Name of the Day: "Radio and Speck day"

What a thunderstorm last night! What a wind! It's a unique sensation lying in the bed in total darkness and getting the impression that the Hab moves. Of course it doesn't move, at least not much, but sometimes it swings a bit. It reminds me of my trips on tall ships I've been doing with my dad. They are slowly rolling from one side to another, and you're falling asleep in your hammock.

The comparison between a sailing ship and our stay at MDRS comes to my mind quite often. The felt isolation, the strong interaction between the crew, the confinement, the restrictions on water and power, the toilet requiring "treatment with care", the portholes allowing a look outside, the life according to plans and procedures with every crew member being assigned to different tasks and duties... I am a passionate sailor (despite my nationality) and I like observing these similarities. There is one major difference, however: Outside, we have an atmosphere made up of CO2, an average temperature of -80 degrees Celsius, and opening the airlock hatch is absolutely deadly. We are on Mars, not in the Caribbean.

The day started calmly for me. After having done my scientific duties as test subject for our medical and psychological experiments (FAMOS - fatigue monitoring, and the Myograph, an instrument measuring the variation of the pupil's diameter and hence your tiredness), I helped the first EVA crew donning their suits and then embarked on an expedition through our Hab, searching for smoke and CO detectors - a bi-weekly safety check. With the MDRS manual in one hand, the camera in the second, I paid a visit to each of these devices, pressing various buttons and shocking my colleagues with shrill alarm sounds. Everything was in good status.

Funny enough, in the middle of my "real life" safety check, our Mission Control Centre sent a simulated radiation warning. The time chosen was perfect: Two astronauts on EVA using the All Terrain Vehicles, the rest sleepy (as it was still early morning) and absorbed by scientific reporting or engineering work. What now? The moment of breathlessness was brief. According to the warning, the magnetic storm had just passed Earth. At an estimated travel speed of 400 to 600 km/s, the bow shock would reach Mars, based on our Opposition-class mission, earliest in 23 hours. I don't know whether MCC had calculated correctly and gave us an early warning or made some mistake here. The radiation protection protocol will now have to be activated tomorrow afternoon, and we saved the day!

I like being HabCom from time to time. Of course, exploring the landscape outside is more exciting. But HabCom is a responsible role, you are the "relay" station vis-à-vis Mission Control and the overall responsible for the crew outside. You follow their way on the map, stay in close contact with them, and make certain decision for them. This afternoon, I suddenly had the pleasure of being a double HabCom, for EVA crews # 14 and 15. Both crews were outside at once, the first one on scientific mission collecting geological samples, the second one to check out the radio relay station on Radio Ridge, and try to act as "human" relay station. The last days we suffered quite some "loss of signal" events during EVAs. Not thinking of anything bad to come, I made my daily cup of instant coffee (thinking for a brief but intensive moment of a real Italian "espresso", a short superb shot of caffeine), sat down in front of my laptop and prepared for some paper work to do. But then it started: "HabCom from EVA fourteen, copy." "Copy, EVA fourteen, this is HabCom." "HabCom from EVA fifteen, do you copy us?" "EVA fifteen from EVA fourteen, we hear you loud and clear!" "Well, one moment guys, this is HabCom. EVA fifteen, stand-by. EVA fourteen, status and heart rates, please." "HabCom from EVA fourteen, we could not understand the last part, did you say EVA fourteen or fifteen?" "EVA fourteen from EVA fifteen, he said fourteen."

I was glad when my two crews safely arrived back at the Hab three hours later. I had the radio constantly in my flight suit's breast pocket (when I was not talking, but writing down four different heart rates in real time); funny enough, that's the place where I usually also keep my camera, to have it with me at any point in time. Can you image how often I grabbed the camera and said loudly into the LCD screen: "EVA fifteen, heart rate please!"

Even though I was the only crew member not on EVA today, I feel somewhat exhausted tonight. But behind me I can smell the culmination of the day: fresh Austrian Speck. It was not easy to find it in the USA (from where we launched to Mars). It reminds us of home, and you cannot imagine how much one misses such little things. Tomorrow we have Easter Sunday, an occasion for big family gatherings and "Easter dinners" back home in good old Europe: Speck, horseradish, hard-boiled eggs, sausages, cheese, tomatoes, a good beer (special Easter brew). Well, from all that we just have the Speck. Speck and water and bred. But one does not need more. It is amazing how much you start to appreciate little rituals, special food, a piece of music you used to listen to in your childhood - all six of us experience these sentimental moments here, and we've just been one week on Mars. It's an interesting psychological observation.

I am sure the first heroes boldly flying to the Red Planet will need a small stuffed animal or a piece of Speck. Not in front of the media, not on launch day, but at some point during the endless journey through vast, dark space. Definitely.

Good morning Salzburg, good evening Mars.