My Northern Surprise

My northern surprise

Some of you may have been wondering what the surprise was, organised by my friend Joy to celebrate my 50th birthday. Well I’ll tell you what the surprise was. Joy, my oldest friend and godmother to my son, tried to kill me. That’s right, shocking isn’t it?

Oh, she didn’t use a gun or knife, or even poison. Nothing as conventional as that for our Joy. No, she tried to frighten me to death. Scare the living day lights out of me; stop my heart with terror;  panic the bejaysus in me. You get the picture.

 

Yes, this wise, dear and trusted pal decided that of all the things we could do together, taking me tree top walking and zip wire racing was perfect. Yes, perfect for my fearless, courageous and  totally blind to risk children. But for me, who has a long and deeply held fear of heights, this is hell on earth.

‘Some women at work did this’ says Joy cheerfully. ‘Apparently they felt really empowered after it’.

‘I’m already so feckin empowered I am not ashamed to say I’m scared’, I counter. It’s to no avail.

The moments before stepping onto the first wire are a blur.  I’ve blocked out the terrifying memories of standing waiting, as first Ella, then paddy, then Joy, take to the tree top walk. I stand, harness attached and legs quivering, and tentatively feel my foot along the wooden platform until it reaches the wire. I momentarily glance down and immediately my stomach lurches at the 100 foot drop below. With much encouragement from our instructor, reassurance from Joy and sarcasm from the kids, I slowly make my way across.

I focus on my breathing and tell myself to just take one step at a time (sweet Jesus). My legs feel like jelly and I don’t know if they will hold out until the end. I’m gripping the wire so hard my hands hurt. I’m meant to use the rope, which swings freely in the breeze, rather than the more solid, stable wire. Feck that.

Finally my foot feels the solidity of the platform at the next tree and I step onto it with enormous relief. My legs still trembling, I embrace the tree, determined to hold onto it and never let it go. Finally I understand the term tree hugger and more importantly, cherish the activity. I have never felt so disempowered in my life.

Another six wires, another six platforms, another six trees to hug before Joy and I can make an exit from this forest of horror.  A Tarzan like jump, swing and rope climb is ‘all ‘ that’s required to get us onto solid ground.  Joy goes first and my vengeful soul is delighted that she is terrified of leaping into the unknown. I want to push her, give her a good shove into the air, but I suspect the instructor would see and they might have rules about those kinds of things. Besides, the kids have done a few loops of the course in the time it’s taken us to do less than a quarter of it, and they’re back now, watching and gloating at our fear.

Eventually she jumps, swings, sways back and forth and with some effort, pulls herself into the final platform. I’m not wasting anytime here. As soon as I’m hooked on, I jump, close my eyes, scream, hold on tight and pray.

And so, within minutes, we are back on solid ground, and I want to cry. I want to cry with relief that I’m still alive; cry in pain at the blisters on my hands from holding the wire too long and too tight, and cry with thanks that I managed to stave off the diarrhoea which I was so sure was on it’s way.

We look at each other and Joy starts laughing.

‘You’re white as a sheet’ she says.

‘Next time you want to empower me, can we discuss it first?’ I plead.

‘Absolutely’.

And we walk off for coffee and buns leaving the kids to swing in the air.