Author: Anna Mantzaris

It’s not easy to forecast weather on the moon.

With an average temperature of 250º F and no atmosphere to speak of, this job has its challenges. The extended forecast goes into the billions of years.

I always knew I’d never make it in a big TV market like New York or LA, but after getting a Bachelors in Atmospheric Science and a post-study in Meteorology, I’d at least hoped for a placement like Tacoma or Portland. So the lunar assignment was a difficult career pill to swallow, but my wife Trudy supports everything I do. And before we knew it, we found ourselves living rent-free in a turn-key condo nicely situated on the East Side, overlooking the Sea of Vapors with a small yard where the kids and dog could play.

People aways ask me about my job. The first thing I tell them, is that it’s never a good idea to forecast for yourself. No matter where you live. For example, let’s say you’re having your wedding (out here, Saturn is big with couples because of the flattering rose-color glow in photos), you’ll be overly optimistic. You’ll see a 35% chance of a megastorm with 500 MPH winds and persisting hexagonal wave patterns and reduce the risk of bad weather in your mind because you want that outdoor celebration tent.

The weather glass half-full doesn’t work in these situations. You need someone impartial. Someone who can put hope aside. This is something I’ve always been good at. Interpreting the data the way one wants can lead to ruin.

Another thing I tell people, intuition and guessing have no place here. I learned this the hard way. Shortly, after I arrived in space, I dreamt of an asteroid hitting us. I was sure it was a premonition. I woke up in a cold sweat. I was so certain of my vision, of the need to serve and protect my lunar community that I jotted down every detail I could remember with the pencil I kept tied to the floating nightstand and hurried to the unland line, as we like to say here, and called it in to my direct supervisor.

“You’re experiencing what we call space head, Dale.” He explained the phenonium of vivid dreaming and confusion in an anti-gravity environment with a continuous sun setting and rising. He assured me it would dissipate in a few weeks.

But I didn’t listen. With my senior level, I’d been authorized to send emergency alerts through our interplanetary system, a high-pitch wail that surpasses the speed of light. It’s unnerving, so jarring some never recover.

You have to be definite. Fast. Unwavering. You need to press the button, knowing the alert will lead to chaos—under-fueled rockets taking off to nowhere, crowds stampeding the outdoors like frightened wildlife with no direction home. All with a glaring absence of protective gear and no provisions to survive an intergalactic escape.

Mass casualties because of a hunch.
Because of a feeling.

We’re the brave ones living on the cusp of the universe. But we still want our barbecues and strolls, and who doesn’t like to sit on park bench and sip a coffee and daydream a bit, even if it must be done in a Teflon-coated suit? Here, we precariously hover in the once-unknown as we write grocery lists, remind our spouses of dinner time, fret over work deadlines, tuck the children in, hoping they’ll be safe during the night, and sometimes, think about what life was like before.

We’re human after all.