There's a slow leak in the greater water tower at the hospital. It's a huge cement water tank about 60 feet in the air. We're bringing in a mason to fix the leak and install an evacuation pipe for wash water. He'll come this weekend, when the consumption is the smallest. We'll fall back on our alternate water point, which is a small well just next to our borehole, with a submersible pump installed. We have a second water tower that's a bit lower and bit smaller for just this sort of case.
In preparation for the work, after discussing finishing techniques and water-tightness, I decide it's a good idea to check out the tank myself. I mount the 60-foot-high tower without a harness, without a spotter, and without telling anyone where I'm going. Halfway up, I'm a bit spooked. By the time I clamber up, I'm shaking like a leaf.
I've never been scared of heights, and I spent basically all of my free time in college at my student job of hanging lights in the theater, 40 feet above the deck, walking on nothing but eighth-inch-thick cables. I'm no stranger to heights. But this time, I'm thoroughly terrified.
I have no confidence in the welder who built the ladder I'm clinging to. I have no confidence in the mason who installed the ladder to the side of a water tank in the sky. I have no confidence in the cement used to hold it all together. I have the nasty realization, as I'm up on the top of tower contemplating my descent, that I'm not in a story (or a blog post) where the ending (or at least the continued survival of the author) is assured. At this moment, there's nothing much preventing me from plunging to my death. Not even the power of a compelling through-line or an unfinished story arc.
I decide to take a few pictures. One, to not miss the opportunity, because the view, even as I studiously ignore it to rally my failing spirit, is pretty cool. Two, to convince myself that I'm not terrified and one step away from becoming a sobbing catastrophe that has to be rescued from the sky tower. It would work, except my hands are shaking too hard to take a good picture. Time to face my fears head-on.
As I remind myself that sometimes fears are healthy, and that I'm not guaranteed to survive this, I descend.
After I make it safely to the ground, I continue schlepping supplies to the waste area as if nothing has happened, and quietly ponder a bunch of lessons that I've just learned.
In preparation for the work, after discussing finishing techniques and water-tightness, I decide it's a good idea to check out the tank myself. I mount the 60-foot-high tower without a harness, without a spotter, and without telling anyone where I'm going. Halfway up, I'm a bit spooked. By the time I clamber up, I'm shaking like a leaf.
I've never been scared of heights, and I spent basically all of my free time in college at my student job of hanging lights in the theater, 40 feet above the deck, walking on nothing but eighth-inch-thick cables. I'm no stranger to heights. But this time, I'm thoroughly terrified.
I have no confidence in the welder who built the ladder I'm clinging to. I have no confidence in the mason who installed the ladder to the side of a water tank in the sky. I have no confidence in the cement used to hold it all together. I have the nasty realization, as I'm up on the top of tower contemplating my descent, that I'm not in a story (or a blog post) where the ending (or at least the continued survival of the author) is assured. At this moment, there's nothing much preventing me from plunging to my death. Not even the power of a compelling through-line or an unfinished story arc.
I decide to take a few pictures. One, to not miss the opportunity, because the view, even as I studiously ignore it to rally my failing spirit, is pretty cool. Two, to convince myself that I'm not terrified and one step away from becoming a sobbing catastrophe that has to be rescued from the sky tower. It would work, except my hands are shaking too hard to take a good picture. Time to face my fears head-on.
As I remind myself that sometimes fears are healthy, and that I'm not guaranteed to survive this, I descend.
After I make it safely to the ground, I continue schlepping supplies to the waste area as if nothing has happened, and quietly ponder a bunch of lessons that I've just learned.
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