I Fell Down a Waterfall
(A True – and Truly Terrifying – Tale)

One of the scariest things that’s ever happened to me – and I mean truly frightening – was the day I fell down a waterfall.
Yes, you read that right. I actually fell down a waterfall!

It all happened back in 1975, in the hazy mists of memory. My brother Tony and I had set out for a drive into the countryside. We were living in Dublin at the time, and heading for the Wicklow Mountains (which, for some unknown reason, we Dubs insisted on calling the Dublin Mountains) felt like a proper little adventure. I’d just got myself a new car, a Ford Cortina – new to me, anyway – and we were in high spirits.

It was a gloriously sunny day in May, warm and golden. The kind of day that makes you believe nothing bad could ever happen. As we wound our way up the mountain roads, not a care in the world between us, I had no inkling of what lay ahead.

After spending a blissful hour or so wandering the magnificent gardens of Powerscourt Estate, we hopped back in the car and carried on up into the hills. Spotting a waterfall spilling down the mountainside ahead, I pulled over, declaring that we had to stop and take a look. It was the waterfall at Sally Gap.

The narrow road led us to the top of the fall, where a peaty stream fed the cascade. We parked up and wandered across to a scenic lookout, admiring the view. I strolled along beside the stream, lulled by the gurgling of the brown, churning water beside me. Still blissfully unaware of the peril just ahead.

As the ground became rockier, I inched closer to the top of the waterfall. My brother called out behind me, “Watch it! Those rocks look slippery!”
Good advice – but a second too late.

You see, it was the 70s, and like most lads at the time, I was wearing platform-soled shoes – stylish, yes, but about as practical on wet rocks as ice skates on a banana skin.
In the blink of an eye, I slipped and landed splash! right in the stream.

The icy water surged around me, tugging, pushing – hurling me towards the brink of the falls. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes (who came up with that idea, anyway?). No, I had one clear, terrifying thought: This is it. I’m done for.

Then – against all odds – a miracle.
My right foot jammed between two rocks on the streambed. I was still submerged and being battered by the current, but at least I wasn’t being carried over the edge.
Clinging to that shred of hope, I shouted to my brother, “Run to the road and stop a car! Someone might have a rope – they can pull me out!”

But Tony didn’t move.
Why?
Because he was too busy laughing his head off.

Yes – laughing. As I clung on for dear life, drenched, freezing, and terrified, my beloved brother was doubled over, roaring with laughter.

Realising no help was coming, I knew it was up to me.
Numb-fingered, I fumbled for something – anything – to grab onto. Time slowed. The roar of the waterfall seemed louder than ever. At last, I found a handhold I thought might just take my weight. I inched towards it.

Then – as suddenly as it had caught – my foot wrenched free of the rocks.

I scrambled out of the stream, gasping, shivering, soaked to the skin – but alive.
I had survived the Sally Gap waterfall.

The journey home was… memorable. I had nothing dry to wear, so I drove the whole way in my underwear, with the car rug draped around my shoulders like a makeshift cloak.
Tony? He laughed all the way. In fact, he didn’t stop laughing for a week. And he made very sure everyone heard the story.

To this day, I’ve returned to that spot several times – but I’ve never set foot near that stream again. I admire it only from a safe distance: the car park.

THE END – THANKFULLY!