You Were Meant To ‘Plumb It’ Not Plummet!

My father is always busy. He’s the sort that has to be doing something all the time. I used to resent this. I used to be jealous that he was too busy to give me some attention, that there was always something else that took priority. I was also feeling a little guilty too I think, because I could very easily find excuses to do nothing. I’d sleep all day or fritter away hours on frippery and frolics. I harboured these feelings of resentment and guilt for many years and then one day I had an epiphany. I realised why my father ‘is’ the way he ‘is’ and why my feelings in this regard are immaterial and that I should cherish every moment that dad is still around no matter how he chooses to spend them.

When I was about seven years old my father fell from the roof of our house. Now, if we’d lived in a bungalow this wouldn’t have been such a serious thing. As it happened we lived in a two storey semi-detached (two houses under one roof) at that time; which means he fell a total of about 20 feet (about 6.5 meters).

When it happened we weren’t around. My mother had taken myself, and my younger brother and sister on one of her fortnightly weekend visits to our grandparents, about 90 miles (almost two hours drive away) in Highcliffe near to Bournemouth on the south coast of England.

Dad, ever mindful of the needs of his family, had been installing ‘modern’ central heating for the first time. This was 1972 and up until then we’d heated the house by using a coal-fire in the winter. I can just about remember the coalman coming to fill up the coal bunkers at the rear of the garage. Although I was quite young, sometimes my mother would ask me to fill the coal scuttle and I’d have to venture outside and use the coal scoop to shovel coal into an old copper scuttle and struggle back to the house with it full to the brim.

My father was almost finished installing central heating when he fell. I know this because at the time of the accident he was about to insert a flue liner into the chimney. This is the part that enables all the hot gases from the central heating boiler to escape into the atmosphere. He was working alone which is never advisable when there are ladders and heights involved. At the very least he should have had someone else there to help stabilise the ladder as he climbed up onto the roof, but of course being my independent and over-confident father; he didn’t.

He had struggled up the ladder carrying the flue liner which was wrapped around his torso and one shoulder. Getting up onto the roof he’d then walked carefully up the roof tiles towards the chimney. Once the chimney was in reach he’d grabbed hold of one of the bricks that formed the top of the chimney to pull him further towards the apex from where he’d be able to work, legs astride the ridge tiles. The mortar around that brick must’ve been loose and the brick couldn’t take the strain he’d put upon it. That brick gave way and at that precise moment the future for my family became completely uncertain.

The shock and impetus caused him to lose his balance and he then tumbled down the steep roof tiles and clear off the roof to the garden below. Several neighbours stated that they heard a massive thump when he hit the ground. My father is a big man, much like myself, and it was later confirmed by the doctors that this was one of the factors which subsequently saved his life. Had he been a smaller man he might not have made it.
What happened next is uncertain. My father was thankfully unconscious, so he can’t remember, but one of the neighbours must have telephoned for an ambulance and my father was eventually taken to the local hospital. I have no idea how my mother was informed but somehow she received a telephone call in Highcliffe and then drove like the proverbial ‘bat out of hell’ to the hospital.

I have a vague recollection of that journey. My mother’s car at the time was a dark green Morris Traveller with a meagre 1000cc engine, but I can remember that nobody could overtake her in her haste to get to my father. She had her foot down the whole way home.

My father was in a very bad way. He’d crushed a couple of vertebrae, smashed up his pelvis and his left hand and wrist (which had, thank goodness, broken his fall) were completely mangled. He was lucky to be alive and also lucky not to be paralysed. When I was finally allowed to visit him, which wasn’t for several days afterwards, all I can remember seeing were lots of white bandages swathing him and several wires and weights from the traction system. He wasn’t very coherent though; pumped full of pain killers and tranquillisers most likely. I remember having a joy in my heart that he was still alive and, at the same time, being terribly worried that he might have to stay in hospital forever. It wasn’t easy for a seven year old to comprehend what was going on but obviously I’d picked up on the vibes from my mum and other family members and their concern was palpable.

My father was in hospital for many, many weeks. He had several operations to fix his pelvis and vertebrae and yet more micro-surgery to try to give him a functional left hand. How my mother coped with three kids and all the added stress and worry alone during that time I’ll never know. The only bonus was that it wasn't quite winter yet and thank goodness we didn’t need the central heating system as it was still fairly mild.

Eventually my father made a full recovery and after several months convalescence including a family holiday in Morocco he returned to work. To this day he still bears the scars, both mental and physical, from that incident. It was several years before he could use his left hand properly except for just his forefinger and thumb and he still has a fear of ladders. Yet these are the only things you might notice today to betray that course of events so long ago now.

I personally don’t remember that time as being particularly stressful or a hardship in any way. My mother managed admirably and with the help of friends, relatives and neighbours we all seemed to pull through. I don’t dare to think what may have happened had things gone differently that day. If the neighbours hadn’t heard the thump or the ambulance hadn’t arrived on time or my father was a smaller more feeble man. Maybe my brother, sister and I would have grown up without a father and we wouldn’t have enjoyed the many years and good times we’ve had together since. Perhaps dad is also aware of that too, and that is why he chooses to fill every moment with the things that he deems important. When you come that close to having it all taken away, I think everything takes on a greater value and becomes more urgent.

It got me thinking recently about how everything can change in an instant and that we should truly live each day as if it were our last because we never really know that it won’t be. In the matter of a fleeting moment circumstances can be changed forever and the ripples can radiate out to affect the lives of others in ways that we can’t imagine. A momentary lapse of concentration could change your own and others lives irredeemably forever. It is so important to remain fully aware in each moment. To wholly appreciate every second we are alive and to use that time wisely. Not to become distracted by the ‘what ifs’ of the future or the ‘whys’ of the past. The past cannot be changed and the future cannot be known. If we can remain completely focussed on each single moment and concentrate on getting that right then the future will naturally take care of itself.

We are so complacent about time. We procrastinate here and dawdle there. We allow ourselves to become distracted by folly and fritter hours away in torpor in front of computers and TV screens. We are so extravagant with time in the belief that we always have decades in reserve. We live constantly with the feeling that there’s invariably tomorrow, that there perpetually will be more time. But what if there isn’t? What if we knew exactly how much we had left, would we remain so wasteful and so oblivious to it? I have now resolved to become more mindful that each moment is precious and that I should treat it that way…..just like my dad.

Carpe diem!

Back to Earth With a Bump.

It was my idea. I’d been living in Rotterdam for just over a year and my brother-in-law was coming over for a visit. I’d done some research about things we could do together whilst he was over and, apart from the usual tourist stuff available, I’d found out that it was possible on alternate Saturday mornings to either abseil or death slide from the Euromast. It worked out that the Saturday Brian would be here was an abseiling day, so I booked us in. Now I should point out here that I regularly enjoy doing crazy, adrenalin-pumping things and felt I had an advantage because at the tender age of twelve I’d actually done some abseiling.

It was at a Butlins holiday camp on a school excursion and I think the idea was that we took part in various activities as character and team building exercises. You know the sort of thing: swimming; canoeing; rafting; assault courses and also, of course, abseiling. At the time I remember we were abseiling down a wall especially built for the purpose which must have been about 10 meters high, which doesn’t sound like much, but to a twelve year old is extremely scary. I recall that at the first attempt I was totally petrified. The instructor had helped me get into position and all I had to do was lower myself gently over the edge so that my legs were perpendicular to the wall. Then it was just a case of walking down the wall whilst letting out the rope, it sounded simple. I stood on the edge of the wall with my back facing out clinging for dear life to the rope with ice white knuckles at a 45% angle to the ground which seemed to be so very, very far below. The instructor was encouraging me to let out some more rope so that I would then naturally adopt the correct position for abseiling down the wall. I kept looking down and was unable to function because of the fear pulsing through my veins. I remained hanging there, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The instructor continued gently trying to persuade me that everything would be OK. After a while my fears lessened to the point where I gingerly let out a little rope and my bottom lowered so that I was finally in the correct position to walk very slowly down the wall. It still took me several minutes to reach the base. However, upon reaching the safety of solid ground I found that my anxiety had evaporated, not only that but I was eager to do it again with a new found enthusiasm. I continued to do it many times that day each time my confidence growing to the point where eventually I was positively bouncing down the wall in three bounds like an SAS commando at the Iranian Embassy siege.

So actually I was relishing the prospect of abseiling the Euromast knowing that the secret was just to overcome your initial fears of actually leaning out perpendicular to the building. What I hadn’t thought over was that it had been twenty two years previously that I’d had my ONLY experience of abseiling and that it had been less than one tenth the height I was about to attempt.

My brother-in-law Brian arrived on the Friday evening, I picked him up from the airport and as usual we proceeded to get completely mashed showing little regard for what we were about to attempt the following morning. After very little sleep I awoke Brian early and following a hearty breakfast we drove to the Euromast for our appointment with destiny.

Arriving at the top of the Euromast we quickly signed the disclaimer forms stating that if one should die during this foolhardy attempt the only person that was to blame whatsoever would be oneself. The view from the observation platform was awesome and I was pleased to note that although there was some wind it was fairly light. We were given and quickly kitted up in a helmet and thick gloves. Now, keen to show absolutely no fear in front of Brian and remembering that the toughest part was the initial going over the edge, I started to clamber over the railing (the only thing between me and a sheer 110 meter drop) right next to the ropes which were already in place and firmly secured (I hoped) somewhere above us. I looked back at Brian and the instructor who both looked extremely startled by my actions.

“Wait!” shouted the instructor “First you need to put on a harness and then to be attached to the rope!”

“Oh yes of course” I replied trying desperately NOT to look down as I struggled back over the railing and attempting to sound nonchalant as if I did this every day.

Brian just laughed and shot me a look that said “Easy tiger!”

We got into our harnesses and were attached to the ropes via karabiners. Only then were we told by the instructor to go over the railing, which I did even more confidently than the first time and this time feeling slightly safer. Remembering once again that the difficult bit was getting in a perpendicular position I quickly lowered myself into the appropriate stance and looked over to see how Brian was getting on, making sure that I wasn’t tempted to look down at the 110 meter drop below us.

Brian seemed to be getting along fine; I was impressed considering that it was his first time. He was being encouraged by the instructor who was positioned on a rope between us. I turned back to concentrate on my own actions and started to walk down the first part of the mast from the observation deck. The technique certainly did seem to be coming back to me from when I was a frightened twelve year old and I confidently fed the rope through the karabiner as I eased myself slowly down. I was standing on plate glass and suddenly realized that I could see people staring back at me from the restaurant. How weird, I thought, to be eating breakfast whilst someone walks down the windows outside. This however proved to be the easy bit!

When you imagine the Euromast you must think of a large syringe and needle standing upright, 185 meters tall, with a marshmallow pushed over the needle (radio mast) and resting, a little over half way up, at the point where the needle meets the body of the syringe. The topside of that marshmallow is the observation platform that I had just left, and the body is the restaurant I was now staring into, watching diners gawping back at me whilst they masticated their ‘broodje ham kaas’s ‘ and slurped their coffee. Having easily and confidently worked my way down these huge windows I suddenly realized that what I now faced was a drop into effectively nothingness. There would no longer be anything solid to rest against. The last 100 meters I would be just suspended in an abyss, hanging free with nothing but the rope for support.

I waited at the bottom of the last glass window and looked to my left to see how Brian and the instructor were getting along, deciding sensibly that it was better to listen to the professional tell me how to do this tricky manoeuvre. Brian was coming down very well and had got the hang of it immediately. Soon they were both at the same level as me and I watched as the instructor showed us how to elegantly launch ourselves into the void from a rail which was conveniently placed, and went entirely around, the bottom of the aforementioned marshmallow.

I followed his example and took a leap of faith, to find myself suspended and spinning in mid-air. As I gently turned on the rope a breathtaking panoramic view of Rotterdam’s skyline, river and 'havens' (harbours) moved from left to right before my eyes, 360 degrees of awe inspiring vista...and there it is again...and again. I felt the breeze blowing in my face and heard the roar of the traffic below entering the Maas Tunnel. My arms started to ache as I realized how tightly I was holding onto the rope, every sinew of every muscle in my whole body was tensed. I conciously suppressed the urge to vomit as I spun around yet again and concentrated on controlling my racing heartbeats. I looked down at the spiralling 100 meter drop below, which was a really bad move. I tried NOT to imagine myself splatted on the pavement beneath like a stray glob of raspberry jam, falling from some giant piece of buttery toast. I tried to relax, and remember that if I let go nothing would happen. I would remain suspended and sitting cradled safely by my harness and would not move earthwards until I started to feed more rope through my karabiner. I was in control. However, my brain knowing that and my body knowing that were two different things. My hands continued to grip the rope steadfastly as if my very survival depended upon it, I flashed back to being a twelve year old with ice white knuckles petrified of the drop below. I dared to glance over to Brian and was pleased to note that he looked as terrified as I felt. He was also spinning gently in the breeze.

Once we'd stopped revolving the instructor started to speak bringing us both back to focus on the job in hand - i.e. getting down from here. He told us both to relax and remember that if we let go nothing would happen. He demonstrated the fact by completely relinquishing hold of his rope and leaning back in his harness until his body was almost completely prostrate and revolving slowly in the wind.

“Like this!” he showed us, smiling broadly.

I took every ounce of courage I possessed and gradually let go of my rope one hand at a time. My muscles relaxed a little and I started to enjoy the sensation of being suspended like a puppet high above the streets of Rotterdam. I let out an audible sigh of relief and heard something similar from Brian who had also started letting go of his rope. My muscles started to relax, and my breathing slowed as my body finally came to the realisation that I was actually not in any imminent danger of becoming a pavement pizza, squished, warm and sticky like fresh roadkill.

After this of course we got cocky.

The adrenalin was accompanied by testosterone and macho competitiveness kicked in. As we continued the innevitable descent, we carried on feeding more and more rope through our karabiners at a faster and faster pace. A race developed between us. We started to come down at a very rapid rate and finally the last twenty meters I was literally in freefall and touched the ground a fraction of a second before Brian, landing with both feet once again reassuringly on terra firma. We were both laughing uncontrollably, visibly high from the adrenalin rush and also, I think, very relieved to be down in one piece, with all our body parts still intact.

We spent the next couple of hours sitting in the sunshine on the grass in the nearby park watching others abseiling down the Euromast as the morning's events began to sink in to our hung over brains. We both agreed that it was an amazing feat and mutually congratulated ourselves for the achievement. I remember feeling that having done that, then nothing else would ever seem like quite such a challenge again. As the excess of hormones, adrenalin and other bodily chemicals subsided from our overworked bloodstreams and the muscle aches disappeared, a gentle peace descended and engulfed our very being, a calmness and oneness that only placing yourself in mortal danger can elicit. Nothing however could remove the stupid self satisfied grins that remained on our faces for the rest of that weekend!