Tim Peake - Limitless: The Autobiography

1. Timeline :
   My Journey to Space
2. Prologue :
   The International Space Station
3. Part 1: Earth
   Soldier
4. Part 2: Sky
   Pilot, Parent
5. Part 3: Space
   Astronaut
6. Afterword
   Beyond

Tim Peake is a European Space Agency astronaut. He finished his 186-day Principia mission working on the International Space Station for Expedition 46/47 when he landed back on Earth 18 June 2016.

He is also a test pilot and served in the British Army Air Corps. Tim is a Fellow of a number of UK science, aviation and space-based organisations. He is also a STEM ambassador. He is married with two sons.

Also by Tim Peake

Hello, Is This Planet Earth?

Ask an Astronaut

The Astronaut Selection Test Book

To Rebecca, for sailing away from the safe harbour with me.

Front Endpaper Photograph

A view of Earth at night from the ISS, looking to the east along the English Channel with the UK on the left and France on the right ESA / NASA (Picture taken by Tim Peake).

Back Endpaper Photograph

Selfie during spacewalk ESA / NASA (Picture taken by Tim Peake).

Photograph Inset One

Photographs supplied by Tim Peake.

Photograph Inset Two

Photographs supplied by Tim Peake.

Astronaut selection and training photographs ESA.

Photograph Inset Three

Tim Peake, Apache ESA.

Other photographs supplied by Tim Peake.

Launch photograph ESA / ROSCOSMOS.

ISS photograph NASA.

Photographs on ISS ESA / NASA.

Photographs on ISS ESA / NASA.

Earth photographs from ISS ESA / NASA (Pictures taken by Tim Peake).

Earth photographs from ISS ESA / NASA (Pictures taken by Tim Peake).

Spacewalk preparation and spacewalk photograph ESA / NASA.

Crew photograph on ISS ESA / NASA.

Parachute Soyuz re-entry photograph ESA / ROSCOSMOS.

Parachute Soyuz re-entry & Tim Peake landing photographs ESA / ROSCOSMOS.

Talk to schoolchildren at National Space Centre ESA.

Other photographs supplied by Tim Peake.

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didnt do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

Sarah Frances Brown

Yuri Malenchenko is one of the most accomplished Russian cosmonauts in history. By December 2015 he is already the veteran of five separate missions and has logged just over 641 days in orbit, which means he has spent more time off the planet than almost anybody. He is also the calmest man I have ever met. A quietly spoken, undemonstrative fifty-three-year-old, Yuri is one of those naturally composed people who can reassure you with the smallest gesture, the slightest look. All in all, I could not have hoped for a steadier commander to be strapped in beside on my first voyage into space.

Which is why I know its a bad sign when I glance across at Yuri and notice that, with his adrenaline surging, theres a tremor in his hands.

And it had all been going so well. For six hours our tiny Soyuz capsule, blasted into orbit by rocket from Kazakhstan, had travelled through space at twenty-five times the speed of sound towards our destination, some 400 kilometres from Earth. With just 400 metres to go until contact, the spacecraft, in automated mode, began its standard fly-around of the International Space Station before locking on to the docking port for the final approach. As we slowly closed in from below, I glanced up at the tiny window just above my head. There, gliding by, right outside, filling the view, were the huge golden foils of the Space Stations solar panels. The first time you see something big, close to you, in space is not a moment you forget. Especially when that something is the width of a football pitch, utterly dwarfing the little vehicle you are in.

Awed by such a sight, I suddenly felt compelled to share my reaction with Tim Kopra, my American colleague, on his second trip to space and seated on the other side of Yuri.

Tim! I said, eagerly. There are some bloody great solar panels out there!

Tim shot me a look. I had forgotten the hot microphone. It had been switched off for the last few hours but now, for this critical end-phase, it was back on, meaning everything we said was being relayed with crystal clarity to Mission Control in Russia. Every stupid remark. I winced.

Suddenly, though, we all had something more important to occupy us.

Creeping softly forward, we were less than 20 metres away now, close enough for me to see the Space Stations cluttered docking area. There, practically alongside us, beneath its gold umbrella of solar panels, was the Cygnus resupply craft. It had arrived a few days earlier and was carrying, I knew, the suit in which I would, at some point in this mission if all went to plan, venture out and walk in space.

By this point, the camera view of our port had begun to loom large on the monitor in front of Yuri. And unbeknown to me, our orbit had just begun to carry us over the United Kingdom which would be a nice piece of synchronicity with which to kick off this whole adventure me arriving at the entrance to my temporary home for the next six months in full view of my permanent one. And then, at 17 metres from contact, the master alarm went off and red lights flashed on the console.

In truth, this isnt the first time on this journey that we have heard the alarms loud, intermittent tone and seen the console light up. The alarm has been triggered three or four times, in fact, and always the same minor problem: abnormal moisture levels in the cabins atmosphere. It was my simple task, in that case, to restore the balance by pumping away condensate which had collected in our module.

So when the alarm sounds this time, I assume its the same deal and sure enough, the monitor confirms this.

But something is different. Yuris demeanour immediately changes. Then I notice that our gentle forward crawl has stopped and that we are backing away from the Space Station.

Theres a moment of confusion. The Soyuz is aborting. Why are we aborting? There has never been an automated docking which aborted from this close to the Space Station. Even for Yuri, this is new territory.

Im rather feebly getting ready to pump condensate. Tim is digging down through the emergency signals and trying to figure out exactly whats going on. Its a thruster sensor failure, apparently. It looks like we got two alarms right on top of one another: one for the moisture level, one for the thruster sensor. The second of those has caused the Soyuz to abandon its plans and retreat.

But no worries. Theres a procedure. In spaceflight, theres always a procedure. In this case, the procedure is that Yuri will switch to manual control and fly us in by hand.

Simple.

Well, in theory.

The Soyuz gently backs out to 90 metres from the Space Station and then Yuri gets ready to bring us forward again. Our orbit is taking us from day to night and the lighting conditions are less than ideal. At this distance, in the pitch darkness of space, the searchlight on our little craft suddenly seems to have the feeble range of a bedroom torch. Yuri hunches forward and peers into the periscope in front of him. I dont know what he can see out there but I imagine its not much. There are visuals from the cameras, too, on screens in front of us, but one of those screens chooses this moment to develop a fault, limiting Yuri still further.