We pointed a tower of fire at the sky and climbed it.
Three days. Three hundred and eighty-four thousand kilometres. No petrol stations, no guardrails, no turning back. This page is that journey — scroll to travel the distance.
The Earth becomes a place, not a home.
By the second day the planet fits behind a thumbnail at arm's length. Weather systems swirl like cream in coffee. Every war, every birthday, every ocean — back there, on that blue coin.
Behind the Moon, silence is total.
No radio can reach around a quarter of a million tonne of rock. For forty-five minutes the crew belongs to nobody — not Houston, not Earth, not history. Only the far side, cratered like a forgotten face.
Contact light. Engine stop.
Tranquility Base here.
The dust flies outward in perfect arcs and falls straight back — no air to carry it, no wind to keep it. A bootprint will outlast every city on Earth.