Convicts, pubs and fear of heights Part 3 - By Phil Baker

 Phil Baker of Windham took advantage of an opportunity to spend six days in Sydney, Australia in September of this year. The following is the third of a three part article based on his observations of Sydney.

We climbed to 350 feet above the harbor and I’d convinced Meghan not to fixate on the depth of the water below. Celine redirected our attention west beyond Darling’s Harbor. She identified a dome as Olympic Stadium. It looked like a toadstool on a bed of moss. Many contend the 2000 Olympics were the most commercially successful games. The various venues continue to be used for events like the Rugby World Cup, the Field Hockey World Championship and even American Football. An Aussie rugby player told me that American football is a sissy game: pads for rugby consist of a mouth-guard and Band-Aids.

“Beyond you can see the smoky Blue Mountains.” Celine pointed farther west and said the smoke came from controlled maintenance burns that had blown out of control into a serious forest fire.

The Blue Mountain National Park is forty miles from Sydney and the mountains reach 3,600 feet. Accessed by a gradual road, you’re hardly aware of the topography until you reach spectacular view-points that reveal thousand-foot vertical cliffs falling away and promontories reminiscent of the southwestern United States. Dramatic waterfalls escape wooded highlands like slender silver chains.

 We continued the Bridge Climb and reached the top, 450 feet above the harbor. The 360-degree view was made more dramatic by the violent wind beating against us, ballooning our suits and tying long hair into knots.

 “Celine, has anyone ever jumped?” Meghan asked, obsessing, I thought. 

 “Two.” Celine answered honestly. She anticipated Meghan’s next question and said: “Neither survived.” Meghan tipped her head downward then jerked her eyes back to the horizon.

Two beach communities, Manly and Bondi are visible as yellow cuts in the greenery to the east. Manly is a beach of granular sugar cookie sand. It’s on the Tasman Sea facing due east toward Auckland, New Zealand and features good surf as the weather drives in from the south and east. Bondi, the more famous of the two, faces southeast and is a wider strand allowing for crowds of sunbathers and surfers. 

We leaned into the roar from the west that had intensified to over 50 knots. The peculiar extinguished-campfire smell of burning eucalyptus from the Blue Mountains was on the wind. We made a U-turn toward Sydney’s mix of modern skyscrapers, flights of fancy like the Opera House and colonial buildings that have survived into the 21^st century. 

As we descended we found a small, brown bird nesting high on the bridge huddled between steel girders and trusses. The bird was back-to the Rocks in her lone nest, feathers roughed by the wind. 

Sydney’s people belie their lawless, untrustworthy ancestry. They are friendly and industrious, appearing to be hard at it in this commerce driven city. And to be fair many of their ancestors came freely, after the convicts. Subsequent generations of Brits struck out for the distant outpost of Australia and, like the bird on the bridge, traded society for the promise of this windblown haven. And like the tenant of the aerie, Aussies seem unflappable and unfailingly sunny. Their very accent is optimistic. 

We left the nest behind and continued down. Meghan approached the ladders ahead of me. I asked again about her frame of mind, and silently wondered if she suffered fear or a true phobia. Celine directed the approach knowing descent to be more daunting than the climb up. Meghan paused at the ladders; she had to look down now. The extreme wind drove an intensified boil of whitecaps below. She alleged all was well, put on a brave face, grasped the railings and descended like a hesitant mountaineer, one tentative rung at a time. We made it back to earth just in time for lunch. Meghan’s struggles had made me hungry.

Peter Doyle’s Restaurant is in the ugly but fashionable cruise terminal. We took an outside table on the Circular Quay. The waiter brought bottles of “Toohey’s New Ale” and fish and chips. Sydney sports a well-deserved reputation for excellent seafood. 

“The height didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would.” Meghan said with earthbound courage as I passed her the tartar sauce. A gull flew low, just above the crimson umbrella tops. The wind lifted a napkin and as I reached for it I spied two flashes of Mountain Dew green. I caught Meghan’s attention, pointed and we watched the beguiling parrots with scarlet chests glide into the airy eucalyptus trees fringing the base of the bridge. 

After eucalyptus green enveloped parrot green I hoisted the ale brewed at a Sydney pub and toasted Meghan’s suspect claim of conquering her fear of heights. The waiter cheerily removed spent bottles and empty plates. I wondered if he was a descendent of a convict who waded ashore right there at the foot of the Sydney Harbor Bridge 225 years ago with colonizing on his mind.