When Halley Had the Last Laugh
(short version)

Based on Matthew 24:36-44 – Keep awake, for you do not know the day.

Everyone in Year Ten had their thing. Some were into cars, some were into fashion, some were into pretending they were into fashion while quietly saving up for their first set of alloy wheels. My best friend Ara and I had telescopes. Not the glamorous kind you see in glossy magazines. No, ours were a combination of things we had built ourselves and things made in other people’s workshops somewhere far away.

Our proudest creation was a telescope made from two cardboard cylinders that had once held rolls of cloth. They slid into one another with a satisfying friction that made us feel like proper scientists. On each end we fitted lenses we had removed from magnifying glasses. We had applied everything we had learned in optics classes to make it focus, and after hours of tinkering and arguing and adjusting and re adjusting, it actually worked. It was not perfect, but it was ours, and that made it perfect enough.

I also owned a small Ukrainian telescope that looked serious but wobbled if you breathed too hard. The big telescope on my parent’s balcony was majestic but hopelessly heavy; we had tried lifting it once and nearly lost a toe. So when Halley’s Comet was due, we knew exactly which companions we would take to the roof: the home made wonder and the lightweight import that rattled when moved too quickly.

We prepared for weeks. Ara devoured books and articles about the comet as if he were training for an exam. I drew charts, diagrams, and a timetable that left no room for interpretation. We gathered snacks, jumpers, and enough caffeinated drinks to keep us awake until the next millennium. We were ready. We were confident. We were naïve.

Continue reading the full story here.

When Halley Had the Last Laugh

Based on Matthew 24:36-44 – Keep awake, for you do not know the day.

Everyone in Year Ten had their thing. Some were into cars, some were into fashion, some were into pretending they were into fashion while quietly saving up for their first set of alloy wheels. My best friend Ara and I had telescopes. Not the glamorous kind you see in glossy magazines. No, ours were a combination of things we had built ourselves and things made in other people’s workshops somewhere far away.

Our proudest creation was a telescope made from two cardboard cylinders that had once held rolls of cloth. They slid into one another with a satisfying friction that made us feel like proper scientists. On each end we fitted lenses we had removed from magnifying glasses. We had applied everything we had learned in optics classes to make it focus, and after hours of tinkering and arguing and adjusting and re adjusting, it actually worked. It was not perfect, but it was ours, and that made it perfect enough.

I also owned a small Ukrainian telescope that looked serious but wobbled if you breathed too hard. The big telescope on my parent’s balcony was majestic but hopelessly heavy; we had tried lifting it once and nearly lost a toe. So when Halley’s Comet was due, we knew exactly which companions we would take to the roof: the home made wonder and the lightweight import that rattled when moved too quickly.

We prepared for weeks. Ara devoured books and articles about the comet as if he were training for an exam. I drew charts, diagrams, and a timetable that left no room for interpretation. We gathered snacks, jumpers, and enough caffeinated drinks to keep us awake until the next millennium. We were ready. We were confident. We were naïve.

On the night, while normal people brushed their teeth and turned off lights, we climbed the stairs to the roof carrying our telescopes, enthusiasm, and several packets of Tim Tams.

The roof was colder than we expected. The wind had a habit of slapping us every few minutes to remind us how small and foolish we were. We set up our telescope, made sure it pointed in the right direction, which was east-ish, and settled in. It felt momentous. Cosmic. Heroic, even. That lasted about twenty minutes. After that, it felt cold.

The feeling of being young astronomers on the cusp of a momentous discovery lasted roughly twenty minutes. Then it became mostly about being cold.

By midnight we had run out of things to say. By two in the morning we had also run out of Tim Tams, which was a significantly more serious development. Ara tried to keep morale up by pointing out random stars and identifying them with complete confidence. This star is Orion’s elbow. That one is the top button on the shirt of the universe. He was wrong every time, but he delivered it with such authority that for a brief moment I believed him.

By four in the morning our bodies had declared mutiny. Ara drifted in and out of sleep like someone listening to a boring maths lecture. I tried to stay awake by keeping one eye open, but that only made me feel like a malfunctioning robot. The telescopes, tired of waiting for us to act like responsible scientists, slumped to the side in silent protest.

The sky began to lighten. This was the moment we had prepared for. The comet was due any minute. We jumped up, rubbing our eyes, and stared intently toward the east. We were so determined not to miss it that we nearly convinced ourselves we could force it into existence by sheer will. We whispered encouragement to the sky. We glared at it. We squinted. We squinted harder.

Then it happened.

Except we did not see it.

While we were staring doggedly at the brightening horizon, Halley’s Comet made its graceful arc across the north western sky. A silent, brilliant streak. A once in a lifetime visitor. A guest who slipped by quietly while the hosts were looking in the completely wrong direction.

We did not know until later, when we were back downstairs, shivering and exhilarated. We turned on the radio, expecting to hear dramatic accounts that matched our heroic night. Instead, a cheerful announcer casually mentioned that the comet had passed just before dawn, clearly visible in the north west.

Ara and I stared at each other, utterly speechless. Then we both declared we needed more Tim Tams.

That morning I had a Chemistry mid term exam. Ninety minutes. Two periods. A large chunk of my final grade. I was an hour late. Not metaphorically or exaggeratedly late. Fully, disastrously late. Anyone sensible would have sprinted to class. I walked briskly but also stopped at the tuckshop because staying conscious was no longer guaranteed.

By the time I arrived, the exam was underway. My teacher looked at me with a mixture of despair and resignation. I had thirty minutes left. The class whispered. Someone rolled their eyes. Someone else muttered something about consequences.

But Chemistry and I had an understanding. I flipped through the exam and everything clicked. Perhaps exhaustion had turned off the doubting parts of my brain. I wrote quickly, double checked nothing, and stood up with five minutes to spare. I walked out while everyone else was still working on Question Two.

A week later the results came back. I had the highest mark in the class. Ara said this was definitive proof that the universe has a sense of humour.

Maybe it does. After all, we spent an entire night trying to stay awake for a comet and the only thing we saw clearly was our own sleep deprivation. But missing the comet never spoiled the adventure. If anything, it made the story better.

Some things are worth staying awake for, even if they slip past when your eyes are pointed in the wrong direction.