Over in a Minute

Our motor coach tour arrived in Bristol, England, around three in the afternoon. The sky was a deep blue, and the temperature had peaked at a comfortable seventy degrees Fahrenheit. From a tourist's point of view, everything about the day was picture-perfect. The city, located in the southern part of England, was resplendent with ancient and modern buildings interspersed with beautifully kept parks and public gardens. Its biggest attraction, seen from miles around, was the Clifton Suspension Bridge. It was the largest iron suspension bridge of its type when it was built, spanning the 702-foot width of the Avon Gorge. The bridge has been the scene of historic events and multiple suicides.

The coach brought our group to the hotel, and we were given time to unpack before meeting the guide back on the bus. During the short ride to the park by the bridge, our guide talked about the bridge’s architect, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, a young visionary who designed the structure in 1830 and was the driving force behind its construction. For me, the best part of traveling has always been learning about the local history, people, and culture. Bristol was no exception.

The trek from the parking lot to the viewing area was steep but manageable, using the metal handrails and stone slab steps. I was so intent on not making any missteps that my group was almost at the top of the hill before someone pointed and said, “Look at the balloons!” I looked in the direction she was pointing and spotted four brightly colored hot air balloons floating majestically over the bridge. It was truly a beautiful sight, but not for long.

The chimes on the local clock tower began sounding a welcome to the new hour as the lead balloon released its first of several packages. Simultaneously, the trailing balloons followed suit, dropping nondescript bundles over various buildings. The first package hit the bridge and immediately erupted into a ball of flames, followed by the other three exploding in rapid succession. The bridge, packed with cars, shook violently, convulsing from side to side. A brief, unnatural silence permeated the air and then, in one last quake, the Clifton Suspension Bridge plummeted down the two-hundred fifty feet into the Avon River.

The clock continued its deliberate cadence as the remaining bombs exploded, wreaking mayhem and destruction on the surrounding area. I searched the sky looking for more incoming bombs, but what I saw were four men dangling from parachutes gliding towards four waiting cars. As the final chime’s tone faded away, the men leaped through the open car doors, closing them as the cars sped off in four separate directions. The unmanned balloons continued to float gracefully across the sky.

The earsplitting sounds of sirens replaced the clock chimes. People wandered in a daze, displaying shocked expressions of disbelief at the carnage that had just replaced the historic bridge. We were eventually allowed to return to our hotel. After witnessing such destruction, none of us wanted to continue the tour. We all headed for home the next day, knowing that we were the last people to witness the Clifton Bridge, an eighteenth-century engineering marvel before a group of terrorists senselessly destroy it in one minute.