Every time I round the corner as I make my way toward the North Shore Mountains onto the Ironworkers Memorial Bridge, a particular image haunts my mind. It is of the men who died when the bridge collapsed during its construction on June 17, 1958.
I remember years ago hearing a snippet on the radio about the men who had died that day. The divers who had bravely gone beneath the waters to recover the men were confronted by an other worldly sight.
For, standing on the ocean bed the men appeared still alive gently swaying with the water. Their heads bowed and bobbing. Their arms floating, reaching for something that could not be seen.
Their heavy work boots and tool belts had pulled their feet to the silty floor while their life preservers held their bodies aloft.
Each time I journey to the mountains and navigate my way over the bridge, it is this dreadful, yet beautiful image that calls to me. It implores me to pay attention and refuses to leave my mind for the remainder of my journey.