Monday, 28 July 1986
Tenerife, Canary Islands
Debbie
The rock I’m standing on is only twelve inches long – just a foot stopping me falling into the water nearly five hundred feet below. The stone is cool under my bare feet.
It’s quiet; there aren’t many cars going past behind me. It must be late, or early. There’s a lovely warm breeze, one you don’t get in England when it’s dark. If it gets stronger, it might push me over the edge. Hitting water from this height is meant to be like landing on tarmac.
I’ve always been afraid of heights.
