Sky driving

And so this is good old Boston, the land of the bean and the crane . . .

by Chris Wright

Boston: crane capital of the US! Well, we're getting there. More than 130 cranes are working the Central Artery Project, nodding over the skyline like herds of large, skeletal dinosaurs. The dominant crane -- the king of the cranes -- looms 13 stories above the nascent Charles River cablestay suspension bridge, right behind the FleetCenter. Known as a Tower Gantry, it's the biggest crane on the Big Dig, the largest freestanding crane in the country, and the object of what its operator calls "crane envy."

It takes a big man to operate a monster like this (not to mention hauling yourself up seven 20-foot ladders to do so), and Peter Bernazzani fits the bill. Substantial in voice and in build, with graying hair and a ruddy complexion, Bernazzani is the picture of hard-hatted health. And part of his job is to stay that way. "It can be very dangerous," he says. "I do sometimes dream of accidents."

From his perch 135 feet above the ground (soon to be raised another 60 feet), Bernazzani controls 200 tons of roaring machinery, shifting up to 75 tons of cement at a go. In the crane's cockpit, he sits before an elaborate control panel: an array of gauges and dials that would do your average aircraft proud. Behind him a giant spool noisily reels and releases a chunky cable; before him a 190-foot arm, or boom, swivels back and forth 300 feet above a farrago of steel, cement, and scurrying workers.

"It takes a special type of person to do this," Bernazzani says. "You have to have a lot of knowledge. You have to be level-headed."

Bernazzani, 41, has been operating cranes for 18 years. "I've been on some real clunkers," he says. "It's a pleasure to be on a crane like this." Indeed, sitting atop the Tower Gantry is a much-coveted job among crane operators. "We're the highest, we're the biggest," says Bernazzani. "There is definitely crane envy in the business."

The big man doesn't scoff as I clamber, quivering with fear and exertion, up the final greasy ladder to the platform. "Hi there," he says, smiling sympathetically. At least that seems to be what he's saying: it's hard to hear anything above the wind, the engine, and my own whimpers.

Bernazzani says I shouldn't feel bad about feeling bad. He has a friend, he says -- a guy so tough "you'd cross the street if you saw him" -- who got up here and cried like a baby, " `Pete! Make it stop!' " He chuckles at the memory. "Sometimes I look up and I don't want to do it," he says. "I know I didn't want to come up here this morning."

But he did come up here this morning, and has done so six days a week for the past seven months. "Oh, I love it. I get a thrill every day up here." Gesturing at the matchbox machinery and pinpoint hard-hats below, the rambling skyline all around, Bernazzani says he can spend hours watching the boats cruising the Charles, the planes descending into Logan, and the cars getting into fender-benders on Route 93. "We've seen at least a dozen accidents from people watching us," Bernazzani says.

Yeah, um, but what about you watching them watching you? When you're hauling these kinds of loads at this kind of height, you have to stay on your toes: tipping over is a tiny -- but otherwise very large -- possibility. "It would take quite a bit for the crane to go over," Bernazzani assures me. Doing a "capacity pick" can be pretty scary, he admits, but "it's also when I get the biggest rush." And then, as the platform pivots and the engine snarls, he adds, "Not that I'm a danger freak."

  Good thing. Now where's the bathroom? "Everyone wants to know that," Bernazzani laughs. "They don't want to know about the technical stuff, they want to know where we go." So here it is: there are no facilities up here. "We try to go before we come up. Or we go down."

But this isn't Bernazzani's most pressing concern. For one thing, he and his 25-year-old apprentice, Chris Diminico, share an area the size of a Twister sheet for up to 12 hours a day ("I see him more than I do my wife," says Bernazzani) -- not to mention that they also share this space with 600 gallons of flammable diesel fuel. There's the "bone-chilling cold" in the winter, the dust and pollution in the summer, the wind, the rain, the constant clatter. There's the biweekly prospect of edging your way along the length of the boom to oil the pulleys -- and other high-flying, death-defying feats. And, of course, there are those ladders.

But it's not all slog, insists Bernazzani, who says that he looks forward to driving his two kids over the cablestay bridge one day and saying, "Daddy did that." Being 135 feet above the ground might tend to invite this sort of contemplation.

"Sometimes," he says, "when things aren't go-go-go, we do have some time to reflect on things."

Like what?

"Like what the hell am I doing up here?"