|Me at the Cattle Troughs, Swanage|
I was positively sure I was going to die. Tears streamed down my face, my body shook uncontrollably. “I can’t do this,” I heard myself repeat over and over. But, against the self-preserving urge, I took a deep, shuddering breath, grasped the rope, pushed my bum out to oblivion and attempted the two-metre abseil to the first ledge – some 10 or so metres above a wild, white-crested sea.
This was crazy. Below me, a knobbly depression in the cliff face – known as the Lecture Theatre – was my only way of getting down to the ledge that was currently being pummelled by the ocean. I gripped the rope tighter and squeezed my eyes shut only to open them when two seasoned rock climbers scrambled past down to the bottom, without the assistance of ropes. I pretended I was taking a breather and enjoying the view.
And, indeed, the view was lovely. A mass of empty blue-green ripples stretched out to the horizon where it was met by the grey smudge of sky, while around me, steep, chiselled cliffs loomed out of the froth. If I didn’t know better I would have said I was standing on the edge of the world.
Del and I had come to Swanage, on
the South West coast of .
The coastal path was wild and windswept. But we weren’t here for the sea air,
nor to stretch our legs along the cracked-earth path. We were here to
experience climbing sea cliffs for the first time. At home, it hadn’t seemed
quite as scary – the photos picturesque with blue skies and promises of
picnics. But standing there buffeted by the wind, amid the gloom of an overcast
day, I wasn’t smelling any roses. This was the real McCoy, and boy was I
But I had somehow accomplished the first part of the abseil down so I figured I might as well carry on – the irony of having to get down to climb back up did not escape me, nor did the fact that this was probably the easy part of the whole process. Before long I reached the water’s edge and the immensity of the sea cliffs reared up around me, dwarfing me. I had been warned that Swanage could be overwhelming. It was true.
This, however, was just the start of what was to come. What goes down the sea cliffs must come back up again. As
set off on the trad climb – an easy route, I had been promised – I watched
nervously, feeding out the rope, as he clung to the rock with one hand, the
other putting in place the equipment that needed to hold his weight. Then he
climbed over a jagged edge and was lost from view as he continued to the top.
For near on 30 minutes I patiently fed out the rope when he tugged for more,
watching the waves crash at my feet, feeling the spray on my face and trying to
push dark thoughts from my mind. Del
was at the top,
waving at me, though I couldn’t hear his shouts against the background chorus
of wind and waves. He signalled for me to get ready to climb. All the bravado
I’d put on evaporated in a rush. I shook my head. “No way, I’m not going up
there,” I shouted, though it came out more like a whimper. He put his hands
together in prayer, pleading with me to make the climb (and collect his
valuable climbing gear that he had wedged in the rocks during his ascent). Del
I pondered the situation. I was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place (and a wet, angry ocean). The only way out was up. I took a deep breath, gathered the courage and tied myself in. I began to climb. The rock was jagged, nasty and sharp under my hands, slicing into my flesh as I hung precariously, one hand holding on for dear life, the other removing the costly and precious nuts from the cracks. Then all of a sudden I was over the worst of it and the rest of the climb was not so much steep cliff but more a relatively straight-forward scramble up a slope. It was almost easy.
|The last scramble to safety|
I got to the top and sought safety. It was only then I looked back down at the waves, foaming as if in anger, rearing up as if to nip the ankles of climbers. Relief flooded my body. I did it. I made the climb, all the way to the top. I mini fist pumped. What a thrill; my first trad climb.
But I achieved more than just climbing a sea cliff. I also fought the negative demons in my head; the ones that stoked the “I can’t” fires. If I had listened to those voices I would have continued to sit at the top of the cliff feeling sorry for myself, woefully watching the other climbers with envy.
The unknown and new is always scary. Getting over that mental hurdle is the tricky bit but it’s not impossible. It’s also easier when you know the rewards are great for achieving it. The one thing I have learnt from this experience is that getting over that initial hurdle not only boosts your confidence, it also makes it that little bit easier to fight the other “I can’ts” that might plague you. That’s when you know you’re mastering your fear – and that’s a bloody great feeling.