Lighthouses — cool structures, romanticized nostalgia, and a wealth of symbolism.
Some of my earliest and fondest memories from childhood are of the Hatteras lighthouse on the outer banks of North Carolina.
And over the years, I’ve climbed many in different parts of the country with little issue, so I had no idea that the one on Tybee Island, Georgia, would turn me into a whimpering toddler.
I’m lucky in that I don’t have a universal fear of all heights. I don’t actually have clinical acrophobia, but I’m easily reduced to a bowl full of jelly when just a few ingredients exist.
- High enough that I risk injury. So probably over 15 feet.
- I gotta be able to see straight down.
- I don’t trust the safety equipment (railing, wall, cable, etc).
If you combine those things, my knees weaken, and my mind locks up. The lizard brain takes over.
Which brings us to the top of the Tybee Island lighthouse. As I emerge from the lantern room onto the catwalk, all three ingredients combine to rip any vestige of self-control away from me.
It’s a lighthouse, so of course, I knew it was high, and I’d be able to see straight down. I’ve done it many times. But I had no idea the catwalk railing would come up only to the middle of my thighs! Usually, the catwalk railing is at least chest high and often reaches over my head.
I’ve lost all trust in the safety equipment.
Who’s that minuscule railing gonna save? Uh, nobody over 3 feet in height. What if you get startled, someone bumps into you, or you lean over just a bit too much while waving to the smart people below? Surely the remains of people waving to their much smarter family and friends litter the ground around the bottom of this lighthouse.
My lizard brain was having none of it. It locks up, and now I physically can’t move. I literally can’t move.
Not only can’t I move, but now I find myself hugging the lantern room from the outside. Not hugging in the sense of “staying close to.” No. Hugging, hugging. Like it’s a giant teddy bear — arms outstretched, belly and cheek stuck to it.
And I’m not the only one on this catwalk. Heck no. I got at least ten other people around to witness this public display of terror. Lucky me.
At first, the others are mildly curious, like maybe I’m playing some kind of game. If only. But after a few minutes, they all know. My shame is public. How could it not be? I’m hugging the giant lighthouse 140 feet off the ground, and I can’t move.
Well, here’s how it ends. After my friends and family take a few pictures of me for nostalgia purposes, my wife saves my ass. She tenderly takes my hand, looks me in the eyes, and says, “OK, don’t look anywhere else but at me. I’ve got you.”
And she leads me around the catwalk to the lantern room door and into safety. Finally, I can move again on my own.
