London Heights

When I was 27 years old I found myself outside the dome of St. Paul's cathedral in London. Curiously, I voluntarily placed myself in that situation by walking up a series of steps. So what? 100s of thousands if not millions of people make that journey every year.  Well, most of those people aren't afraid of heights.

People unafraid of heights refuse to get themselves in a spot that's high in the air with a very low and thin banister that cannot protect them from sudden and imminent death. I should clarify, I am not actually afraid of heights. What I am really afraid of is impact.  Impact scares me.

In order to walk to the dome of St. Paul's cathedral you ascend a narrow stone corridor. After rising a few stories you get to the whispering gallery; a rounded wall where someone on the other side of the dome can hear you speak. From the whispering wall I had a simple choice, one was to go up to the top of the dome. The other was to descend back into the main cathedral hall.

Inexplicably, I decided to go up. Why would I do such a thing? I assumed that the upper part of the dome had a very safe, stable and secure floor like the area around the whispering wall. In fact, as I climbed toward the dome, the stone stairway narrowed even more. Even though I knew I was getting higher, the solidness of those walls and the strength of those stone stairs assured me that I was safe.

Then I turned a corner, took a step out of the stairwell and WOW! All of London lay before me. From that height you could see the wonderful sights of that great European capital. However, on that day, I don't remember anything other than it was rainy and with any given step I was about to plunge to my death. I am certain that the walkway around the dome is less the 8" wide. I plastered myself against the wall and inched my way around to the exit.
 

To allow traffic flow, you descend from the dome using a concealed inner stairway.
The descending stairs consist of crisscrossing metal and you can see through the stairs all the way down to the lower level. Out of the frying pan and back into the fire. I am 27 years old, and my wife can attest, I just sat down.  My legs refused to move. I could only scoot down on my butt for a couple hundred stairs. Each time I reached a landing, I moved to the side so that people could walk past me.

I wasn't embarrassed. I felt no shame. I consider this a tale of warning for all. Why? I managed to save my life that day. The only real casualty was I did lose a glove that was never recovered and I like to believe lives on somewhere in the recesses of that landmark cathedral.