fear of heights

Since being a toddler, I have always been clumsy. I broke things and bumped into others. My limbs were always bruised and knees scabbed. Grandma called me, ‘A great lummox'. This meant that climbing trees and scaling anything high would undoubtedly result in falls and broken bones. Later in school soccer, I was always sent off for knocking down opponents after the ball had moved on. This was not malice; just being a lummox.

When I was five, the working class holidayed in the seaside town of Blackpool. It boasts a tower of steel girders around 520 feet high. Its knobbly riveted metal was painted rust-coloured. It was built by local dignitaries to attract holidaymakers. It is smaller but no less intimidating to we agoraphobics than its Eiffel Tower predecessor.

Sightseers take a lift to an enclosed platform near the top.

The structure sways slightly in the wind. Though totally safe, my small arms clung to a metal stanchion. I was paralyzed with fear. Nearby an old lady calmly sold cigarettes and candy.

My childish dread of falling never completely vanished.

At twenty-two, I was a newly minted green beret, Royal Marine Commando. The bravado and elan of a scrap and obedience to bellowed orders overwhelmed most such fears. If I had stopped to think, there was no way that sliding down ropes from helicopters, climbing cliffs or rappelling back down them would have worked.

As attack troops, our greatest rivals were the red beret Parachute regiments. We beat each other up in exercises and bar fights whenever we could. Rarely did 'a run ashore' pass without stools flying over heads, bruised knuckles and some black eyes.

Most in my troop earned their parachute wings, just to show that they could do more than the Paras. The prospect terrified me, but I did all the pre-para training due to peer pressure and not wanting to be a wuss. This involved leaping from high towers, with bone crunching landings and rolling over ready to fight. With a clenched jaw, tightly closed eyes and a deep breath I made my leaps. My heart thumped wildly against my ribs. The sardonic remarks of the RAF instructors did not help.

‘What happens if both the main and the emergency chutes fail?’

‘Cross your legs so we can screw you out of the ground.’

The head of our management school was a famous professor. He was on the boards of around 40 companies and Chairman of some huge multinationals. One directorship was for the parent company of a Liverpool based firm. The boss of this business hired me. The Prof exaggerated my abilities, so my first corporate job was on double the normal post graduate pay. Life is about luck rather than merit.

The CEO was difficult to misunderstand.

‘Can I have a couple of weeks off for my Marine parachute training.’

‘You’ve to drop playing soldiers or you don’t work here!’

As a result of the hike in income and ridiculously rapid promotions we were able to buy a newbuild in the country north of Liverpool. The houses were detached but only a few feet separated them on small lots. The neighbours were all scousers who had clawed their way out of the roughest parts of the notorious Liverpool 8 slums. Since demolished.

The day we moved in the friendly fellow next door, Tommy, offered to show me how to reverse the charges on the gas meter. ‘I’ve done it for everyone in our street. At weekends, you simply unbolt each end and turn it round so the gas from the week reverse flows running back the meter.’ I declined as this was both criminal and immoral. Later, Tommy quoted for central heating at half the market price. He confided on completion of the project - ‘I drove up to a supplier in my white van. I told them I was collecting for a big housebuilder, one of their important customers. I signed some paperwork in a false name and signed some paperwork drove off.’ Suddenly we are receivers of stolen property.

At school our religious instruction teacher shared, ‘Bad companions are usually the best.’

He was spot on. Tommy was hilarious, over time he became an armed robber. When he had money, it was down the pub and drinks all round, including his friends from the Serious Crime Squad. He was seriously bad company.

Other neighbours were equally entertaining. The woman across bloodily beat her husband over the head with a pickaxe handle in the street. While her husband was at work, the ‘lady’ next door often had a shiny red fire engine parked outside. She entertained the firemen inside, while the kids played on the machine. It was an interesting place to live, a complete contrast to corporate life.

It was New Year’s Eve 1973. The lady accross threw a boozy party. Things were happening behind sofas and in bathrooms. We more dedicated drinkers began discussing New Year resolutions.

‘I’ve always wanted to go parachuting.’

‘Me too.’

‘And me.’

‘Great, let’s organise it.’

I was assigned to make the arrangements. There was an opportunity in February. A club ran a course from an old RAF airfield. Curiously, the New Year bravado seemed to have evaporated into a plethora of excuses. I was left to go alone.

Drunken Revelries

Unexpected Benefits?

Six men and the delectable Marcia arrived in good time for the ground instruction. She had a cute face and big eyes. The jump suit masked any other charms, but my imagination did the rest. After my military pre-para training, it all sounded routine, apart from my persistent fear of heights. One disturbing element was that we had to pack our own chutes. They were military issue. Mine had a 1945 label. Oh well, it must have worked so far.

Our small twin engined plane had barely been modified. The side door could slide back and the lines for the chutes could be hooked onto a ceiling bar. Somehow, eight people including the despatcher had to crouch into the tiny space. Being the heaviest I was told to lie on my back after the other guys were accommodated squatting. It was damned uncomfortable as I was wearing my main chute on my back. Things looked up when the jump master said,

‘Marcia, you lie face down on top of him between his legs.’ I was not about to argue.

Her modesty was saved by our emergency chutes worn on the front. Her breath was sweet. She winked at me. This distracted from the extremely long take off run of the over loaded aircraft. Then we slogged slowly up to around to 2,500 feet. The turbo props were straining hard. For those bad at judging heights, this is where vehicles look like toys and houses are from a model village. Being the heaviest, I was told to reposition to jump first. We were hooked up. I looked down and went into jabbering idiot mode. There was no way to the back of the line. Marcia was watching. The jumpmaster tossed out a weighted streamer to test the wind direction. We banked round and he shouted, ‘Go!’

My doubts about making the decision were eliminated. I sat on the edge of the hatch. The slipstream plucked me out. Am I upside down flashed into my mind before I could worry about whether the canopy would function. Bang! it snapped open, jerking me under the arms and crotch.

Unhappy Landings

At first, it was fun. The toggles for each hand on the old chutes gaped or closed the two apertures in the canopy. The upward thrust of air pushed through the holes. If you opened only one, you could pivot right or left. If you pulled both together, you jetted forward in one direction.

This happy state did not last long. The earth was on a rapidly approaching collision course. The rock-hard concrete runway was zooming upwards to smash my legs. Adrenalin kicked in. There was a huge midden that the local farmer had bulldozed together just off the runway. Concrete or manure? The choice was simple. Splat! I hit the manure in a spine jolting heap. The wind dragged my chute through the muck before I could gather it in. That done it was only a 500-yard walk to the chute repacking hanger. Hey, I did it. It was terrifying. But I did it. No, it was the slipstream.

My reception as conquering hero was disappointing. Taking one whiff, the delectable Marcia disappeared to the far side of the hanger never to be seen again. The crew were upset that their parachute was covered in muck. Well, its past time they got a new one.

My reception at home was muted. It was clear to me that jumping again was the only way to overcome my persistent fear.

With some persuasion the club allowed me to do this. My first free fall jumps from greater heights were more fun. If you could avoid barbed wire fences and trees. Then came the stories from club members.

‘Jack broke his back hitting the roof of a house.’

‘Did you hear that Fred ‘s chute failed and the emergency Roman candled?'

Risking death on the roads seems more normal. Parachuting is not for me.

Postscript - Tommy went to prison for armed robbery of a payroll. It was the biggest in the UK at the time.