Crossing Bridges

On fear and longing and getting where we're going.

Gephyrophobia. Noun. The abnormal, persistent fear of crossing bridges. From the Greek words gephyra (bridge) and phobos (fear).

Charlie Brown consults Lucy, who offers this Help ¢5 from her psychiatry booth: “I think we’d better pinpoint your fears. If we can find out what you’re afraid of, we can label it.”

Among the fears Lucy lists is this, the fear of bridges. And. I have it.

Anecdotal research suggests this is something that tends to appear out of nowhere in mid-life for those of us who previously had no compunction about driving over bridges. Ever. One day. Suddenly. Irrationally. No bridges. No. Nope. No sir. No ma’am. No thank you.

For a coastal gal, gephyrophobia is damn inconvenient.

I grew up on the coast of the Florida panhandle, where bridges are a fact of life. To name a few:

From my then-tiny two-traffic-lights-and-a-Hardee’s hometown of Pace westward over to the big city of Pensacola, we crossed a series of causeways spanning 3.5 miles over marshland that locals dubbed The Fills. Returning eastbound, just there on your right before the first bridge was the Last Chance Liquor Store. Yes, crossing The Fills took you into into dry Santa Rosa County. And the people said Amen.

To get to the beach, we drove over the Pensacola Bay Bridge a/k/a Three Mile Bridge, then over the three-quarter-mile Bob Sikes Bridge to pay the toll before putting our toes in the sugar white sand. Bob Sikes was a Senator in the 1940s who secured funding for the creation and expansion of 14 military bases in the Panhandle. He got divorced at age 76 to marry a much younger woman. A man who went for what he wanted, this Bob Sikes. Though, like the bridge bearing his moniker once it crests at its 65-foot vertical clearance, it all went downhill from there.¹

I’ve driven back and forth and forth and back over the I-10 Twin Span Bridge, parallel bridges that cross 5.5 miles over Lake Pontchartrain into New Orleans. My friend Cliff once said that if you were to peel back a New Orleans sidewalk, you’d see Hell bubbling underneath. To Cliff’s point, perhaps Lake Pontchartrain is reminiscent of the River Styx that separates the living world from the Underworld.

All that said, I’ve done bridges. But I’ve been a bit leery of bridges for a while. I was still functional, though, until October 2021.

I was not prepared for the Vasco de Gama, the bridge that was my undoing.

I flew into Lisbon, Portugal several days in advance of a yoga retreat in Evora. I grabbed my (oh so very large why do I always pack so much?) suitcase from the airport turnstile and shimmied into a tiny hatchback rental. Off to my beloved Sevilla. Ah, Spain! Just a four-and-a half hour drive away.

I am a go-with-the-flow traveler. I’ll just figure it out when I get there. I make plans. Kinda. Yeah, about that …. I didn’t plan for a nearly eleven-mile bridge.

Five minutes from Lisbon’s Humberto Delgado Airport, singing and happy after seven-or-so hours in the Delta cheap seats, I met my fate. The Vasco de Gama Bridge is the longest bridge in Europe at 17,185 meters (10.678 miles).

Sure, I didn’t care for bridges. But when I started this crossing, I really didn’t know what was ahead. No. Nope. Not not at all. About half-way over, it occurred to me. This was no ordinary bridge. But by the time the fear began to coil itself around me, I was nearly on terra firma.

Getting there was one thing. Getting back. Well, that was wholly another.

At some point past the Vasco de Gama Bridge, about midway to Sevilla, irrational fear set in. I gripped the steering wheel at 10-and-2, baby. I refused to pass slow-moving haul trucks. I stopped at euro-stations for espresso shots at least one too many times. At last I made it to Seville, where I passed several delightful days in complete denial of the return strategy.

Return. I had no choice. I was meeting friends at the Lisbon airport for a lovely adventure. But first I had to drive back from Seville. Over that damn f’ing bridge.

This time, I knew what I was up against. And I was. Not. OK. I had a four-plus hour drive to talk myself into it. But when I got to dear ol’ Vasco de Gama, I froze. What. In. The. Actual. Hell?

I placed myself into the center lane, far enough from either side to ensure my tiny rental car wouldn’t fall over the side. I gripped the steering wheel. And slowed to a steady 45 miles per hour at best—or when in Portugal, roughly 72 kilometers per hour.

Cars honked. Trucks bore down relentlessly, just centimeters from my taillights. Hands shaking uncontrollably. Core tight. Breath shallow. A single bead of sweat made its way slowly from my forehead to my cheek and down my neck as I continued steadfast for 10.678 miles in that center lane. And I was. Not. OK.

This was. The longest 10.678 miles. Of. My. Whole. Actual. Life.

Somehow. Blessedly. I found an exit. That exit took me to a beach. I crawled out of the car, knees weak, barely making my way to the rocky sand. There I recovered, watching the waves crash in, until it was time to meet my friends.

And yet. I am still. Not. Recovered. Bridges have not been the same for me, since. Vasco de Gama be damned.

Video of Vasco de Gama Bridge, filmed from the safety of a van’s back seat, professional driver at the wheel. Whew!

What is this about? Generally, a question worth asking.

I’ve landed on three options. Y’all, I grew up Southern Baptist. In that tradition, the preacher always has three points. No sermon here (well, maybe just a lil’), but here we go

Option 1. Past Life Trauma?

It is entirely possible that in a past life, I drove off a bridge to my death. No really. My fear is so irrational, that explanation seems comparatively rational. Hear me out.

These days, when I cross a bridge, instinctively I get to the center-most trajectory. I fear that I’ll accidentally drive off the side and into the water. This scene flashes through my mind in vivid detail, on repeat.

Despite growing up on the coast, I am not a great swimmer. I can put my head under water. But I do not want to put my head under water. Just before I dive into the Gulf, I am gripped with fear. Generally, I can push through it and find joy in the waves. But it takes a moment to get centered.

Now you see my logic? In a past life, I must have plummeted off a bridge and into deep water. At which point, my Soul went Home. Only to return here—challenged yet again by bridge and water—my physical body recalling via Soul what my mind cannot.

Do you have your own irrational fear? Certified past life regression therapists help clients revisit moments in prior lifetimes to help make sense of things in this present lifetime. So I’ve read, with curiosity.

And it’s more than past-life trauma carried forward; it can be past-life Joy, as well. For instance, is there a place that calls to you? That beckons? For me, it is Positano on Italy’s Amalfi Coast. I must have lived there before, for I know it and it knows me.

So. Perhaps there’s something to it, this past life theory. But surely I don’t want to get stuck in the past; neither do I wish to be mired in inertia. May I learn the lessons I came here to learn in this lifetime, and may I Love wholeheartedly the Souls I came here to Love. Amen.

Option 2. Seeking Guidance.

Since the Vasco de Gama Bridge debacle, I have created a diversion. For, if I am to reach my dear respite—my fixer-upper in Seagrove Beach—there is a bridge I must cross. The Choctawhatchee Bay Causeway is a 12,000 foot (2.273 miles) span over the Bay along US-331. It’s a beautiful drive, Nature’s reminder: keep going, you’re nearly there!

To address gephyrophobia, some recommend creating a happy distraction to take your mind off of the bridge and surrounding water. So I’ve developed a ritual. Heart in my throat, I breathe through the fear to get over the bridge.

I’ll tell you how, but first I need to address an admonishment I ran across while researching gephyrophobia. This phobia, according to one author, is a S-I-N!

“There are people who have a fear of crossing bridges. . . . The root of all fear is sin. Fear reflects a lack of trust in God.”

“As you stand at the foot of your bridge of fear, you have a decision to make. Which is stronger—your God or your fear? ‘What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee.’ Psalm 56:3.”

This, Dear Reader, is why I left the church. For this is fear-based Faith. If you experience fear, a very human reaction, you must not be walking in Faith. Oh, you are a sinner indeed! And unrepentant sinners should be afraid. . . . Wait, what?

My wise friend Lilia once suggested that our relationship with our earthly father affects how we are in relationship with our Heavenly Father. A child of adoption, I’ve had two earthly fathers, both very much alive and very much past tense. What, then, of unconditional Love? I’ve struggled mightily with Faith that God is indeed “our refuge and strength, a very present help in times of trouble,” as Psalm 46:1 assures us.

So God offers guidance in a way I can more readily accept it. In times of need, I turn to my Spirit Guides, whom God assigned to walk with me. As I began to develop a relationship with my Guides, my Faith in God began to strengthen. Each of us comes to Faith in our own way.

Back to how I get over Choctawhatchee Bay. As I approach the bridge, I locate my “favorite” songs library stored in Apple or Spotify. Then, I say a quick prayer, asking my Guides to share with me what I need to hear. That is, I ask my Guides for a message.

As I enter the bridge, I hit “shuffle” and wait. It usually takes a song-and-a-half to cross the bridge. While my mind is drawn to the what-ifs … what if I were to lose control and go over the side and into the water and ….. Deep breath. I can return to the song. What message am I meant to receive?

Sometimes the message is hopeful. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes witty. My Guides can be downright funny. But every time, the message is what I need to hear. And before I know it, I am safely over the bridge.

Try it. Say a prayer. Ask for Guidance. Consider the message. There is a message. Tune in. Contemplate. Let it take you over the bridge.

Option 3. Learning that We Don’t Have to Go Alone.

Gephyophobia sparks an industry. There are private companies that shuttle drivers over major bridges. For a fee, of course. Such services are available, for example, to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in Maryland. “The bridge doesn’t discriminate,” says one shuttle driver.

In Michigan, the Mackinac Bridge Authority shuttles drivers over the bridge connecting the Upper and Lower Peninsulas, no charge. It is not uncommon for grown men to seek refuge under a blanket in the back seat floor for the crossing.

On some bridges, authorities install cameras to identify drivers having a panic attack, sending rescue when needed. The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco—which, inexplicably, I have crossed several times with no problem—offers an emergency number to call. Though I am quite certain that had a number been offered for Vasco de Gama, my shaking hands would not have been able to dial it.

The point is, when we find ourselves immobilized by fear, help is available. We need only ask.

Mackenzie and I went to Charleston for her Fall Break. Some kids research colleges. Mackenzie? She’s researched where she wants to live: in the South, please, because I cannot handle the cold; decidedly near water; a place not too big but not too small because my kids will need something to do; oh, and you’ll come too, Mom. Dream big, my Angel.

Some families tour colleges. We toured Charleston. And loved it! But there is one problem. Bridges. They’re everywhere. Not the least of which is the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge, which crosses the Cooper River. It is, by the way, the third longest among cable-stayed bridges in the entire Western Hemisphere. Big sigh.

Knowing my fear, Mackenzie talked me over the bridge the first time. You’ve got this, Mom! And the second and third and fourth and fifth times. Soon, I was zipping over Charleston’s many bridges. Hands still gripping the wheel, yes. But breathing. Even laughing. Because, Dear Reader, fears aren’t facts.

Our last morning in Charleston, we woke before sunrise to take a walk over the Cooper River Bridge. It was glorious. So is the freedom that comes in facing fear and continuing anyway, knowing support is there.

Dear Reader, we all have our bridges to cross. Perhaps yours isn’t an actual bridge. But an irrational fear is there, nonetheless. From a past life? Perhaps, though more likely something to be learned in this precious Life. May we seek Guidance. May we ask one another for help. And in the timeless words of Simon & Garfunkle,

Sail on, silver girl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine

Oh, if you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind

From my Heart to yours. XO, Ash

1. It went downhill. Well, don’t leave us hanging. What happened? Not long after Mr. Sikes married this bride 35 years his junior, he fell victim to Alzheimers and (according to his daughter) this blushing bride denied him medical care and banked the money. So says Wikipedia. Karma, perhaps, for this staunch segregationist. Key take-away? Beware that 70-something lusty rush down the aisle, you old coot.