First Published in the Beverly Citizen as part of a seven week series “Local Family Down Under”
By Esther C. Baird
”Pretend you are on the Beverly-Salem Bridge,” I thought to myself. “You’re just
jogging over the North River. It’s not a big deal, you’ve done this before.” Except I
hadn’t done this before, because it wasn’t the Beverly-Salem Bridge. It was the
Sydney Harbor Bridge: the world’s largest (but not longest) steel arch bridge held
together by about six million little rivets that have a propensity for falling into the
shark infested waters below. Further, I was not on the sidewalk that ran along the
bridge, but on the actual arch structure about one and a half football fields up in
the air.
I am irrationally afraid of heights. It’s not a choice, it’s a phobia. But my husband
had set his sights on the Bridge Climb, a professional tour that guided people up
the steel girders to the highest point in the arch, and I agreed to join him in a fit of
delusional bravery.
The climb began in a dressing room where we were handed jumpsuits that covered
our clothes. We then removed all earrings, watches, barrettes, head bands and
any other loose paraphernalia that might fall onto the cars below. Dressed like kids
in pajamas, we were ushered into the gear hall where we met Rhys, our guide for
the day. Rhys was a tussled, blond, barely twenty-something, who talked in the
affected way that many Aussies do by ending everything with a question.
“Hey, I already led a 4:30 am dawn tour over the bridge, yeah?” He sighed and ran
his hands through his hair. “I’m dead beat, hey?”
I stared at him and wondered how I could get a new guide.
But Rhys was ours to keep, and once in our safety harnesses he led us through the
door that led to the catwalks. The catwalks ran beneath the highway from the
land, out over the water to the bridge pylons, and then up a series of ladders to the
lowest point of the steel arch.
Rhys paused and looked at our group.
“How you all going, hey?”
The group, mostly excitable adventure sorts, let out a cheer. I remained silent.
“Anyone scared then?” Rhys asked. My hand shot up.
“Right. You’ll need to come in front, yeah?”
I was horrified. What was Rhys thinking? But before I could wonder what he was
thinking, I had to first wonder, where had he gone? Fleet-footed Rhys was off and
running.
My husband reassured me. “He’s up there, just start moving.” So I had no choice,
with the whole group behind me, but to plunge out onto the catwalk and follow
Rhys.
But I wasn’t happy. What sort of guide ran off? What if I froze? What if I
spontaneously whipped myself over the railing in a deer-like panic? I continued to
walk (and inwardly fume) when suddenly we were at the halfway point of the
catwalk. Rhys, the Incredible Vanishing Guide, stepped from behind a steel
column.
He glanced at me and laughed. “You look like this, yeah?” Hunching down he did an
impersonation of a person freezing in fear. Everyone laughed and I started to
splutter when I actually found myself laughing too. But only for a minute, after all I
was very scared.
Everyone had said climbing the arch was easy; it was the catwalks to the bridge
that were hard. I had my doubts until I saw the actual path up the bridge. Why I
could jog up that I thought. It was a wide path with a solid floor. We couldn’t see
straight down, only out, out and further out. All of Sydney, with its prominent
Opera House and sparkling harbor, was laid out below us. Rhys pointed out various
places of prominence and architectural points of interest while giving us lots of time
to enjoy ourselves on the walk to the top.
Crossing the bridge at the summit meant another catwalk – this one at the top of
the arch – right over the highway
Rhys didn’t run off again, but as I started across he said, “Esther, you’re doing this
again.” Crouching down he grabbed the railing with both hands and made a bugeyed
face. “You really should just look down.”
I allowed myself to peek over the edge. I could not believe how high up we were:
1,337 stairs and 1.5 football fields above the water to be exact.
“Look,” said Rhys. “You’ve let go with one hand and you’re standing up straight.”
“Huh,” I said. He was right.
I felt like an old pro on the walk back down, though I never was fond of the
catwalks. I also know that this summer when I jog over the Beverly-Salem Bridge
I’ll be happy to wear shorts and a t-shirt instead of adult-sized pajamas