Experiencing water splashing on my face during a spacewalk was surreal. It swiftly migrated from my nose to my nostrils, obstructing my sight and impeding my breathing. While we knew a return to the International Space Station was urgent, a pressing question lingered: how long until the water completely blocked my airway?

Venturing outside the ISS is akin to stepping into an otherworldly realm. Within the confines of the station, you’re enveloped in a familiar safety. However, outside, you’re engulfed by the cosmic void—an environment indifferent to your existence. Without my spacesuit, survival would be impossible within mere minutes.

The vast expanse of stars seen during a spacewalk is breathtaking. On one occasion, I was maneuvered across the station using a robotic arm, feeling disoriented as Earth vanished from view. In that moment, I grasped the three-dimensional nature of space—an epiphany sparked by my understanding of astrophysics—which allowed me to perceive a sponge-like structure adorned with bubbles amidst radiant light. Reliving that moment has become a constant pursuit, yet it remains elusive.

Throughout our six extravehicular activities, a significant water leak emerged on July 16, 2013. Feeling the cold liquid seep into my helmet was unsettling, yet I adhered to protocol. I reported the situation, assuring ground control that I was fit to continue.

As I awaited guidance, concern grew about the source of the water. In the absence of gravity, water behaves unpredictably due to effective capillary action moving from one surface to another.

Many visualize spacesuits as depicted in films like Gravity or The Martian, with oversized helmets obscuring the astronaut’s face. In reality, a spacesuit helmet is compact, minimizing gaps that could let water penetrate. Unfortunately, this tiny space filled quickly. Once I felt water clogging my ears, hearing became increasingly challenging, and soon, communication with ground control began to falter.

As dusk fell during my orbit of Earth, I faced yet another challenge. With sunset occurring every 45 minutes, most EVAs happen at night. While my helmet light illuminated nearby objects underwater, distant visibility dwindled with the accumulating water.

At that moment, pinpointing the water’s origin was irrelevant. What mattered was a ticking timer reminding me to act decisively. Every moment counted—time was running out.

Before venturing into space, I was trained as a pilot, fighter pilot, and test pilot. The first lesson of emergency response was clear: maintain control, assess the situation, and take decisive action.

For me, this meant charting a course back to the airlock. I utilized handrails on the ISS to navigate my way, asking myself if I could see the next handle and how to reach it. Following the tether leading to the airlock, I began my journey back.

Navigating in a spacesuit is more challenging than it appears. The suit is pressurized, requiring significant muscle effort to move against that pressure. This lack of strength in fingers makes grasping objects, like handles, feel akin to squeezing a tennis ball.

The final leg of the spacewalk stretched on, feeling eternal. In reality, I spent just seven fleeting minutes in the airlock without communication with ground control. I later learned they were unaware of my ordeal, as my heart rate remained steady, illustrating my controlled reactions.

I can vividly relive that spacewalk; it exists in my memory, though it hasn’t fundamentally changed me. However, operationally, this experience transformed protocols. The culprit was identified as a blocked filter, prompting changes to pre-spacewalk procedures—such as checking the filter and adding a snorkel to my suit to allow breathing even in the event of flooding. This adjustment ensures this incident will never repeat.

I challenge anyone who deems astronauts’ tasks extraordinary. What we accomplish is indeed remarkable, but it should not elevate our status. We are ordinary individuals trained for extraordinary challenges.

As told by Colin Barras