I am afflicted with acrophobia, the fear of heights. It’s not a cartoonish “High Anxiety” spinning in mid-air sensation. It’s more about being seized by overwhelming thoughts of falling from whatever height I am at.
I’ve never been afraid of flying. I’ve flown in commercial jets and small airplanes all my life without issue. I’ve been on the roofs of many houses to clean gutters and once to install shingles on a Habitat of Humanity home. I’ve been up in the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty and the Sears Tower without incident. But if you get me up higher than two stories in an open area, my thoughts jump to tumbling down.
That’s why my decision-making on a recent trip to Canterbury, Kent, calls into question my sanity. My wife and I were on a trip last month with a Rick Steves tour group. Our first destination was Canterbury Cathedral, site of the murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket in 1170 at the order of King Henry II. As we entered through the Christchurch Gate, the first look we got at the cathedral was the westerly portion with two towers covered in scaffolding. It’s a familiar sight in the UK with its century-old buildings. The last time we were in London, Big Ben and the Royal Albert Hall were both clad in scaffolding. No matter where you go in the United Kingdom, there is always scaffolding on building exteriors.
Helen, our Rick Steves tour guide, divided our group of 24 into two sub-groups of 12. First, the group my wife and I were in took the guided tour of Canterbury Cathedral, the seat of the Anglican Church. It’s an impressive and beautiful cathedral with a history dating back to the sixth century. The other sub-group was sent to the stonemasons’ workshop. We did the mason’s tour second. Much of the stone work is still done with mallets and chisels. Our stonemason guide told us the current work on Canterbury Cathedral had been going on for seven years. The saying goes, he told us, is when the scaffolding comes down, the work isn’t done, the money for the project has just run out.
Part of the stonemason’s presentation, we were told, was a ride up to the twelfth story of the cathedral in a construction elevator. Not fans of heights, my wife and I initially said we did not want to participate in that part of the tour. Although some others in the group expressed reservations and discomfort with heights, nobody else declined. Part of me felt it was a joke anyway. Does England not have safety laws? Is there no equivalent to OSHA here? Would they really send a bunch of American tourists up in a rickety, temporary elevator? I expected at the last minute, our guide would say we were definitely NOT going up in the scaffolding, and everyone would laugh at my trepidation.
So, I changed my stance and said I was game to go up on the cathedral roof. After the stonemason showed us around his shop and explained his ancient craft, he started passing out hardhats and orange vests. My wife grabbed a bench. I grabbed a hardhat and vest. As if in a trance, I followed the group onto the temporary construction elevator and up we went! About halfway up, my legs started to tremble. It was all I could do not to yell, “Take me down!” As the elevator jolted to a stop at the top of its ascent, we stepped out onto wind-swept scaffolding. I grabbed a hold of the first sturdy looking pole I saw.
All of us were wearing hearing devices called “whispers” so that we could hear our guide. As our group moved around the clock tower, I stayed put. Carefully, I removed my cell phone from my pocket, trying not to drop it. I took a few pictures of the view. I could see for miles. Jenny, one of the members of our group, asked me if I was OK. I said I was, even though I wasn’t. As the stonemason led the group along the scaffolding and around to the other side of the clock tower, my audio started to fritz out until finally I heard nothing from my group.
As I stood there alone with the wind whipping and trying not to make any sudden moves, I snapped a few pictures. The selfie I took, I’ve titled “Smiling Through the Terror.” Pigeons started fluttering around me. I watched a mason working one flight below through a gap in the scaffold slats. I became convinced that the stonemason had led the group down the stairs and left me alone on the roof of Canterbury Cathedral. The joke was on the acrophobic!
After what seemed like half an hour alone with my thoughts and the pigeons, the group circled back around to me. The ride down in the elevator was less terrifying. As we returned to ground level, I seriously considered genuflecting and kissing terra firma, but I decided to maintain the remaining scrap of my dignity I had left.
What made me take that elevator ride? I have no idea. I am not an impulsive person. At my age, I’m not looking to impress anybody with feats of bravery. When I asked Helen about the lax safety regulations, she smiled and told me people in England were less litigious than in the U.S. Also, she reminded me, I had signed a tour waiver. I’ll read the fine print more carefully next time.
