Let me tell you how much I hate heights. I really, really, reeeeallly, hate high places. Especially high, spiraling, tightly enclosed capsules of fear. So it is still puzzling to me that on a warm spring day in 2013 I found myself in just such a place, of my own free will. Picture if you will, the Saint Augustine Lighthouse… I must have been daydreaming, or suffering from temporary insanity as I handed over my $9.95 to the smiling (were those fangs?) lady at the ticket counter. She took the blood money, and pointed me to the courtyard where it finally hit me like a ton of 165 foot tall bricks. I stood looking up at a black and white spiral of doom, its front door standing open like the maw of some unholy beast. Trembling, I entered the base of the tower and started up the metal staircase; clinging to any available surface in search of comfort that would not come. Several times during the climb up those 219 stairs of terror I almost turned back, but somehow I managed to go on until I reached the top. The cunning fiends who inhabit this place had posted a minion at the top to make deceptively benign comments about the view, obviously to distract you into believing that it’s a good idea to be here. I, for one, was not taken in! I snapped a few shots of the “scenery” (pfft) and descended with great haste; barely escaping with my soul intact.