SYDNEY — I had heard that Americans like visiting Australia, and on my arrival in Sydney, it was quickly apparent that Australians like having us around. Australia is a Western country washed by the Indian and Pacific Oceans, far from just about anything (except New Zealand) recognizably Western.
It was famously settled in 1788 by the British as a penal colony in consolation, as it were, for losing the American colonies not quite five years before. You need consider the steadfast temperament of British subjects during the Age of Enlightenment to observe that the American colonies had just been lost during a revolution started by men in frock coats in parliamentary debate over the text of a declaration telling their distant king where he could go and what he could do with himself once he got there.
Australia, conversely, was largely populated by Britons convicted of minor crimes; they, along with “free settlers,” quite soon set up a colony no more lawless than most places back in Britain.
Perhaps having other former ex-British colonials — notably Americans, Canadians and New Zealanders — as regular and enthusiastic visitors reminds Australians that they are not alone in the world. But there is no exaggerating its distance from the rest of us ex-Brits. Flying from New York, I left on the 10th of the month and, after a tragi-comic delay in Los Angeles (American Airlines — we need to talk), arrived in Sydney just as it was turning the 13th of the month local time. For those keeping score, that involved flying over about 40% of the Earth's surface, only to arrive at an airport where, as in the ones transited back home, all the signs were in English.
Sydney lies on the southeastern coast and is home to one of the world’s greatest natural harbors. With a population of more than 5.2 million, it is larger than any U.S. city except New York, and as in New York, about 40% of the population are immigrants. Unlike New York, Sydney remains quite British in style and appearance — albeit with a confident New World verticality in its architecture and with an affable casualness in the conduct of daily activities.
The center of town and the harbor front look as if London were spliced together with parts of Chicago and Boston. Here, however, numerous white-sand beaches unfold amid harbor bays — as if placed with the same simulated randomness as roses planted in an English garden.
I was in Sydney for an international lawyer’s conference. Although it is better to be away on business in an interesting city than in a dull one, the pressures of conference attendance remain the same; in an interesting city, the temptations of travel beckon like sirens from beyond the breakout room doors.
Fortunately for us, the Australian firm serving as our host was thorough and adventurous in its choice of optional diversions. The most enterprising of those came as the sessions concluded: Our hosts had arranged for a small group to go climb a bridge.
Commanding the waterfront since 1932 is Sydney Harbour Bridge. It is a brace of steel arches held in place by 6 million rivets, topping off at 440 feet above the water. The plan was to form lawyers into a team that would haul itself up the outside steel slope of the eastern arch until reaching the apex.
That is not as entirely daft as it sounds, but it did take me a bit of nerve given that I had been recovering from surgery that had restricted my movements. Mere days before I had flown out, my surgeon had graciously cleared me for full activities, which I interpreted as giving license to do any foolish thing I pleased. So, when a spot opened up the day before the climb — vacated by someone had purchased in advance of arrival but whose good sense on seeing the bridge had exceeded my own — I claimed the abandoned ticket.
I therefore joined 10 others who had not thought it all through carefully enough to have gone instead to, say, Bondi Beach or somewhere else agreeably flat — and we arrived together by jitney at the embarkation center at Dawes Point, on the southern approach to the bridge. There we were met by Josh, a bearded young man who sent us into changing rooms to strip down to our underwear and don jump suits.
When I stepped out in mine, feeling quite spruce for the occasion, Josh helpfully observed, “You’ve got it on reversed.”
Anyone wearing glasses was rigged with holders to fix them in place. We all received souvenir climbers’ hats to keep the sun out of our eyes, radios and earphones so we would be able to hear where we were and what to do next, clip-on handkerchiefs for glasses cleaning and nose blowing, and metal prongs the importance of which became clear when Josh handed us over our climbing guide, Michael.
A Scotsman who had been leading ascents of the bridge for a couple years now, Michael was part tour leader, part safety warden and full-time comic relief, capping his routine with a quite good Donald Trump impression.
Perhaps you have seen those movies of WWII in which the paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division “hook up” to a line above their heads that runs along the fuselage of a C-47, holding on as they move in a heroic queue to the open door through which they jump upon German defenders. It turned out that our prongs were sliders that had rather the same purpose, making our parachute suits quite appropriate.
You first insert your slider into rail that runs at waist height along your right. The rail is open on your side and once the slider is in, you are effectively fastened to the bridge for the duration. Your group will slide along like a squad of those paratroopers, the difference being that all these preparations have the opposite effect: They keep you from tossing yourself over the side.
It seemed safe enough — more or less. On an interior mockup of some of the harder bits — staircases with corner turns — we practiced our sliding technique until we all had assured Michael we could do it right. Then off we went, in a row behind Michael, out the building and along a narrow wooden walkway to the imposing, granite-clad tower at the southern base of the bridge. Next it was up and around a series of metal staircases like the ones on which we had practiced, each of us clomping along the bends, ever skywards, the stairs responding with muffled metallic clangs. Some passages were so small, you had to duck your head at the same moment you awkwardly stepped over sheet-metal rises.
When we succeeded in reaching the foot of the eastern steel arch, it became clear to anyone who had somehow yet missed the point why Australians have a reputation for nonchalant bravery.
Climbing the bridge did not mean walking upward through a protected enclosure. It meant stepping atop one of the great arches that hold fast the busy eight-lane roadway and climbing on the outside, all the way to the apex. At that moment, you realize that the only things holding you here instead of letting you fall way down there are your metal slider and your own newly found fortitude. You grasp steel banisters and manipulate your slider around supports holding the rail for what could well be the longest, highest, most inexplicable upward march in a straight line you are likely to undertake — outdoors to the center of a shipping channel.
Under a bright, mercifully temperate morning sun, we caught sight of white catamarans gliding underneath, tourists lounging on the bows. Green and yellow ferries passed each other to our right. The city towered behind us and spread itself lavishly to fringes now visible for miles all around. To our right and now definitely far below, the sail-like towers ornamenting Sydney Opera House seemed to catch the wind.
As each of us reached the summit of this esoteric perambulation, Michael snapped photographs and, if requested, recorded a short video. I asked for the latter as a present for my young son, and Michael and I collaborated on a brief work of cinema verite. “Hi, Ryan,” I started. “This is Dad. I climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge — because it was there.” Michael panned left for a view of the opera house, and then it was cut and a wrap.
By now, we were all feeling proud of ourselves, this experience being about as adventurous an endeavor, after all, that most lawyers are likely to undertake in the company of colleagues. Michael led our group across the width of the highest point of the bridge and, on the opposite side, had us carefully repeat what we had done, this time in reverse, down the western arch.
Back at the base and reunited with our own clothes, we all got certificates commemorating our small act of madness. Several of us had Michael sign ours — giving them talismanic effect, I suppose.
Our group took lunch together, having bonded now over an experience of nonchalant audacity that felt completely in harmony with the spirit of the city.
Would I go again? Likely so, the next time I’m in town.
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If you go
To book a bridge ascent, visit www.bridgeclimb,com.
For assistance, call +61-2-8274-7777.
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