This bizarre development was the brainchild of one of the TV news directors I worked for back in the early 80s. Participatory
journalism was all the rage and someone who wanted my parking spot decided it would be a fine idea for me to emulate George Plimpton, the guy who started the craze. I checked with the Marine Corps to see
if they had something I could participate in and record for posterity. At the time, the Public Affairs office at Camp Lejeune was small and grouchy and responses to media requests were usually processed
within the same decade they were received. But for some reason the usually slow-as-molasses PAO staff was quick to offer me a chance to go spy-rigging.
For those who don't recognize this term, spy-rigging
is when some poor slob is dangled on a rope outside of a flying helicopter. I don't know about you, but my own personal code of survival does not permit me to step outside moving aircraft unless it's going
down in flames and I'm wearing a parachute.
On the civilian side of the house, I had an opportunity to rappel with the local police. And, while I wasn't very big on heights, I figured five stories up with
a whole building between me and the ground was a whole lot better than hanging out of a flying chopper.
I lined up my photographer, who was actually a gardener or something at the TV station, and he
assured me he was the next George Lucas and not to worry. So we met the SWAT guys who were under instructions not to kill me as that would really put a crimp in future recruiting efforts, and they fixed the
rope so I couldn't fall out, but would look really cool, like I knew what I was doing, on the way down. Then they showed me how to bounce off the building, playing out a little more rope each time. Piece of
cake, I thought.
They say the first step is the worst one and since I'm truly afraid of heights, pushing off backwards into mid-air from the top of a five-story building was the Godzilla of my phobias. Of
course, I immediately learned why it's so important to keep bouncing OFF the building with one's feet:-- the alternative is bouncing ONTO the building. And there's nothing soft about the side of a building.
I was scared to death, but I finally made it all the way to the ground where I was met by my photographer who told me I did a great job and would I get back up there and do it again so he could get some
shots from the top. In response I provided some helpful advice concerning his ancestry and wobbled back to my car. It wasn't until later that night when the whole event was telecast on the evening news that
the full implication of what I'd done came back to me.
For there on the TV screen was my rear end, going from microscopic to water buffalo on camera as I descended the rope, bottom first. With each frame
my rear grew bigger and bigger, until it blocked out all the light, like a gigantic denim-covered eclipse. It's sufficient to say I did not consider that my best side and had to control the urge to stomp old
George's tulips right into the ground the next time I saw him.
And it seems my fear of heights has been passed on for posterity. Last year my son took his first helicopter ride and was very excited about
it. I asked him how he liked it. "Well, Mom, I liked up," He told me. "But I didn't like down."
I know exactly how he feels.
