Monemvasia is a Gibraltar-sized rock on the Peloponnesian coast of Greece. It’s connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway, has a town at its base, and the scant remains of a town and mighty fortress across the summit. As the wind howled on top (pardon that buffeting), we walked to the very edge of a cliff next to an old Byzantine church. From there it’s a sheer drop of what seems like a couple thousand feet — and no railing. You know that feeling you get when peering tentatively over a cliff — worried that a freak gust will end your trip? (Or do you? Share your most memorable cliff-top stir-the-butterflies-in-your-belly perch.)
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Apparently when I was three years old I climbed out beyond the safety railing on Glacier Point in Yosemite National Park and was swinging upside down over the valley a mere 3,200 feet below. Needless to say there were no S’Mores for me that night.
My grandfather fell off a cliff in France once. He was trying to get the perfect shot, overbalanced, fell over, and was caught after a few feet by a blackberry bush. My grandmother ran for help. The very first car she flagged down had a professional search-and-rescue mountaineer from Scandinavia who was on vacation. He calmly got out his gear, rappelled down the mountain, rescued my grandfather, hauled them both back up, shook my grandparents’ hands, and got back into his car, refusing any payment.
My grandfather always swore he’d met his guardian angel.