Five days before Apollo 11 launches. Betty says I’m impossible to live with right now. She is correct.

I’ve been checking the radio every morning for news from Cape Canaveral. The countdown is proceeding nominally — that word, “nominally,” which has become the most reassuring word in my vocabulary. No holds, no anomalies, the crew is in good health, the vehicle is ready.

I’ve made a list of things I want to watch for during the mission. It’s three pages long. Betty looked at it and said, “You know they’re not going to explain every single thing on television,” and I said I know, but I want to notice when they happen. She shook her head in the affectionate way that means she thinks I’m ridiculous but finds it endearing.

Harold came over Monday. He brought two bottles of beer and we sat in the backyard and I talked about the mission until he said, “I know. I’ve been listening to you for twelve years. I’m going to be there for the landing, I promise.”

He is a good friend.

I’ve also been thinking about what I’ll do if it goes wrong. Not the landing — between now and the landing there are three days of transit and a lunar orbit insertion and the undocking. There are many places it could go wrong. I’ve been watching this long enough to know that “should work” and “does work” are different things.

If it goes wrong, I’ll write about that too. Whatever happens, I’m here. I’m not stopping the notebook. I’m not stopping watching.

But I want it to work. Five days from now I want to be writing about a rocket that lit perfectly, an ascent that was clean, a translunar injection that pushed them toward the Moon with 24,000 miles per hour and the whole adventure ahead of them.

Five days.