The Walk of Life: Paul Waugh If you‟ve walked up to Huntcliff and along The Cleveland Way recently there‟s a good chance that you‟ve seen a number of carefully painted slate discs pinned into the grass along the cliff. Two give a simple warning to steer clear of the crumbling edge, two give contact details for both Samaritans and MIND, and another contains a simple, powerful and heartfelt message to the desperate at a time when their need is probably at its greatest: “Just in case you‟ve forgotten today,” the sign says, “You are special, you are loved.” Each of these plaques is the work of Brotton resident Paul Waugh, who has been led by his own experiences to draw attention to the dangers of our coastline; not just to protect visitors who‟re unfamiliar with its fragility, but to offer care and support to those who see death by jumping as the only escape from their problems. Over the last few years a series of accidents and suicides have meant that the path has become associated with tragedy almost as much as beauty, and Paul has seen more than his fair share. As a coastguard he was often a passive witness to the terrible aftermath of some of those incidents, but on other occasions he actively saved the lives of those he quite literally pulled back from the edge. Now retired from the service, Paul‟s mission nonetheless continues, and the plaques which both he and his wife, Sue, have inscribed are just one part of his continued presence along Huntcliff. I met Paul recently close to the site of the Roman signal station - which was itself lost to the sea in the late 1970s - and he was already at work. On that day - like on any good day - there‟s a steady stream of walkers in either direction, and he was greeting each of them cheerfully, stridently reminding them of the precariousness of the cliff edge where necessary. He walks the path every day when he can, sometimes two or three times, and he‟s now a fixture for many of us who use the clifftop regularly. He told me that in the months before our meeting he‟d intervened successfully - at least twice - to help walkers in distress, based on nothing more than his instinct and experience, and I can see why he‟d help. He‟s disarming and avuncular, assertive but unthreatening, and flexible enough to appeal to anyone who uses the path. He greeted a party of Chinese visitors who passed the bench while we talked, and although he seemed not to recognise them, they remembered him warmly from a previous visit. Paul says it‟s not in his nature to stand still for too long; he always has to be doing something that means something to him, and this seems to be the way he‟s always been. His time as a coastguard was both profession and mission, and he wasn‟t scared to put people before procedure, even if it cost him to do so. For some time he was a doorman at The Marine Hotel in Saltburn, where I understand he played a quiet, decisive and committed role in shaping the amenity and safety of the main bar. He‟s been a boxer, and he completed the London Marathon as a fundraiser too many times to mention. He still gives talks to school warning children of the dangers of the cliff, but right now, aside from protecting us, his family is his vocation. He is his wife‟s carer, and he spends as much time as he can with his children and grandchildren. Even on those cliff walks, he is busy. He takes his camera with him, sharing his beautiful photographs of the landscape with his Facebook friends, and he manages to 28
incorporate his passion for plane-spotting into his travels; as we spoke, he was waiting for a Dakota that was scheduled to fly overhead. When the Cleveland Way opened fifty years ago this summer it was advertised as an exploration of “the geography of peace”, a serene walk through a landscape whose turbulent and frequently violent past had slipped into antiquity; the site of the lost fort where I met Paul, though idyllic now, was amongst the bloodiest. That naive hope, that presumption that we were about to enter a new age of perpetual calm was very much a product of the 1960s, but we‟ve since been forced to remember that there can be no peace for some of us - at some times in our lives, at least. At the end of the last century the World Health Organisation correctly predicted that there would be a vast upsurge in mental health diagnoses in the affluent world at the beginning of the next one, and this has proved to be the case. Doctors report that almost half of their patients show some signs of mental illness, and our slow transition from a spiritual to a material world is taking its toll, both on our society, and on that part of us we used to call our soul. The battles that accompanied the formation of the Cleveland Way may well be over, but there are still wars being played out in the minds of those walkers who see the cliffs as their only way out. Paul told me about one year when he ran the London Marathon with a collection bucket. He said that people were throwing in small handfuls of coins for the whole race until the bucket was full, at which point he‟d have to empty it into his rucksack so the bucket could be filled again. The further he ran and the more tired he became, therefore, the heavier his load. Heartened by the marginal accumulation of the small generosities of others, however, his determination to cross the line grew even stronger. That, in its own way, is the perfect analogue for a life well-lived, and it shows how, if we follow Paul‟s example, the increasing burdens of life and of offering support to others can be turned into a source of strength, profound meaning and unexpected pleasure. We will always need people like Paul, and we will always need to be like Paul at some time in our lives. MIND: 0300 466 6463, Text: 86463, Samaritans: Call 116 123 (24 hours a day, 7 days a week). Mark Lawton