I used to have a fear of heights. A horrible fear. As a kid I would freak out when the carousel horse hit its high mark as it circled around and around. I never liked ferris wheels much either, though I must say it could be because carnies were responsible for assembling them.
My fear was so great that I could whip up a good bout of vertigo when standing near the edge of any precipice. It didn’t have to be a carnival ride; it could be the bleachers in back of Hazen High School. Standing on any edge I would become a bit unsteady, start wobbling, become all light-headed and imagine falling to my untimely death, my bones broken, my neck snapped, and my body a crumpled mass of mush. And yes, I’m still talking about being on the bleachers.
I still find it amazing that I would have ever jumped out of a plane. I’m pretty sure the death of my brother in a parachuting accident had a lot to do with it. I had something to prove. I still remember crawling out on the strut of the wing, grabbing on for dear life and balancing precariously on the ever-so-miniscule step, waiting for the slap on my thigh, my signal to let go.
Let go. What was I thinking? I think I only ended up letting go because I was far more afraid of trying to climb back into the plane. I had heard the stories around the jump zone about others who had changed their minds and how they risked life and limb (literally) trying to get back into a very small airplane circling at 3,000 feet.
Far better to just let go, though I should mention at this point that I also had a horrible fear of falling. Falling was not my idea of a good time, even if it meant jumping off the low dive at the Hazen pool. Yes, I got an ‘F’ in swimming once, largely because of my fear of heights. Well, that and my fear of water.
Over the years I have addressed these fears. I not only addressed them, but sent them off in the mail with a stamp, hoping they would never return. But return to sender they did. My friends would chide me about this fear of heights, falling and water. I would respond that I was pretty sure that I had died a horrible death as a pirate, falling from the highest yard arm on the ship, ricocheting off a few of the cross-trees, finally landing in the cold waters of Cape Horn, my foot getting caught at the last minute on a line from the ship, me dragging behind it, finally succumbing to hypothermia.
The entire tapestry of doomsday scenarios came to a head one day in Port Townsend. Whenever I visit PT, I try to make it to the top of the old fort there. I love to roam around the catacombs and imagine what it was like when the fort was in its prime, long before Officer and a Gentleman was filmed there.
My ex at the time was with me. She had a greater sense of adventure than I, or so I found out on this particular day. We were bounding through the fort’s remnants, having a great time together. It was one of those drop dead gorgeous Washington days and we were in heavy flirt mode.
Eventually it turned into a case of the hornies. Finding a place to release such tension in a public park is difficult, but she found a little path that led to another path and before we knew it, we were in the sticks.
We quickly did the get-naked dance, shedding our clothing. She plopped down on the grass and I was already to do the horizontal mambo.
It was then that I noticed the cliff. I probably would have noticed it before but boobs were taking up my entire attention so I admit that I really didn’t notice the cliff just beyond them.
That was until I was mamboing. My ex had a lovely view of the sky and the pretty little airplane flying overhead, probably enjoying the free sex show on the bluff. Me, I was staring directly into the face of death.
The little patch of grass we had found didn’t leave much real estate so we were pretty close to the edge of the bluff. Within moments of beginning the mambo, my mind turned to the possibility that the ground below us, fractured by the mini earthquakes we were creating, would suddenly and unexpectedly give way, sending us to the rocky beach below.
My fears of heights, falling and drowning arrived simultaneously in my head. I was going to die. Die happy perhaps, but die nonetheless.
It was then that the flag started flying at halfmast, if you get my drift. My brain was no longer wrapped around the idea of rampant lust being celebrated in the midst of nature, but around the idea of dying in the throes of passion.
I tried to get back into the game. I looked off into the horizon instead, trying to take my mind off death. It was working. That is, it was working until I spotted the large freighter headed through the shipping lanes. Man that thing is huge, I thought. It was the biggest freighter I had ever seen. It had to be carrying one helluva load.
It was. I wasn’t. Once again my mind turned to possible scenarios, including the freighter’s huge wake crashing against the base of the cliff, causing catastrophic and instantaneous erosion, sending me once again to my untimely death.
Thankfully, my ex had become completely fascinated by the air show above, as the small plane kept circling and I eventually rolled over to watch the plane instead of contemplating my impending doom.
I eventually lost my fear of heights and water. For some reason, all that Lexapro I was shoveling into my body over the years to control anxiety had rewired my brain. I’m still not sure about the fear of falling, but I would have to fall to find out if I still have a fear of it. I guess I could always find a ship’s mast somewhere, a really tall one. Or I could head back to that bluff and see if history will repeat itself.
In the Emerald City, thinking I need to take a road trip to Port Townsend soon, for medical reasons,
– Robb