Swinging through acrophobia

The pendulum of healing

Acrophobia: The fear of heights

In July of 1999 I found myself 60 feet up the mast of a tall ship sailing into New York Harbour at sunset.

The World Trade buildings were silhouetted, haloed with the sun behind them. All of Coney Island was glowing cotton candy pink, orange, fuchsia.

The harbour was filled with traffic. My two inch steel perch on the spreaders? It was swinging wildly like a drunken grandfather clock. All off this was a missed handhold away from ending up in the murky and dangerously busy shipping lanes of the Hudson River. We weren’t wearing any kind of harnesses.

It was a sensational moment. Or should I say a sensation-filled moment. Sounds, smells, colours, motion, spray and a little bit of terror and joy washed over me. So much so I can still close my eyes and feel myself there.

I wasn’t alone. My shipmate Tanna was there too. She was bursting. Screaming with both disbelief and excitement: Jimmy boy! I can’t believe I’m here, I can’t believe I’m here, I can’t believe I’m…