One of the stops we really wanted to make while driving the southern portion of Iceland’s Ring Road was Cape Dyrhólaey, known for its towering cliffs, massive natural sea arch, and incredible views over the Atlantic. From the top, you can supposedly look out across endless stretches of black-sand beach, rugged coastline, and distant glaciers.

I say supposedly because Iceland had other plans for our visit.

First, we actually had to get there. The road up to Dyrhólaey is steep, winding, and exactly the type of road that makes Sarah question every life decision that led to her being the one behind the wheel. As we climbed higher, she became increasingly unsure that she wanted any part of continuing to the top, but she pushed through and got us there.

We finally reached the parking area, found a spot, and had barely settled in before a ranger came running toward our car through the wind and rain. At this point, I became convinced that this woman’s entire job was not actually protecting Cape Dyrhólaey. Her job was protecting rental cars from tourists who did not understand Icelandic wind.

Apparently, Sarah had parked the car facing the wrong direction. The ranger told her she needed to turn it around because the wind was so strong that if we opened the doors while facing the wrong way, a gust could catch one and seriously damage it—or potentially rip it right off the car.

And when I tell you the wind was strong, I mean hurricane-force, reconsider-your-entire-plan strong.

Sarah repositioned the car as instructed, and somewhere during this process she made a very reasonable decision: she was not getting out. She had successfully driven up the steep, winding road, avoided having a rental-car door ripped off by Iceland, and was perfectly content to experience Cape Dyrhólaey through the windshield.

I, however, looked outside at the wind, rain, fog, and cliffs and thought, Well, we came all this way.

So naturally, I decided to get out.

That turned out to be harder than expected. I tried opening the car door once and could barely move it. I tried again with the same result. On the third attempt, I finally managed to push it open far enough to escape, while also doing everything in my power not to become responsible for explaining to the rental-car company why our vehicle now only had three doors.

Once outside, I started making my way toward the cliffs. Calling it “walking” might be generous. The wind was pushing me so hard from behind that at times I felt less like I was walking toward the viewpoint and more like Iceland was personally escorting me there. My feet were moving, but the wind seemed to be making most of the decisions.

Then I got closer to the edge and discovered that between me and a very large drop to the Atlantic Ocean was essentially a small chain. That was it. No giant wall. No enormous protective barrier. Just a little chain casually suggesting, Please don’t fall off Iceland.

Meanwhile, the wind was still pushing me from behind.

At one point, I genuinely thought, This wind is trying to push me off this cliff. And honestly, it would not have needed to try very hard.

Still, I had come all the way up there, fought my way out of the car, and survived the walk to the viewpoint, so I was determined to at least look around. And there it was: the famous view from Cape Dyrhólaey.

Well…sort of.

It was rainy, foggy, and the wind was howling. The Atlantic looked appropriately angry, while the beautiful sweeping coastline was somewhere out there behind various combinations of mist, rain, and weather. I stood there long enough to take it all in and decided I had probably pushed my luck far enough.

Now I just had to get back to the car.

The walk back presented an entirely different problem because this time I was going against the wind. You know those trust exercises where someone leans backward and another person catches them? This was like that, except I was leaning forward and trusting Iceland.

The wind was so strong that I could lean into it and practically let it hold me up. Every step required effort, while the rain whipped sideways into my face hard enough that it actually stung.

Meanwhile, I could see the car in the distance, and inside that car was Sarah—dry, warm, safe, and almost certainly watching me fight for my life while feeling increasingly confident that she had made the correct decision.

Eventually, soaked, windblown, and probably looking like I had just lost an argument with a pressure washer, I finally reached the car. I opened the door very carefully this time, climbed inside, and shut out the chaos behind me.

Sarah looked exactly like someone who had just spent the last several minutes watching her wife voluntarily walk toward a cliff during hurricane-force winds.

But I had done it. I had made it to Cape Dyrhólaey, seen the cliffs, caught at least part of the view, and most importantly, both I and the rental-car door had made it back in one piece.

Looking back, Cape Dyrhólaey was absolutely worth visiting. It was dramatic, wild, beautiful, and probably one of the best examples of Iceland reminding us that nature was completely in charge.

Sarah experienced that lesson from inside the car.

I apparently needed to learn it outside.