In the vast, pressurized silence of space, surrounded by blinking panels, oxygen gauges, and the infinite black beyond the command module window, Jack Swigert had a thought—not of fuel levels or mission objectives, but of something far more terrestrial. “Uh, Houston,” he radioed in a deadpan tone just days before Apollo 13 nearly spun into oblivion, “I forgot to file my income tax.” You can practically hear the sigh from Mission Control. If ever there was a moment that revealed the humanity of a man hurtling through space, it was that. While most Americans were scrambling to meet the IRS deadline on Earth, Swigert was floating in zero gravity, trying not to die, and suddenly remembered the least cosmic obligation of all: taxes.
Swigert’s tax blunder would go on to be one of the most relatable—and unintentionally hilarious—moments in NASA’s history. Here was a man literally orbiting the Moon, juggling carbon dioxide scrubbers with duct tape and plastic bags, and he still couldn’t escape the clutches of Uncle Sam.
The timing couldn’t have been more bizarre. April 13, 1970, was the night the service module exploded—crippling the spacecraft. It was also two days before Tax Day. Coincidence? Probably. But somewhere in the heavens, the IRS was surely smiling.
John Leonard “Jack” Swigert wasn’t exactly the type you’d expect to forget a deadline. Born in Denver in 1931, he was a mechanical engineer, test pilot, and Air Force veteran before being chosen as one of NASA’s elite in 1966. Behind the square jaw and neatly combed hair was a man of unshakable discipline. He’d flown more than 7,200 hours, nearly 5,000 in jets. Yet for all the cockpit hours and pre-launch checklists, it took a lunar mission gone awry to rattle something loose: “Did I… file my taxes?”
Swigert wasn’t even supposed to be on Apollo 13. He was part of the backup crew, ready to support from the ground. But when fellow astronaut Thomas “Ken” Mattingly was exposed to German measles just days before launch, NASA made a high-stakes substitution. Swigert stepped in as command module pilot—a role critical to navigation and reentry. No pressure, Jack. Just take the most complex flying machine ever built into space with two days’ notice, and oh, by the way, don’t forget the paperwork.
If Swigert’s tax quip earned him laughs, his performance during Apollo 13 earned him immortality. After the explosion, when survival became the only mission, it was Swigert who calmly worked the navigation systems and helped plot the critical burn that slingshotted them around the Moon and back toward Earth. Cool-headed and precise, he played a key part in what became known as NASA’s “successful failure”—a catastrophe narrowly averted thanks to human ingenuity, duct tape, and one hell of a team.
But Swigert’s charm lay in his blend of professionalism and sheer relatability. There was something uniquely American about the idea of a man dodging space debris while worrying about W-2s. His remark, offhand and dry, wasn’t just comic relief—it was a reminder that no matter how far we go, how high we soar, there are always strings tying us to Earth. In this case, those strings wore suits and worked at the IRS.
When the crew finally splashed down in the Pacific, a grateful nation exhaled. Swigert would go on to ride the wave of fame that followed, even appearing on late-night talk shows, where the tax joke often resurfaced. “The IRS gave me an extension,” he once said with a grin, “but they made me prove I was in space.” That’s not a punchline. That’s actual government policy.
Swigert later traded his flight suit for a blazer and tie, entering politics in the early ’80s. In 1982, he was elected to Congress from Colorado’s new 6th district, bringing with him the credibility of a man who had stared death in the face at 24,000 miles per hour. Tragically, cancer claimed him before he could take office, and he died just days before being sworn in. But in the years since, his legacy has only grown—etched into the lore of spaceflight, into the mythology of Apollo, and yes, even into the quirky annals of tax season.
Jack Swigert may be remembered as the astronaut who forgot to file his taxes, but he was so much more. He was a pilot, a patriot, a hero, and above all, a man who proved that even in space, the mundane follows. It’s hard to imagine a better emblem of the astronaut era—half explorer, half bureaucratic victim. And somewhere out there, on a craterless corner of the Moon, we like to think there’s a little flag stuck in the regolith that reads: “Extension Requested.”
