“..the lessons that are learned in space aren’t very relevant if they don’t come back to people on the ground. …and look at the incredible examples that get exaggerated under extreme conditions of space flight” Chris Hadenfield
Early on I found that I was extremely terrified of two things; high elevations where you could see down to where you left the ground behind and bugs. Not all bugs. Big bugs and bugs that have more than four legs. I don’t like them when I see them but I am terrified if they find their way onto my person or in my house. That is why, no matter my domain, I strike a pact with mother nature that all bugs will stay outside of my dwelling and I will not bother them, step on them or try to kill them intentionally. Come inside my house and all bets are off. Sorry. Although I have gotten better at attempting to bring them back outside, still alive. Sigh. So far though, it has pretty much worked out for us both.
As for the height terror, it’s not really the height you climb up inside closed walls, but the height when you reach the top of whatever structure you are enclosed and walk outside to this platform, open and vulnerable, and see just how high above the ground you are. That was my problem - beyond safe walls, looking down. However, me being the person that I am, I would force myself to venture upward and out when given the opportunity, which left me no other choice but to face this extreme fear, holding it all inside, quietly, but oh so very real. Not because I was trying to get over it, but more so because I really didn’t understand where it was coming from and why. Somehow, I figured if we met face to face, the reason would become apparent, or at the very least, the threat would be reduced as a result of basic familiarity.
The first time I climbed up the Montauk lighthouse and others after, I forced myself to walk outside on the tiny platform surrounding the structure. I would look out into the water, and sometimes steal a look at the rocks closer to the shore and base, but quit before actually looking straight down, close to the railing. It was a quick look, maybe 2 or 3 seconds, or less, and I jumped back into the stairwell and headed on down, exiting quickly and standing outside on solid ground, exhaling. “Made it”.
I remember climbing up the Arch de Triumph my first time in Paris - I was in my twenties. Seeing how short the enclosure was around the rooftop we were standing on, I stayed in the middle, refusing to go anywhere near the edge. As for the other tall structures, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Mont de Martre, etc., well, let’s just say I climbed them but refrained from the outside view until my third or fourth trip there. Oui!
Skiing was another adventure with the chairlift and sometimes a gondola taking you to the top of the mountain, which was always a higher and steeper ride. In the gondola, I would sit with my back to my side of the windowed wall and look towards the people in the middle of the car, stealing short glimpses beyond them to the outside, but never down and never dwelling there. The chairlift was wide open so I just dealt with it and worried more about departing the lift and getting hit by it than falling off, all the while not realizing that I was forgetting to breathe. I think I was more comfortable with my feet on the ground, even if it was on two boards traversing steep terrain.
Most people were unaware of my fear, me always maintaining an outward calm until I would freeze, or do an abrupt turnaround, mutter under my breath, “Ok, done!”, and make a break for the escape hatch. They would ask me what was going on and I would very honestly say “I’m afraid of heights''. And of course, their next question would be to ask me, then, why was I doing the very thing that terrified me. Sigh.
And I guess the honest answer would’ve been that I never wanted to be afraid of anything, especially if I wasn’t sure why it was making me afraid. I would just shrug in response. It was easier.
I remember gathering up the courage to walk across the longest suspension bridge in New Mexico; 1280’. At my first venture out beyond where the bridge was still anchored to the sidewalk, just a couple of feet, I was more focused on the depth of the gorge below and didn’t really think to fear anything else. And then some cars came driving across the bridge and it began to sway. I ran back to solid ground with my heart in my chest, trying to control the panic attack that was lurking right under the surface. I remember telling Mark, my companion at the time, there was something wrong with the bridge - it was moving. He then explained to me that it was supposed to. Oh yeah, I thought to myself, just like the San Francisco bridge in that movie where it sways violently, throwing the cars off into the churning water below until it breaks apart and lands in a crumpled and twisted heap, partially submerged. Well, how much could this bridge really sway? It wasn’t as big as that.
Not taking any chances, I waited until there were no cars in sight from either direction, even though Mark was calling out for me to “come on”, having already walked halfway across. I began to step very softly, focusing most of my attention on feeling the ground beneath my feet rather than looking at the steep ravine opening up on either side of me, my right hand tightly on the rail, my eyes directly in front of me, no peeksies. I noticed it was a long way across that bridge. Now making it about halfway, and seeing Mark, already on the other side, I figured it was all good from here and I loosened my grip a bit and tried to enjoy this impossible mission, starting to feel more hopeful, not as scared. And then I heard it. A rumble. The sound of tires slapping at the pavement underneath. A sound I was extremely familiar with. It was getting louder. It was getting closer. My heart dropped into my stomach. I froze, and without turning around, I could see the semi-truck mainlining for the bridge from behind, and he was flying. I quietly freaked and stopped breathing. I may have closed my eyes, but I’m not sure, I just don’t remember seeing anything. I was encapsulated in what was going on inside of me and it was pure terror and chaos. And then the bridge started to sway, lightly at first as the truck began to leave the road, surrounded by ground and earth, and then flew onto the suspended portion of the bridge towards me, with nothing below for 600 feet until you hit the bottom of the Rio Grande Gorge. And from the swing of a light sway, the bridge crescendoed into this violent and jerky, back and forth motion, as the truck passed at warp speed, its wind forcing me up against the railing.
I immediately knelt down on the ground, terrified that I was going to be blown or thrown over, keeping one hand extended up, clutching the rail in a death grip and the other on the ground, trying to dig through asphalt. After the truck had disappeared from view and the bridge stilled, I was still on the ground and could not get up to finish the crossing. I told Mark he had to come and help me and I started to cry. He walked me across like a child, traumatized and dazed, but I stopped the tears when we reached the other side. I left whatever emotions I had at the bridge, but that memory, I took it with me, never to repeat it again. Or so I told myself.
By the time I visited the Grand Canyon for the first time, I had already pushed myself enough that I did not experience raw fear, but instead was overwhelmed by the vast site walking up to the south rim, standing at the edge and looking out into the canyon. Every visit thereafter, from standing out into the canyon at different vantage points or keeping tabs on the condors from rock ledges beyond the safety walls, the little trepidation I still held did not deter me from fully experiencing all that it was. I had been in the CNN Tower in Toronto - they have a glass floor below your feet at the top when you come out of the elevator looking at the ground below - couldn’t do that for more than a very brief moment, terrified and the Needle in Seattle with the circular restaurant - that was a trip and I did just about ok with that, it was uncomfortable, but I just kept my eyes on the table, with short views at the clouds around us; I don’t need to ever go up again to either one. Driving through the top of the plateaus - basically in the sky in Wyoming was surreal and the 4 seater prop plane to get to that peninsula in Costa Rica. I want to know who came up with putting a full glass elevator on the outside of a skyscraper - and yes I did that terrified, a bit teary and never again. And then there was that rooftop bar and infinity pool on top of the Marina Bay Sands in Singapore. Trust me, I was pretty scared and decided not to drink but managed to hang out with my colleagues, nonetheless. They would tell me later that I was unusually quiet. Uh-huh. I kept staring at the edge of the infinity pool and how it dropped off into the middle of the sky, 626 feet above the ground or 55 stories ……..
So it was quite baffling to me, and most probably to you all, why I would agree to go along with one of my best friends to check skydiving off his “to do in my lifetime” list. It hadn’t been on my “to do” list ever, and do not ask me what I was thinking, because evidently, I was not. I was going back and forth, terrified and defiant, terrified and defiant; being overrun with terror and pushing back with defiance. We were out in Nevada and we had found the one place in the desert where you could skydive at the highest elevation, in tandem of course. So here we were. I agreed to go with the caveat that I could bow out at any time. We took the course, took a test, learned hand signals, laid on an ottoman and went through the drill sequences for the instructor, signed a lot of paperwork, and then were brought into this large hangar, where they were folding parachutes.
What happens if they miss a crease, a corner, fold it wrong? OMG. All the time my stomach in knots.
We were given our jumpsuits and lockers and told that once we put that jumpsuit on, we were not to go anywhere unless we were accompanied by our jump instructor. I put mine on, thought about how much time I had to bow out, and then sat down with the rest of the divers, going over the instructions and sequences for the 20th time and every five minutes after that until we jumped. As our jump instructors came up to greet us and escort us to the plane, I knew that if I was going to opt-out, now would be the time. But I jumped on the side of defiance, decided to stay the course, and just do the best I could, even if I had to do it terrified, hoping not to miss the whole thing. However, that all changed in an instant when I saw the plane. Immediately, I told my jump instructor Tim that I didn’t think I could do this; the transport plane looked like a paper cut out, small and thin, nothing to it. Well, Tim had other ideas and began to talk to me as we walked towards the plane. All the while, I imagined that this must be what it felt like for death row inmates as they were escorted for the last time, to the room where they would receive their ticket out.
Tim asked me what I was afraid of. “Heights”. Ok. He started to talk to me, trying to ease my fears. And I realized that this guy was going to be strapped to me and he didn’t seem to think it was going to be a problem, or he was hoping to God not, so I just asked him, please, if I was going to do this, I needed to find my zen place because if I was actually going to do this, I wanted to actually experience it and not miss it because I was freaking out the whole time. This was a one-time deal. He told me he would help me get to my zen place and I believed him. And then I said a prayer.
I think it was worse on that paper plane, me sitting right inside the door, which stayed open the whole time, watching the ground continue to drop further and further away as we flew higher and higher. All the while being tested on the correct procedures I would need to follow. Then it was the two of us, Tim and I, slipping forward off the narrow bench and onto the floor, pushing forward until we were in the open door, legs and feet dangling. Then, with a signal, he pushed us out into the sky. And as I fell forward, out of the plane, I also fell out of everything; the plane, the floor, my thoughts, my feelings, my terror, my emotions, every vision, and forced myself to let go, let go of everything, take a deep breath and be present. Eyes open, mouth closed.
The very first thing I became aware of was a strange and complete calm that had come over me, no feeling of anything, just calm. Immediately after, I became acutely aware of this thunderous noise, so loud that I couldn’t hear Tim, even though his head was right up against mine - hence the hand signals. Then I was aware of the air, now turned into this violent wind, forcefully battering against us, flapping the exposed skin on my face so much that it hurt. The fourth thing I became aware of was the sky around me where there was nothing, nothing but white, just white. No mark, no color, no delineation. Just white. And then Tim signaled to pull the parachute cord. There was a very sharp, abrupt, and harsh jerk upward several feet and then nothing. Everything stopped.
The noise stopped, the wind stopped, we had stopped. And again, I was acutely aware that there was not one single sound. It was absolutely silent, the sky was abnormally still. And we fell gently and quietly towards the ground. It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life nor expected and later I would wonder if that is what it must be like to be in space.
As we floated down, not disturbing the stillness and with nothing around us to mark our descent, we moved ourselves around the sky while he pointed out all of the places far below of which I recognized; the Hoover Dam, Lake Mead, the Colorado River, the Las Vegas Strip, Valley of Fire, Red Rock Canyon, and Mt. Charleston. And I took it all in, looking around, looking up at the sky surrounding us, blank, back down at all of the places, seeing them, feeling everything, hearing the silence of it all. Later I would come to know that our descent had begun at an elevation of about 13k feet and 120 mph sans parachute, for about 40 seconds, and then another 10 minutes floating with the parachute deployed - Tim took some extra time with me, allowing me to guide the parachute. It was amazing.
After coming back, it took a good week or so for the reality of what I actually did to truly sink in. I was still in awe of what I had experienced, never anticipating the sound and ferocity of the wind, the absolute silence that would follow, and the calm that had filled and covered me and allowed me to take in every moment, fully engaged and present. My prayers had been answered.
For years after that dive, whenever I was facing any moment or experience that would cause me to fear, I would always tell myself, “Karen, you jumped out of a plane, you can pretty much do anything”. And I believed it.
I am still afraid of bugs, just not terrified anymore, and still, hate if they are on me but I’ve become more adept at quickly getting them off. As for high elevations, I would say that after meeting face to face, on quite a lot of occasions, we are more than good acquaintances, this fear and I. We are just not particularly fond of each other and we leave it at that. A mutual respect, and one that no longer holds any power over either one of us. Still, I prefer to keep my two feet on the ground.
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