ocean was a genetic memory; the first creature climbing out
of the water, onto land, taking that initial lungful of air, casting an
over-the-shoulder glance at his former home.
What had it
been thinking? Probably something about he’d have to go back that way if
he ever want to get laid again.
No bars on
land yet.
Barely
rested, I pulled on the next rung and it came apart in my fingers.
My left
hand darted out to nab the twine cord opposite to the one in my other hand and
I held tight.
Still, I
could feel myself on the verge of falling.
Looking up,
it appeared the rope in my right hand had begun to come loose, slipping from
its mooring near the top of the rock face, and wooden rungs began to rain down
on top of me as they broke free.
Banging
against the rock wall, I jerked downward, little drops, and then bigger, and
soon enough, there would be a long plunge to the bottom.
I was
easily a hundred fifty feet in the air.
For the
second time in just a few hours, I was about to fall to my death. On the
whole, not a very good day.
Jerking,
banging, reaching for rungs that came loose the moment I grabbed then, I glimpsed
at the other rope. It looked secure, so I stretched out for it again.
That's when
I began to fall hard, so panicked and flailing, I clamped my free hand onto the
other rope, and it gnawed deeply into my palm.
Didn’t
matter. I gripped tighter with my left hand and it hurt like hell but once my
grip began to fasten, I pushed off with my knee and reached over with my right,
holding with all the strength I had left.
The rain of
wooden rungs was slowing but those remaining few were really beginning to hurt,
falling all the way from the top.
One of them
hit the shoe hanging over my shoulder and exploded into dust and splinters.
Not wanting to be beamed unconscious, I held onto the rope, and tucked my
head into the crook of my arms.
Eventually,
everything quieted. My battered body was clinging to the rope at the side
of the rock face, and it seemed if I were very careful, I had a chance to make
it back down uninjured.
But then
what? Being stuck at the bottom again with no path to safety wasn’t a
choice worth making.
I looked up
blinking away dust and saw only dimming sky and a long wall of rock. This
rope no longer sharing the load with its twin but, out of more reasonable
choices, I slowly moved up toward the cliff's edge, hand over hand, hand over
hand.
Stopping
often, it must have taken the better part of an hour to make the rest of the
climb. I’d never been so exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally.
More than once, the idea of just falling appealed to me.
Finally at
the top, palms chapped bloody, the muscles of my arms now jelly, and I pulled
myself up onto the dark shelf.
I lay on my
back for several minutes and found myself fighting off sleep. I’m a bit of a
toss-and-turner. Not so good with the two hundred foot drop next to me.
Finally,
sitting up and looking around, trying to pull shapes out of the dusk light, it
took me a moment to work out what I was staring at.
The small
house—well, not quite a house—was carved from ugly white stucco. There
were no shutters on either window that straddled the door, and on the roof
there were so many antennas, dishes, and wires, they’d never have to worry a
second about bird shit.
I smiled
and croaked: “Well, they got cable.”
Slowly, I
stumbled toward the Quonset hut, not seeing any signs of life inside. I
didn’t care about life. But a bottle of water or beer or juice would be
good. Preferably beer. Yeah, I’d earned a beer.
When I got
within fifteen feet of the steel door, it swung open and this huge man, like a
Sumo wrestler, with a large black duffle under each arm, came out. He
lifted his head and stopped dead in his tracks, his massive legs momentarily
shifting as if he were about to bolt back inside.
I must have
looked like hell because, this man who was
of the water, onto land, taking that initial lungful of air, casting an
over-the-shoulder glance at his former home.
What had it
been thinking? Probably something about he’d have to go back that way if
he ever want to get laid again.
No bars on
land yet.
Barely
rested, I pulled on the next rung and it came apart in my fingers.
My left
hand darted out to nab the twine cord opposite to the one in my other hand and
I held tight.
Still, I
could feel myself on the verge of falling.
Looking up,
it appeared the rope in my right hand had begun to come loose, slipping from
its mooring near the top of the rock face, and wooden rungs began to rain down
on top of me as they broke free.
Banging
against the rock wall, I jerked downward, little drops, and then bigger, and
soon enough, there would be a long plunge to the bottom.
I was
easily a hundred fifty feet in the air.
For the
second time in just a few hours, I was about to fall to my death. On the
whole, not a very good day.
Jerking,
banging, reaching for rungs that came loose the moment I grabbed then, I glimpsed
at the other rope. It looked secure, so I stretched out for it again.
That's when
I began to fall hard, so panicked and flailing, I clamped my free hand onto the
other rope, and it gnawed deeply into my palm.
Didn’t
matter. I gripped tighter with my left hand and it hurt like hell but once my
grip began to fasten, I pushed off with my knee and reached over with my right,
holding with all the strength I had left.
The rain of
wooden rungs was slowing but those remaining few were really beginning to hurt,
falling all the way from the top.
One of them
hit the shoe hanging over my shoulder and exploded into dust and splinters.
Not wanting to be beamed unconscious, I held onto the rope, and tucked my
head into the crook of my arms.
Eventually,
everything quieted. My battered body was clinging to the rope at the side
of the rock face, and it seemed if I were very careful, I had a chance to make
it back down uninjured.
But then
what? Being stuck at the bottom again with no path to safety wasn’t a
choice worth making.
I looked up
blinking away dust and saw only dimming sky and a long wall of rock. This
rope no longer sharing the load with its twin but, out of more reasonable
choices, I slowly moved up toward the cliff's edge, hand over hand, hand over
hand.
Stopping
often, it must have taken the better part of an hour to make the rest of the
climb. I’d never been so exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally.
More than once, the idea of just falling appealed to me.
Finally at
the top, palms chapped bloody, the muscles of my arms now jelly, and I pulled
myself up onto the dark shelf.
I lay on my
back for several minutes and found myself fighting off sleep. I’m a bit of a
toss-and-turner. Not so good with the two hundred foot drop next to me.
Finally,
sitting up and looking around, trying to pull shapes out of the dusk light, it
took me a moment to work out what I was staring at.
The small
house—well, not quite a house—was carved from ugly white stucco. There
were no shutters on either window that straddled the door, and on the roof
there were so many antennas, dishes, and wires, they’d never have to worry a
second about bird shit.
I smiled
and croaked: “Well, they got cable.”
Slowly, I
stumbled toward the Quonset hut, not seeing any signs of life inside. I
didn’t care about life. But a bottle of water or beer or juice would be
good. Preferably beer. Yeah, I’d earned a beer.
When I got
within fifteen feet of the steel door, it swung open and this huge man, like a
Sumo wrestler, with a large black duffle under each arm, came out. He
lifted his head and stopped dead in his tracks, his massive legs momentarily
shifting as if he were about to bolt back inside.
I must have
looked like hell because, this man who was
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