The Ledge

by Jim Davidson

  Nothing on the job went right. The bridge stood on the border between New Hampshire and Maine where the Piscataqua River meets the sea, and saltwater mist filled the air. So we had to sandblast and paint in small, inefficient chunks, or risk the newly cleaned steel rusting and needing to be stripped all over again.

  On summer break after eighth grade, I joined Dad on the job site. I scraped metal handrails, shoveled sand, and tried lugging one-hundred-pound sandbags. Because I outweighed the bulging brown paper bags by just twenty pounds, initially I could not move them very far. By the summer’s end, I could carry them with ease.

  Each workday started when Dad and I pulled out of the driveway at five-thirty A.M., so we’d be the first ones on-site by seven o’clock. We were the last to leave, at around six each evening, which got us home by seven-thirty for a reheated dinner.

  Dad and Uncle Bob taught me about sandblasting so Dad and I could work alone some weekends. He blasted; I tended the sand pot.

  Blasting at this scale required enough compressed air to pump a ton of sand every hour through one hundred feet of thick hose with enough force to instantly strip three layers of paint off steel. The racing air roared like a jet engine and the surging blast hose writhed like a giant anaconda. Dad could hear nothing, say nothing, and see very little because of the protective canvas hood he wore, so I was his eyes and ears. My job was to watch him intently and adjust the blasting pot according to his demands.

  He taught me our company hand signals for more sand or less, for when he was all right, and for when he needed me to cut off the gushing machine immediately. Stopping the blaster on demand was the most important aspect of my pot-tending job, as it only had two speeds: off and full tilt. When Dad waved his forearm in a sharp arc, I sprinted to the pot and hit the pressure-relief valve. That cut the compressor flow and bled air pressure from the line. A safe shutoff was confirmed first by the hissing escape of air, and then by a reassuring clunk as the blasting pot’s metal lid dropped loose from its seal, released by depressurization. One second later the air-driven sand would cease shooting from the nozzle, giving Dad a rest. Without a committed pot tender, the blaster could be compelled to wrestle and direct the thrashing blast hose until the compressor eventually ran out of fuel.

  An insidious and dangerous part of the system was the connecting hose that routed pressurized air from the compressor over to the sand pot. This high-pressure hose was skinny and flexible, like a beefy garden hose. Its two ends had forced-fit metal couplings. Occasionally the huge pressures and mechanical vibrations caused the fitting to slip from the sand pot, which let loose an uncontrolled, whipping air hose. The air pressure was so great that the untethered hose end swung, flopped, and gyrated in large erratic circles anywhere from two to twenty feet in radius. As it danced wildly about, the metal coupling end whooshed through the air, arcing one way, then the other, in a blur.

  Such a loose hose obviously had to be stopped, then fixed. But therein lay the danger. To stop the hose, you had to stop the compressor. But to reach the compressor, the pot tender first had to capture the lashing air line without getting clobbered by the flying metal coupling. In essence, work would be at a standstill until we seized control of the aggressive, whirling air line. As pot tender, I needed a lesson in subduing a wild hose.

  Dad let the throttled-down compressor bring to life an intentionally disconnected air hose. Even at half pressure, the black rubber tubing stood up like a king cobra and skittered sideways. The gray metal coupling sliced and circled through the air like some giant bola. As the moving hose dragged on the ground or slipped across its own smooth coils, it would suddenly change its swing radius, speed, or direction—or all three at the same time.

  Talking loudly over the compressor, Dad said, “Now, don’t just charge in there like a dummy. Study it. It looks crazy, but there are some patterns and limits. Watch.”

  He was right. After two minutes of seemingly random thrashing, I saw a rhythm to the movement. The possessed hose made three or four clockwise rotations, then stalled out for five seconds. Then it slipped sideways a few feet and rotated back the other way, repeatedly coiling and uncoiling itself.

  “Yeah, I see it now,” I said.

  “Good. So use that to make your move. Then race in there and grab that thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t go in there half-committed, change your mind, and stop. That’ll get you whacked in the head. When you go after it, do it like ya mean it.”

  Not wanting to be chicken in front of my father, I got ready to make my first practice charge at a loose hose. Dad tapped my shoulder and gestured me close to him. He leaned in.

  “A few more things. When ya grab it, don’t grab down the line from the coupling, because then those last few feet will really start swinging. All the pressure and motion will get pushed to the loose end ya don’t have control over. That metal end will whip around twice as fast and get ya. So always snag it right behind the coupling, like you’re grabbing a snake. If ya control the danger, it can’t get ya.”

  That made sense, and the logic comforted me.

  “Assess it, charge it, control it—okay,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Don’t be surprised if it changes all of a sudden and the hose starts whipping around a new way.”

  He turned his palms to the sky, shrugged, and half-smiled.

  I scowled and said, “Great …”

  The hose mostly danced the same steps, so it seemed doable. Hunched down as if I were going to steal second base, I watched for the start of the lull. The next time it cycled around, I charged. The scariest part was when I was about ten feet away, because I was close enough to get smacked by the coupling but not close enough yet to grasp the hose. Three more fast steps and I grabbed the hose about two feet from the end. I knew that was not best, so I snapped my other hand up and seized the serpent three inches behind its coupling head.

  Got it!

  The pressure kicked back, and the hose thrashed like a snake trying to turn on me. I stepped on a moving coil to keep it trapped. A bit surprised and fairly pleased, I turned to look at Dad. He crinkled his face tight and stacked his fists together like he was clutching a baseball bat. It was the signal for me to hang on tight. I nodded and held my prize up to show him I had it captured. Then Dad whistled loud and gave me a throat-slashing signal to cut off the compressor. I walked the captive hose end back to the compressor and hit the kill switch. The revving compressor died, and the snake hose went limp in my hands.

  “Atta boy. Ya didn’t hesitate.”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t too bad.”

  “Remember, that was half pressure. At full pressure the hose will be faster, and if it gets ya, the coupling will hurt like hell.”

  “Are we going to do a full-pressure practice?” I asked hesitantly.

  “It would be nice to try, but it’s not worth losing a tooth.”

  “I’ve got a question: When I do it for real, should I wear my coat for protection or take it off so I can move faster?”

  “It’ll be up to you. I won’t be standing there telling you exactly what to do. Remember what I taught ya, then do it like ya mean it.”

  DAD HAD A knack for landing unusual gigs. Over the years we had painted cranes and churches, fire hydrants and radar dishes, even the gondola towers at the Cannon Mountain ski area, in New Hampshire. But one job beat them all: We were to paint a high-voltage electrical switchyard located adjacent to an enormous power plant. I was eighteen the year my dad took on that job.

  The inch-thick wires coming out of the generator building fifty yards away carried 230,000 volts and enough amperage to electrify a swath of eastern Massachusetts. All that power dumped right into the complex routing switchyard where we stood, the electrified air above buzzing as if swarmed by angry bees. Vertical steel beams supporting a welded lattice of smaller crossbars formed the switchyard’s frame. The intricate structure was designed to support the wires and heavy equipment needed to distribu
te the electricity into a network of power lines fanning out across the county.

  To keep the voltage from electrifying the framework, a series of ceramic insulators shaped like oversized doughnuts isolated the sizzling wires from the steel. It took a string of fifteen or twenty insulators to make the switchyard’s steel safe to touch. Even then, when you grabbed the steel to climb, stray voltage sometimes crawled across your skin like stinging ants.

  “All right, guys,” Dad said. “Just a little more safety training, then we’ll call it quits.”

  Dad turned us back over to the power company safety man, Frank, who had spent the day scowling and trying to scare us. It worked—we were terrified.

  During our day-long safety lecture at the switchyard in Fall River, Massachusetts, Frank had intermingled tips and techniques with horror stories of people losing limbs, dying—even literally exploding after mistakes made near the 230,000 volts. The steady hum of electricity above our heads underscored everything Frank told us. He said the juice was so high that we could never actually touch the lines, even if we tried. If one of us got within three feet of a live line, the massive voltage would leap out like lightning and destroy us.

  After this brief class, it would be our job to go up there and paint the steel framework, with the hot power lines buzzing and snapping four feet away. The power company would deactivate one switchyard square at a time for us, but the other sections around us had to remain fully charged. Every man was responsible for watching out for everyone else, Frank warned. Electricity always tries to run to the ground. If any one of us got zapped, the power racing down the steel frame we climbed would also electrocute every other man below him on the tower. Frank also demanded that we follow the orders of our ground crew. The ground crew would be Frank, another veteran lineman, Dad, and Dad’s foreman, Rocco, who had been working with us for seventeen years. If any of us tower climbers strayed out of the safe zone or got too close to the wires, a ground man would blow a whistle.

  “When you hear the whistle,” Frank bellowed, “do not turn around. Do not move sideways. Do not lift your arm. Don’t even get a hard-on. Just FREEZE! We’ll talk you down. A few years ago, one guy was getting too close to the wires and I blew the whistle to warn him. Unfortunately, his buddy, who was actually in a safe spot to start with, didn’t freeze. He thought I’d blown the whistle at him, so he turned around to go the other way. He walked right into a hot zone.”

  Frank paused.

  “He’s dead.”

  We were silent.

  The sun was down, and daylight receded from the muggy air. Frank’s voice boomed across the yard: “Okay, gather up.”

  Eight of us assembled near a corner of the switchyard.

  “I have one more thing to show you,” he hollered.

  Frank pulled on cumbersome insulating gloves while his assistant unlocked a steel cage that secured a large switch. Frank pointed thirty feet above our heads and asked, “See that big copper switch rod up there?”

  We all craned our necks. I spied a copper rod about four feet long and two inches in diameter.

  Frank leaned toward us with a sneer on his face, his two mangy eyebrows merging into one bristling hedgerow of gray hair.

  “If you don’t listen to me, this is what will happen to you,” he snarled, grabbing the control switch with two hands and yanking it down hard. The copper switch rod above our heads moved in an arc—a thirty-foot-tall power switch sweeping toward its cradle.

  Before the switch could connect, a hot white bolt of jagged, crackling electricity shot out of the switch rod, lighting up the night air. When the rod settled into the receiving seat, a crisp click of metal preceded one last angry pop of electricity. The hum above us grew louder.

  I thought about what my body would look like if that voltage tore through me. Frightened, but not wanting to look so, I glanced sideways at the older painters around me. Wide-eyed and blank-faced, they stared up, silent.

  “Class dismissed,” Frank said simply, then walked away.

  We painted the switchyard through August, and no one got hurt. The dangerous work had helped me grow in immeasurable ways by fueling an inner confidence and by igniting a passion for challenges that made me stronger.

  A YEAR AFTER we painted the switchyard, the same power company offered Dad another electrical-system painting job. Lincoln Painting Company was one of the few firms willing to take on such risky jobs.

  So, for the summer of 1982 we climbed and painted high-voltage transmission-line towers. The open steel frameworks ranged from eighty to two hundred feet tall, and they ambled across the fields and woods of eastern Massachusetts. Every tower had six lateral arms extending over open space. At the end of each arm was a snapping, humming metal power line carrying about 230,000 volts.

  Compared to the switchyard, the height of the towers greatly increased the consequences of a fall. Instead of getting badly hurt from a thirty-foot switchyard fall, if one of us plummeted eighty to two hundred feet from a tower, it would certainly be fatal. High on the steel towers, with the wind whistling around us and a void beneath us, we shooed away fear by bandying about dismissive phrases like “After a forty-foot fall, the outcome’s the same, so don’t worry about the height.” We wore safety belts at first, but the risk of a loose leash dangling down into a live wire outweighed the benefits. So we mostly climbed free, untethered to the tower, and hung on tight as we walked the paint-splattered steel beams.

  Although the voltage was about the same as it had been in the switchyard, the risk of electrocution was greater. Because we four tower painters were so high up, the ground men had a harder time judging how close the climbers were to the wires. The work was nerve-racking at times, and to find the four of us who painted the towers that summer, Dad tried out more than thirty men. Some lasted less than a day, some less than an hour. One guy showed up, walked under a tower for ten minutes, looking and listening to the voltage sizzle, and then just left.

  One night, we brought home photos of us on the towers, and Mom and my sisters freaked out.

  “You’re going to get your son killed!” Mom blurted out.

  “Oh, c’mon now, Jean—” Dad started to reply, but Mom pushed back from the dinner table and stormed out of the kitchen.

  A moment of silence passed.

  “She doesn’t get it, does she?” I asked.

  “No,” Dad said wearily, “she doesn’t.”

  Even then, I felt I was part of something special. And I thought the company, and Dad, needed me. I was one of the four-man crew that would scale each tower to the top, a disposable hospital hood tied over my head to cover my hair, a gallon bucket of olive drab paint clipped to my belt. Once we reached the highest point, we’d paint our way down, slathering the steel girders as we moved.

  We called it “bringing down the tower,” and the switchyard rules from the previous year still applied. Get within three feet of the power lines—or drop paint or dangle a rope near the wires—and you would die, and probably kill the other three men on the tower, too. Only now we were much higher off the ground, with the steel digging into our knees as we spread the paint, reaching out to coat bare spots we couldn’t always see while Dad or someone else on the ground followed our progress through binoculars.

  The diamond-shaped tips on the ends of the lateral arms were the worst. I would inch out, on my belly, as far as I dared, with electricity coursing above and below me, stretch one arm through an invisible, shrinking safety zone, and run the brush over those tips. I couldn’t see what I was painting—I’d just blindly dab paint while Dad steered me from the ground with hollered instructions.

  “To the right—more to the right,” he’d yell. “Creep out a little farther.”

  He’d also yell out if I missed a spot.

  “Ya left a skippa,” he’d holler, and I’d reach out again, swabbing the brush over the tip until it was covered and dripping with paint. Once I finished painting, I would crawl backward along the arm, with the steel edging br
uising my limbs and power lines snapping above my head.

  All these years later, I can close my eyes and feel the tingly surge of that electricity pulsating through my body, as if ants were biting me everywhere. I can hear the incessant hum of power throbbing along those wires.

  At times I felt apprehension, even raw fear, but I learned to contain it. You couldn’t be afraid the whole time, but if you weren’t at least nervous or scared some of the time, I figured, you had to be insane. Ignoring the risks was not an option; succumbing to fright, however, would have made me a danger to myself and everyone on the crew. Staying controlled, pushing the fear down, and keeping a clear mind in the face of danger and difficulty—that’s what I learned on those jobs with Dad.

  CHAPTER 4

  I PLUNGE INTO the mountain. Rocketing through the gloom, my arms and legs windmill desperately through the air. My eyes are open, I think, but I can’t focus on the malicious ice walls rushing past me.

  Partway down, I slam sideways into a thin snow platform that spans the crevasse—an old snow bridge, maybe. I feel the hit across my body and sense myself slowing a bit, and briefly I hope that the fall is over. But I tear right through, and sail deeper into the mountain.

  Gravity pulls me in quicker as I careen toward disaster.

  Just three seconds ago, I was on the snowy surface of the glacier, anxious to get off Mount Rainier, eager to toast our summit climb with Mike later tonight, antsy to get home to my wife, Gloria. Now I’m plunging down into a crevasse, and my mind seizes a new, more horrifying fear.

  Please, God, don’t let us cork.

  The threat of corking is real. If you fall into a crevasse and your partner can stop you, you’ll wind up hanging from the rope, maybe hurt, maybe not. Fall far into a crevasse along with your partner, with nothing to catch either of you, and there’s every chance you’ll both slam to a stop wedged into the fissure’s maw, like a cork in a bottle. Unable to move, unable to do anything but wait for death’s slow, cold march. Corked.