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Published: March 17th 2007
As soon as my credit card processed, I caught the disclaimer out of the corner of my eye: “No personal items will be allowed with you during the bridge climb, including cameras.” I had just paid $400 to book the Harbour Bridge Climb in Sydney and suddenly felt sick -
no cameras. I knew it made sense as I could envision some bumbling tourist dropping their bulky camera like a smart bomb into passing traffic below, but somehow still felt robbed.
Four weeks later, we found ourselves struggling to surface from the covers after a late night in King’s Cross, Sydney’s party district. Gina looked a little better than a piece of day-old road kill and likely felt the same. Knowing that, as usual, we had an ambitious itinerary for the day, I decided to let her sleep until 9 A.M. before rousing her. After a bit of bitching and moaning, I got her into the shower by reminding her that we’d pass our afternoon at Bondi Beach before climbing the Harbour Bridge.
Clad in her new bathing suit, Gina emerged from the bathroom like a new woman. We packed up our beach necessities, as well as Frog, and
set out on our daily adventure.
Driving along the major arteries of downtown Sydney, we noticed police officers erecting barricades to keep pedestrians off the streets. Guessing that a parade was on the horizon, it took another minute before we passed the people with shamrocks painted on their faces. It clicked - today was the Sunday before St. Patrick’s Day. Slightly bummed that we would miss the revelry, we quickly turned our attention to the much needed relaxation of a
beach day. A few kilometers later we crested a hill and found ourselves staring at the Pacific. Winding our way down to Bondi Beach with a slew of beach traffic, we promptly realized that parking would be a nightmare. Instead of being frugal and circling for a street spot, I spied a $20 flat fee lot that we lodged the Camry into.
Heading topside, we were inundated with scantily clad beach goers filling what seemed every nook and cranny of the sidewalk. In an effort to stave off a progressive hangover, we began hunting for lunch at one of the numerous cafés that line the ocean boulevard. Gina, being the good Catholic, gave up fast food, pizza
What a Bunch of Boobs
If you look close, you'll find some.and pasta for Lent. Unfortunately, just about every restaurant we passed specialized in one of the three. Carrying on a bit further, frustration growing with each passing eatery, we settled on an al fresco café advertising fajitas as their daily special.
We devoured our meal and headed for the sand.
Making our way down the bluff, we began eyeing a place to set up camp. The beach was a sea of skin intermixed with patches of sand - people were everywhere. Navigating the encampments of other sun seekers, we headed towards the surf. “Boobs,” I whispered to Gina, as if on a covert mission.
Unlike the puritan ways of the United States, Australians have adopted a more European mentality about sunbathing. This includes going topless.
We found an open spot next to a few women baring their goods and proceeded to entrench ourselves. Not traveling with beach towels due to their size, we were stuck using two bright white hotel bath towels, neither of which would shield the full length of either of our bodies from the sand. Somehow, Gina’s towel seemed longer than mine.
Like good tourists unaccustomed to things foreign, Gina and I
began critiquing the breasts within view. “Hers look like mine,” Gina pointed toward a woman a few meters away. I nodded in agreement and headed off to put on my board shorts.
Returning a few minutes later, Gina questioned, “I don’t get what the big deal is with boobs.”
“What do you mean?” I responded.
“While you were gone, one of the two women next to us sat up and began applying sunscreen to the other girl’s back. The guys over there tried to be sly and watch, turning back after a few seconds and chuckling like a bunch of teenagers.”
Glancing around at the bronzed bodies, “I’m not sure, babe.”
We soaked up the sun for the next several hours, amusing ourselves with the occasional Speedo barely covering a passing man - affectionately referred to as a banana hammock - and fresh boobs being released from nearby bikini tops. Before we knew it, our afternoon lapsed and we were packing-it-in for the hotel in desperate need of a shower.
As our rendezvous with the Sydney Harbour Bridge approached, Gina decided it was time to make me aware of her fear of heights. “What?
We live on the 29th floor of a building and frequently go to the deck on the 40th. How are you suddenly now afraid of heights?” I inquired.
“I don’t know. That’s not the same. You’re not in the open,” obviously annoyed by my questioning nature.
Innocently, she continued, “If I get scared, I might shit myself.”
Trying to contain my laughter and be consoling at the same time, I replied, “I’m sure there’s a safety harness. People obviously do this every day.”
We found ourselves at the Bridge Climb office about twenty minutes prior to our climb time. Out of curiosity, I had scanned the website and found the whole process would take three-and-one-half hours to complete - one hour of preparation and the balance, climbing. As we waited for our group to be called, we perused the wall of celebrities who have endured the rigors of the bridge climb. Everyone from the Olsen twins to Anna Nicole Smith, as well as a 95 year-old man, have climbed the bridge and lived to tell the tale. In a way, I think this reassured Gina.
“1815,” the man called out.
Ten others entered the
room with us. Our first instruction was to read the disclaimer and sign our lives away. Then, we were informed that we’d have to take a breathalyzer test to ensure our blood alcohol content was under 0.05%! (MISSING)We exchanged glances hoping our bodies had metabolized the indulgence of our previous night. Passing with flying colors, we proceeded with the group to begin loading on the supplied gear necessary to complete the climb. The guide reminded us that no personal belongings were allowed on the climb and that we would have to pass through a metal detector after donning our one-piece climb suits.
These guys weren’t messing around. Giggling like little kids, the group passed through the metal detector, whose sensitivity had been set so high that wire bras seemed to set it off, and continued on for our climbing harnesses. A guy with dirty blonde hair introduced himself as
Matt, our climb leader for the evening. He spent the next fifteen minutes getting us in our climbing harnesses and showing us how the grappling device held us to the bridge at all times. Then we practiced. The Bridge Climb company actually has a mock-up of several ladders, platforms and
stairs, which each participant must navigate prior to starting on the bridge. Completing the practice session, the group moved on for our communications gear that would keep us in contact with Matt at all times. To ensure that we could hear both the climb leader and ambient noises, we were given jaw bone vibrating communicators. The headset-looking device actually sits in advance of your ears and, instead of having speakers, has two solid magnetic vibrators that actually send sound waves through your jaw bone.
Again, these guys weren’t messing around. The parade of climbers walked one-by-one to the hook-up point where Matt affixed our grappling device to the metal cable that ran continuously over the course of the climb. He joked, “Only 1,444 stairs to go.” We could hear bag pipes playing in the distance as the group began its ascent.
The Sydney Harbour Bridge (the ‘Old Coat Hanger’ to locals) is 75 years-old and of riveted steel girder construction. The summit, which we’d be climbing to, is 145 meters above sea level (approximately 500 feet).
As the sun set into a glamorous cloud-speckled sky, hues of orange and red dominated the horizon. Matt stopped the group
halfway up a gangplank so that we could watch for the green flash (which never came) as the sun dipped below the horizon. Everyone sat in awe for another five minutes before carrying on up the catwalk. We reached a series of ladders that lead us past the flow of traffic and onto the upper span of the bridge. At the peak, Gina looked back at me and asked, “I wonder what happens when someone needs to use the toilet?”
Recalling the sign in the lobby which indicated no bathrooms were available for the 3 ½ hours duration, I responded, “I’m not sure, ask Matt.”
Matt was approaching from the rear of the group after watching the last climber’s ladder ascent and without hesitation Gina stopped him. “Hey Matt.”
“Yes, Gina.” He had memorized the group of twelve’s names in the first ten minutes.
“What happens if someone needs to use the toilet up here?” Gina inquired.
Shyly he answered, “Well, we try not to embarrass them so we have a series of code words to relay down to the Control Center. Like if someone needs to pee, there is a Code Tango. Or if
someone is having an anxiety attack it is a Code Adam.”
Undeterred, Gina continued, “What if someone shits their pants?”
“That’s a Code Sierra.” Matt laughed.
Entertained, Gina and I exchanged glances knowing that we’d surely make some sort of joke out of the situation. A little further up the span, Gina turned and said, “Oops.”
“What?” I questioned.
“I think I just had a Code Sierra in my suit.” She tried passing without a snicker.
The group stopped for photos at various points along the bridge knowing that they’d be swindled out of big bucks by the Bridge Climb company to obtain copies. Naturally, we all played along because we wanted a keepsake.
Concluding the climb, Gina and I concurred that the experience was well worth the money - even if we didn’t get to drop pennies on passing motorists.
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Tamisha
non-member comment
DAAAAAAAAAAAMN Gina!
Lookin' HOT!