combat missions in Korea. Wally Schirra flew 90 missions; Gus Grissom flew 100 combat missions over Korea; Jim McDivitt flew 145 missions! And of course, I flew 66 missions chasing MiGs.

As fighter pilots in Korea, we learned concentration under fire, how to stay calm in the face of dangerous situations, and how to make quick, life-or-death decisions. Beyond that, because we knew that we were really fighting the Soviets as well as the North Koreans, the war spurred a passionate competition between the Americans and the Russians that would carry over into the space race. We were not going to let those “Russkies” beat us in Korea, and we were certainly not going to let them get the upper hand on us in space.

YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN the next person you meet might be someone who impacts your life for the better, or someone to whom you can give a helping hand. Shortly after I moved to Houston to become part of the U.S. space program, I was visiting with my friend Ed White when we saw a guy out roller-skating on the cement behind Ed’s house.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s Neil Armstrong, another test pilot who has been accepted for the astronaut program.”

I had heard plenty of stories about Neil already—that he was a fearless test pilot with a deadpan serious personality. “That’s Neil Armstrong?” I asked, watching the roller skater. He didn’t look too serious to me.

I knew that Neil had been a fighter pilot in Korea as well, so we had that experience in common, and we soon struck up a long, lasting friendship, one that some people would later misunderstand and misrepresent, but a friendship that Neil and I knew was based on mutual admiration. My friendship with Neil Armstrong became another positive factor in my life. Neil and I became even better friends when we were selected to work together as the backup crew for Apollo 8. Neil was a man of few words and enjoyed being the strong, silent type. I, on the other hand, enjoyed talking about our work and the possibilities ahead. But we hit it off and had a mutual respect and appreciation for each other. We were a good team. We worked closely together almost every day for six years, and although one of us would sometimes rub the other the wrong way, we always brought out the best in each other.

Neil and I were selected as the crew for Apollo 11 in January 1969. In some ways, because we were selected for the first landing mission to the Moon, it created an additional strain on our friendship. We both knew there would be enormous publicity around our mission and that everything we said or did would be all over the news. When some people at NASA questioned whether I was the right man for the job, Neil came to my defense. I knew that we worked well together, and I was glad to learn that Neil felt the same way. He was quick to defend a friend, and I’ve always been honored to be known as his co-worker.

Not long ago, I visited Purdue University, where faculty and student researchers have been working with my Mars Cycler ideas—a system of spacecraft cycling between Earth and Mars, continually carrying people and materials in both directions. Outside the Neil Armstrong Hall of Engineering stands a large statue of Neil, who was an engineering student at Purdue in 1955. I slipped up next to the statue and cracked, “Hey, I want them to make a statue of me, sitting here beside Neil and holding his hand!”

Although all of the astronauts in training were extremely competitive, we were also friends. That made sense, because most other people couldn’t really relate to our intense training, our level of commitment to the cause, and how passionately we pursued our goals of catching and passing the Russians in the exploration of space. Like any team, however, some of us clicked with each other better than others. One of the guys that I became closest to was Ed White.

Ed was a year behind me at West Point, and he and I were on the track team together and became best friends during our time at the academy. Ed enlisted in the Air Force upon his graduation in 1952. He spent three years in Germany, and he was stationed there when I arrived at Bitburg following my stint in Korea. I was stationed in Germany from 1956 to 1959, and during that time, our friendship grew even stronger.

Like me, Ed loved flying the F-86 Sabre jets as well as the incredible F-100 fighter jets in the “Big 22 Squadron” that made regular runs close to the “Iron Curtain” nations, the countries under Soviet control. We were carrying a nuclear payload, and we were ready to attack the Russians at the first sign of a nuclear threat. The Russians had already steamrolled into Budapest, crushing any opposition, so we were constantly on alert to halt any further advances by the Soviet forces in Europe. Ed and I regularly flew practice missions, loaded with bombs we were ready to deliver.

Near the end of the decade, Ed became fascinated with space. Leaving Germany, he attended the University of Michigan and earned his master’s degree in aeronautical engineering the same year that NASA selected seven men as the original astronauts for Project Mercury, the first U.S.-manned space program. All seven of the initial astronauts were test pilots, so Ed enrolled in the Air Force Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base in California. He was one of the pilots to fly the planes used for astronauts Deke Slayton’s and John Glenn’s weightless maneuvers, some of the first test flights to see how zero gravity affected humans.

As the Mercury flights concluded, NASA began recruiting a new crop of astronauts for Project Gemini. Drawing from more than 200 applicants, NASA selected Ed White and eight more test pilots: Neil Armstrong, Frank Borman, Charles Conrad, Jim Lovell, Jim McDivitt, Elliot See, Tom Stafford, and John Young. Even among this group of superachievers, Ed stood out from the crowd. Moving to Houston, like several other astronauts including me eventually, Ed and his wife, Pat, bought a home in El Lago, to be close to the Manned Space Center. More than any other person, Ed White was the friend who encouraged me to apply to NASA to become an astronaut.

He first went into space on the Gemini 4 mission, and on June 3, 1965, Ed was the first American astronaut to perform a successful extravehicular activity (EVA), a space walk outside the capsule for 21 minutes. A devout Methodist, Ed carried three religious reminders with him when he stepped out of the hatch—a gold cross, a Star of David, and a St. Christopher’s medal. He later quipped, “I had great faith in myself, and especially in Jim [McDivitt, the mission’s commander], and I think I had great faith in my God … The reason I took these symbols was that this was the most important thing I had going for me, and I felt that while I couldn’t take one for every religion in the country, I could take the three I was most familiar with.”

Besides his incredible courage, Ed had a great sense of humor. Before stepping out in space, using a handheld maneuvering gun and attached to the spacecraft by a tether, Ed checked his 35mm camera equipment three times. He said, “I wanted to make sure I didn’t leave the lens cap on!”

Far too quickly, in Ed’s estimation, his space walk came to an end. “I enjoyed the EVA very much, and I was sorry to see it draw to a close,” he said.

Following his outstanding Gemini EVA, Ed was selected as senior pilot for Apollo 1, scheduled for launch on February 21, 1967, as America’s first mission in the program that would eventually take us to the Moon. Unfortunately, as Ed, Gus Grissom, and Roger Chaffee trained and prepared, it seemed they encountered one setback after another. Finally, everything started to come together, each problem solved, so on January 27, 1967, NASA planned a “plugs out” test, a full dress rehearsal for launch, in which the Apollo 1 capsule would be unplugged from external power while the astronauts practiced emergency escape procedures.

Ed sat in the middle seat, and it was his responsibility to reach above his head with a ratchet to loosen the bolts of the hatch. The hatch door was heavy, but Ed was a strong man and in excellent physical condition. He had practiced the egress drill numerous times, although never within the 90 seconds suggested by NASA’s engineers.

They started the drill around 1 p.m. and encountered more problems, including a communications microphone that would not turn off. The three astronauts were still inside the space capsule, perched atop the enormous Saturn rocket standing on Launch Pad 34, as darkness began to shroud Cape Canaveral.

It was then that something went horribly wrong. With all three astronauts buckled into their seats, and with a highly flammable, 100 percent oxygen–rich atmosphere inside the command module and flowing through their space suits, a fire broke out in the capsule. Investigators later thought the fire was caused by some sort of voltage surge or possibly an electrical short that produced a spark below the left equipment bay under Gus Grissom’s seat.

Like a blowtorch, the capsule erupted in flames. Just as he had trained, Ed White struggled to open the hatch, but this time, it was not a test and the astronauts did not even have the 90-second wiggle room. Within a minute, the command module ruptured, causing an outrush of gases and creating an inferno inside the capsule, followed by deadly concentrations of carbon monoxide. The three astronauts trapped in the wall of fire never had a chance.

Ironically, none of our previous astronauts in the Mercury or Gemini programs had ever incurred a scratch, and NASA’s most horrific space program accident took place not in space, but while the astronauts were still on the launchpad at Cape Canaveral. The Moon, which had seemed within reach a few hours earlier, now seemed out of sight.

Ed was my good friend and colleague; he was also a major part of my inspiration to become an astronaut. In a couple of minutes, his storied life was over. I never had a chance to thank him for all that he had meant to me, or to tell him goodbye, although two and a half years later, I carried with me to the Moon a medallion in his honor. In some way, I have tried to honor Ed by the path that I have pursued.

Life is a gift, and none of us has any guarantees about tomorrow, so don’t miss the opportunity to tell your friends and family members how much they mean to you. Take the time to make that phone call just to say hello, or to write that note of encouragement.

In this day of text messages, email, and social media communications, if you really want to make an impression on someone, write a handwritten note of thanks or encouragement.

OVER THE YEARS, I’VE BEEN PASSIONATE about trying to reunite all of our Apollo astronauts, but it has not been easy to get everyone together. I want them to care as much as I do. Some of them may feel that they no longer have much to contribute to the space program, so they aren’t as interested in talking about future exploration. On the other hand, I feel that I’m not done yet.

Apollo astronauts were friends, but it was tough to maintain a sense of normalcy, especially for the crew of Apollo 11, the first mission to land on the Moon. Most of the other guys in the Apollo program have remained close with their particular crews, but Neil, Mike, and I had a tougher time of it. At one point, Neil and I went years without seeing each other. Although we remained friends, we rarely got together socially, except at special U.S. presidential commemorations of the Apollo 11 mission, which have taken place at the White House every five years since the initial landing on the Moon.

Mike Collins and I still keep in touch, although at the beginning of every phone call, Mike is always quick to remind me, “Buzz, I don’t want to talk about Mars!”

“Okay, right, Mike. But you know that scientists at Purdue University have now proven that my Mars Cycler will work …”

“Buzz!”

On a trip to Arizona, I was talking with Gene Cernan, commander of Apollo 17 and currently known as “the last man to walk on the Moon,” about the future of space exploration, and I was getting on his case. “Gene, why are you advocating that we go back to the Moon? We don’t need to be competing with other countries to go to the Moon. Don’t you realize that we don’t have a big budget, and we’d be wasting money, time, and energy?”

“Buzz, I don’t know what you know. All I know is that I think we need to be going out farther into space.”

“We’ve got to find a way to go beyond the Moon,” I prodded him.

“I don’t know anything about that, Buzz. You obviously know much more than I do. All I know is that we need to be out there.”

“So you admit that you know nothing!”

Even today, when any of the Apollo astronauts get together, there is a strong sense of camaraderie mixed with a very real sense of competition. Of the 24 Apollo astronauts that reached the Moon, 12 of us actually landed on the Moon’s surface. Yet, after nearly half a century, we are still competitive with each other. It’s a strange brew, but we cherish our friendships, and just as iron sharpens iron, we continue to bring out the best in each other.

The late entrepreneur and motivational speaker Jim Rohn often said, “You’re the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” What he meant by that, of course, is that the people with whom you repeatedly choose to associate will have an enormous impact on you, either positively or negatively. That’s why I say, Show me your friends and I will show you your future.

Choose friends who will bring out the best in you.