CAVE FISH

By John Reiff

            The cave floor feels smooth beneath my gloved hands and hard under my knees. I can touch either side of the horizontal shaft by extending my arms about a foot out from the shoulders.  If I lift my helmeted head 18 inches, I’ll bang the ceiling. It’s pretty tight. No one talks. The labored, asynchronous breathing of five pairs of lungs mingles with the scraping of five pairs of shin pads on rock. For me there is total darkness as opposed to the usual sliver of vision available in my right eye.  I can sometimes take advantage of that little bit of sight to help me get around outside during the day or in a well-lit room. Not here. The helmet lamp is of no value. I feel my way, follow the sounds made by the others and heed their occasional prompts and warnings. They bring plenty of light and follow it almost like a religion.

           I plunked down 45 dollars on a whim: Introductory Spelunking.  Three hours in a cave. What was I thinking?  I’m 28. Been blind two years. Damn diabetes. Damp brown hair protrudes from my helmet and sticks to my left cheek and throat. Bra straps dig into my bony shoulders with each back and forth arm movement. Should’ve worn the sports bra. The folding cane swings freely from my belt. Don’t think I’m going to need it down here.

            “Let’s rest a minute,” says Rita, our guide. “How’s everybody doin’?“

            “Doin’ great,” responds the guy in line just ahead of me. His name is Dan. His speech lacks any recognizable accent.

            “Next section goes downhill at a pretty steep angle,” she continues. “We’ll take it feet first on our butts.”

            “I got no pad on my butt,” cracks Bozo behind me.

            “You got plenty of padding on your butt,” says his girlfriend Mary behind him. I like her.

            “How high’s the ceiling?”  I ask.

            “Short arm’s length. Use it to push yourself along or break. Is everyone ready?”

            “Yeah!” we say in unison.

            “Let’s go.”

            Ten minutes later the floor levels out and we enter a much larger space judging by the echoic quality of Rita’s voice.

            “This is Stella’s grotto. Let’s move to the right along the edge of the pool. Notice the columns running from floor to ceiling. The pool contains a small population of eyeless, albino cavefish. Eyes offer no advantage down here since there’s no light to see by. The fish use smell, tactile sensory organs to detect movement and possibly sonar to locate food that drifts in on the underground stream that feeds the pool.” 

            I sense an awkward curtain of silence descending and feel obligated to step up and cast it off.

            “That’s amazing. I’d like to have sonar ability. I wouldn’t have to remember where I left my cane.  Can I uh feel the water?”

            “No. Sorry,” says Rita. “Oil from your hands would change the chemistry. Wouldn’t be good for the fish. Let’s move on.”

            Twenty more minutes of crawling. My knees and the palms of my hands protest each time they touch the floor. Bozo obviously shares my pain.

            “Don’t we ever get to stand up in here?” he asks.

             I sense a smile framing Rita’s reply.

            “We saved the best for last. There’s a few interesting challenges ahead. We’ll descend a short, vertical shaft, cross a five-foot, planked crevice and then a somewhat shorter crevice. After that we’re home free. We’ll pretty much walk the rest of the way.”

            “Halleluiah,” Bozo responds with obvious relief.

            The vertical shaft turns out to be a hole in the floor.

            “You gotta be kiddin’ me,” I comment as I try to measure the diameter of the hole with my hands and compare it with the breadth of my shoulders. “We’re gonna fit in there?”

            “One at a time,” says Rita. “Who’s first?”

            “I’ll do it.” I blurt brashly.

            “When you get to the bottom, move ahead into the horizontal shaft to make room for the rest of us.”

            I drop my legs into the hole and slowly lower myself to the armpits. I can’t feel the bottom. A wave of anxiety erupts within my chest cavity. I’m breathing rapidly.

            “Does it get any narrower than this?” I ask, afraid that I sound as nervous as I feel.

            “No, pretty much the same all the way to the bottom.”

            “How far?”

            “You’ll be there before you know it.”

            I go. It’s okay as long as I’m moving. When I hesitate, fear simmers, threatens to boil over, expand and wedge me in forever. I bottom out after what seems like five or six feet and enter the horizontal shaft, which opens wide enough to easily accommodate three people side by side though still no more than four feet high. The others join me slowly, one at a time.

            Rita takes the lead again. We arrive at the first crevice 15 minutes later. She describes the plank bridge and how best to traverse it. Dan goes first on his hands and knees and is across in less than 10 seconds. My turn. I grip the edges, my hands about 18 inches apart, a little less than the width of my shoulders.

           “How far is the drop?” I ask.

            “About eight feet,” Rita replies.

            “Great.”

            I edge out with my knees touching. Easy enough. The plank is thick and firm. It instills confidence. I slide my right hand six inches forward followed by left knee, left hand, right knee. Repeat five times. I’m across. Not bad.

            “Last crevice,” Rita announces. “Who wants to go first?”

            Bozo crawls up. His real name is Marsh; he told us when we all introduced ourselves at the beginning of the day.

            “Looks easy,” he says. “Where’s the plank?”

            “No plank, unless you want to go back and get the one we just used. We call this the plankless crevice.”

            I think she’s smiling again.

            “I don’t get it.” Bozo says

            “I’ll demonstrate.”

            The next thing you know, she’s across. I have no idea what she did and say so.

            “Sorry.”

            She returns to our side. “You need to bring your knees right to the edge and kneel up straight. Bend a little at the waist, reach out slowly with both hands and fall forward until you connect with the other side. Then it’s just a matter of walking forward on your hands a ways and swinging your legs across. You wanna try?”

            “Okay.” I get into position, bend at the waist, reach out and freeze.

            “Not gonna work,” I say. “Can’t do it that way. But I have an idea.”

            I remove my folding cane from my belt and put it together. I find the far edge of the crevice with the tip, fix it there and slide my one hand down the cane to the tip and solid rock beneath. The other hand acts in concert. I scamper across. The small group behind me cheers.

            “No way,” I say smiling. “No way in hell I was gonna do that without knowing where my hands were coming down. Mmmm Mmmm. Don’t wanna miss.”

            “Nice job,” says Rita.

            “Thanks.”

            Long day. Good day.  Back at the apartment, I treat myself to a hot bath to chase away the damp chill I picked up along with all the dirt. Water laps my neck as I settle into the most comfortable position possible. I think about the eyeless fish that live in a world where vision is impractical in the absence of light and the people who brought light into that dark place in order to find their way. I consider my cane and how its use enabled me to find the far side of the crevice and get across. I reach up and turn the hot water faucet to reheat my bath. I’m gonna stay in the tub a bit longer than usual today.