September 1993
Austin, Texas
One fine late summer evening in the live music capital of the world presents many opportunities for a great deal of fun, granted you are 21 or have a fake id. For some of the rest of us, nightfall means something entirely different: mayhem.
The latest great idea was to get our meager collection of climbing gear together and do a little urban rappelling or climbing. Downtown Austin has many fine buildings to scale and descend, either by fire escape, elevator shaft, roof access stairwells, etc. Likely one-third of the buildings had been deflowered by us without raising any serious alarm or security response [these sorties occurred way before you could get charged with terrorism for trespassing].
Supreme boredom creates monsters. We talked ourselves into a drive to campus for mayhem; my girlfriend had a working vehicle and "Chris" and i had the hardware. So, the 3 stooges went to the "six pack" for some climbing, and the flagpole for some "flagpole flying." [Flagpole flying involves hooking up the steel flag cable to the belay loop at the back of a climbing harness, then having someone on the ground tow you at top speed. Eventually the cable winds up violently, and the rider slams into the flagpole.]
After several rounds of flying, "Chris" slinks off to take a leak. Me and the girlfriend have a few more flights, and wonder what's taking him so long. I'ts not like we were drinking or anything. Probably 25 minutes had elapsed and we finally hear a faint cry of "hey, help!"
We follow the cries to the first building of the six pack, a 5 or 6 story building with large limestone blocks in an offset pattern around the exterior, perfect for some free climbing. "Chris," as it turned out, had climbed most of the way up this building, then ran out of arm strength (he wasn't very good at technical climbing), and jumped down about 20 feet.
The major problem with our immediate situation was that "Chris" landed on a first-floor porch roof made of spanish tile. He was moaning inside of a large crater of shattered terracotta. He thinks he broke both of his ankles, and maybe an arm or wrist. Pussy.
First, we needed to get him to ground level. I gave him a harness, and after 15 minutes of whining, he was ready to tie in. I climbed a tree next to the porch roof and set up 2 pulleys and a figure 8 as a brake. I tied myself to the tree, and was getting the ropes ready for loading.
As i was explaining to "Chris" [who was likely in moderately serious shock by now] that he was to scoot to the edge of the roof and then when i say "go" he would kind of roll of the edge and be lowered to safety, he went ahead and did all of it immediately. The ropes were not ready at all. Not having a brake other than my bare hands, the system behaved like a human pendulum with infinite length of swing.
"Chris" swung from the roof, past the hypothetical nadir below the tree, to about 8 feet up in free space and then fell flat on his back in the grass, letting out a forced screech of "Ungh!F**k!!" My hands took some moderate damage in the form of 2nd degree rope burns, and my girlfriend was cackling hysterically near the truck. I guess i should have just gone with a zip line and achieved the same wipeout. Oops.
We pack up the gear and get zombie "Chris" into the truck and i begin to drive us to the nearest hospital for some medicine. Unfortunately, only the parking lights were turned on, and we were quickly stopped by campus pd. As the cop ran my license, i was fairly nervous due to an unpaid citation for driving without a license [Now an outstanding warrant]. "Chris" was yelling at the cop, "i'm f**king bleeding here you a**hole, we're going to the hospital--" my girlfriend was trying to get him to stfu.
"Please step out of the vehicle..." Weak. Austin jail on a tuesday night, not very busy or intimidating. Within an hour i was bailed out and at the hospital to check on "Chris." Some halfheartedly suicidal dude and i shared a smoke and a bunch of conversation outside, and i stole 2 boxes of tongue depressors, some open-back gowns, and a speculum from the waiting room.
"Chris" was going to be fine, just two severely sprained ankles, a cut wrist, and as soon as he wakes up, a sore ass.
Don't climb shit you shouldn't,
Francois (Frank) Dillinger
[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California. He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.
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