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Let me say that I’ve spit off The Empire State Building.

I’ve stood atop the Space Needle in Seattle as it swayed in the wind.

I’ve stayed in tall hotels. I’ve peered over balcony railings. I’ve walked across the swinging bridge at Grandfather Mountain. I’ve scaled ladders, cleaned gutters and climbed trees as a kid. Roller coasters. Ferris wheels. Never had a problem.

I mention all this not to brag about my ability to emit saliva from tall landmarks or boast about the cleanliness of my gutters, but rather to explain that, for the majority of my life, looking down from high places has never bothered me in the slightest.

That was until my wife and I took a trip to the Outer Banks.

On a whim, she and I decided to take the stairs to the top of the Currituck Beach Lighthouse. I don’t know if was because it was hot or because it was crowded, but when we reached the top, I looked out over the railing and felt a strange sort of terror bubbling up from my gut.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want anyone to touch me. On the verge of complete panic, I pressed my back against the wall of the lighthouse, and at that moment I wanted nothing more in the entire world than to come down from there immediately. I inched my way over to the stairwell and began descending rapidly.

The feeling was so strange that it caught me completely off guard. I’ve never had a panic attack before, and I’m pretty sure my wife thought I was acting like a lunatic.

And all this excitement brought on from a lighthouse? How wimpy is that?

The next day we visited the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. Determined that my Currituck conniption was a fluke, I gamely bought a ticket and began climbing stairs. When I got to the top, it was Hatteras hysteria all over again.

I remember thinking at the time, great Mac, you’re afraid of lighthouses. Could you be a bigger wuss?

Since then, I’ve learned that’s not quite right. I am not afraid of lighthouses. I am terrified of lighthouses and anywhere else that is high up and out in the open. If I’m enclosed, such as being in an airplane, I seem to be OK.

Last week, I was in San Francisco on business. A friend suggested I should jog across the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Every time you see that bridge in a movie or in magazine, you’ll be able to tell your kids you jogged across that,” he said.

The idea was appealing. But what about my Currituck conniption and Hatteras hysteria? That bridge is seriously tall, as tall as 10 lighthouses, windy and very open.

“Screw it,” I said. “I’m going to do it.”

Thus began the most terrifying 20 minutes of my life. My hands were sweaty, and I couldn’t swallow as I set out.

Looking only at the pavement in front of me and traveling as close to the inside railing as possible, I jogged all the way to Marin County and back.

I wish I could make some grand statement about I’m how I’m now a better person because I overcame my fear, but I’m not.

The truth is I was terrified while I was on that bridge, and if I went back and did it again, I’d still be terrified.

If there is any moral to this story, it is that I jogged across once and I’m certain I’ll never do it again.

Contact Mac Lane at maclane@northstate.net