Cavernous: 82 Steps to the Break

Beneath charming, pink beaches you dwell in the subterrain of Bermuda. Over thirty million years in the making, your expansive sixty-two metre depth is home to a tidal cacophony of knotty, coralloid structures tucked behind an entrance zone rich with verdant vegetation. Sunlight penetrates your cave mouth; my skin consumes the final beams of warmth as I enter you. Surrounded by limestone walls, I see dimly lit, narrow corridors ahead, hesitate and wonder how I got lured into this spelunking adventure amid your deceptively striking landscapes. 

I was excited when my friends in Bermuda suggested I go explore the caves on the island. I was visiting Tina, one of my childhood friends from Toronto, who recently got a job in Bermuda as an accountant. While Tina was at work, her friends would take me sightseeing. One afternoon, Tina’s friend Sandra and I were sunning on the beach at the Grotto Bay Beach Resort. We bumped into her friends, as you’ll do when in Bermuda, since it’s not a large island, and everyone knows everyone! They just got back from swimming in the Cathedral Cave which is on the resort. That sounded so exciting! Swimming in a cave! I want to do that, I thought. Sandra didn’t, and opted to stay on the open, sunny beach, so I went on my own. 

I didn’t have to walk far into the cave before reaching the lake. I jumped into the clear, blue water and attempted to swim deep enough to grasp the stalagmites and feel the smooth calcite, but they always retreated from my touch. After that solo adventurous jaunt, you’d think tackling a large cave like you would be a breeze, but the adrenaline running through me that sparked joy and awe, started to signal a flight or fight response, the further I walk into your entrance chamber. I brush aside the sensation, thinking it’s probably just the dark, narrow corridor ahead that’s unnerving me. The feeling of incipient excitement reminds me of how my relationships tend to begin – me, plummeting in without overly assessing a situation, just allowing chemical reactions and synapses to electrify my anatomy into infatuation before sussing out important details and possible red flags. This is also what drives me to jump into a cave lake with my glasses on, alone, and not worry about what could possibly go wrong! I am in this stage with you, Crystal Cave; you’ve allured me into your entrance. Without further consideration, I plunge into darkness. 

At the end of the corridor, I find myself in a group of a dozen travellers and explorers who’ve gathered here waiting for our guide to escort us further into your enigmatic depths. She informs us there are eighty-two steps descending deep into your labyrinth of expansive caverns. As we descend, I make note of how differently each one of us clutches the cool, cylindrical railings. The guy in front of me, wearing a white “I survived the Bermuda Triangle” t-shirt, power-grips the railings on either side of the stairwell so forcefully that his tanned knuckles appear to glow, as blood flows away from his extremities. He takes his time, slowly sliding his clenched hands down the worn metal rails, never letting go as he cautiously steps further down into the unknown. I’m barely gripping the rails, attempting to barrel down quickly to reach the heart of you, but the man’s suppressed gait slows the rest of us, forcing us to warily reach your hollows. I snicker internally, thinking the only way that guy is surviving anything is riding the coattails of his wife, who scurries down the stairs ahead of him, goading him to follow.

We finally reach the bottom and step down into a small, dimly lit chamber. We’re crammed in like a colony of bats; our forearms touching. My short stature causes my right shoulder to rub up against the clammy arm of the Devil’s Triangle survivor, while the other side of my body appears to gain electricity that exudes from your walls. Everyone peers around, investigating our new surroundings, while our guide relays the story of your discovery. We can look to Gaia and science to learn about your geological formation over millions of years, but your unearthing was in 1907 when two young boys played a game of cricket above you. One of the lads struck the ball so forcefully that it disappeared down a hole several metres away. The boys crawled through the hole in search of their ball but inadvertently found the entrance into your natural wonder. Shortly afterwards, the Wilkinsons, the family that owned the land, opened you up to adventurers like us, allowing us the opportunity to excavate your wondrous treasures.

As we walk deeper into your interior, the guide points up towards the opening the boys crawled through a century earlier. It’s darker here as natural light dissipates, as photosynthesis ceases, as greenery becomes hard, stony walls. I feel myself plunging into the experimental phase of our connection, where we’re getting to know more about each other. I wonder what effect the natural progression of environmental change has on our relationship. Will your hardened interior smother my internal light? Or will your vestiges continue to guide me enthusiastically? Your corridors call out to me as if they’ve waited a million years for my touch. My fingertips glide across your ancient, rocky erosion, smooth yet uneven and sodden with seawater that migrates through fissures in your porosity. It is hard to decipher your size in the twilight zone where remnants of sunlight bounce off your walls in a surreal effect, like flickering and filtering shadows that dance and dance the dance of mischievous sprites. My heartbeat pulses and quickens to match their rhythm. 

The tour guide is saying something I can’t make out as I emerge from a trance, blinking as my eyes adjust. As the group of sprites fade, the group of explorers shuffle along your precarious, spectral terrain, each person emitting a different vibe. I can barely contain my excitement to be inside of a primordial entity—it’s fascinating, awe-inspiring, yet somehow, something seems compressing, as one might feel there’s less air this low beneath Earth’s surface. I see rapture or terror on the shadowy faces of my fellow spelunkers. They’re either as amazed by you as I am, or they feel like you’re squeezing their essence from their bodies; perhaps, they worry that your lovely stalactites will fall upon them, or that you’ll collapse, crushing us, burying us. Perhaps their languid faces are breathless with wonder; it’s hard to tell in the muted light that emits from the electrical lamps connected to your walls. If we look too carefully at the wires running from lamp to lamp, we might be drawn out of this moment of ethereal wonderment. I am not as worried; your breathtaking stature quiets my trepidation. Drip, drip, drip, I hear in the distance and soldier forward, excited to see the source of the sound. 

Contented. You open into a cavern of crystal clear water with shades of aqua and green, which swell and flow, which cascades and thrums, an a cappella choir humming Mozart’s Requiem. Everyone is awed by this acoustic, inconceivable body of water. We walk onto a stable wooden bridge with rusted handrails running alongside it. I search for the guy in the white t-shirt out of curiosity, and wonder, will he be able to cross this rickety-looking bridge on his own, even though it’s solid and stable? I’m inside of you, experiencing such an incredible moment like never before, like we’ve reached our honeymoon phase, feeling like anything is possible, like there’s no way other than up. So, what’s with the internal grumblings? I ask myself. I focus back on your physical beauty and hush away invasive thoughts. 

A subterranean lake spans the length of the bridge. We are mesmerized by the view. Even the nervous among us are immersed and impressed by this wonder hiding deep inside you. Creamy white “soda straws” protrude from your roof. There are thousands of them, skeletal, tubular stalactites marching forward like an army in wavering light. Soda straws are found where water slowly leaches through cracks and crevices in rigid rocks. Calcium carbonate or calcium sulfate dissolves in water, depositing mineral buildups, displaying milky hues. As we peer over the slender, one-person wide bridge, it looks as if we could jump in and touch the bottom of the tranquil, crystal clear lake. Deceptive. It was this lake that gave you your name, though some might think it was the crystalline stalactites and stalagmites that appear to sparkle. The guide informs us the lake is ten metres deep—compare that to an average swimming pool, which is less than two metres deep. We are amazed by this information, whispering that it can’t be right. I want to plunge in and see if your submerged stalagmites are as deep as the ones in Cathedral Cave. I get a weird sensation that you’re pushing me to dive into your infinite waters, where we can bond like oxygen and hydrogen, where I can easily be suffocated without access to the right molecules. My musings are cut off by the guide; she’s telling us this lake is unswimmable because the silt lying at the bottom would be disturbed, causing the clarity of the water to cloud. 

Our group contemplates this when suddenly the cave floods with darkness. Gasps and screams exhale from the crowd, as I too, cry out. I hear stifled shuffling and feel a palpable stillness, as if all of life surrendered to a respite when water stops flowing, when the world stops spinning. I absently stop breathing. Drip, drip, drip, the perpetual trickling sound brings me back to the darkened cave where our guide reiterates the cause of the blackout. Even though we were told in advance the electrical lamps would be turned off so we could experience the true darkness that exists this deep inside of you, we were not prepared for the penetrating pall, like the end of days when all eyes will close to nothingness. This moment drifting in umbra is a gamechanger. Sandra is lucky she didn’t tackle this adventure with me. She would totally hate this.

Pleas erupt from the clamouring caucus.

“This is some scary bullshit!”

“Turn the lights back on,” someone else screams; somehow I know it’s Mr. Bermuda Triangle.

I sense them nodding in assent for light. Was I nodding also? I let out the breath I forgot I held. As the lights come back on, I begin to discover your imposing welcome was a sham. I look left, I look right, I look up, I look down deep into your soul. You come across as being so smooth, swindling us with your unbelievably beautiful lakes that dampen nether regions. As I blink and blink, adjusting to the illumination, your vast stalagmites and stalactites appear to mingle like fangs closing in on their prey. I turn my head and focus on the condensation glistening across your golden walls; your cracks and subterranean lakes could lead me to fall for you, horizontally. I would let you eat me as I lie vulnerable upon your cold, hard ground. 

Drip, drip, drip, the eternal echo grows louder and louder as we move forward. I feel the group’s tension build. My body palpitates as their energy pervades me. Cold sweat trickles down my spine. Slick, you’re a tricky one. Your serpentine trails disorient and diminish my sensibilities. You perplex neural maps, obliterating my senses. I am losing myself in your haphazardly constructed structures. 

You shrink, and you shrink, and you shrink, forcing me onto my hands and knees, guiding me to crawl through you. I feel like I grew and grew, while searching for a way out. Now, I want to be free of you. You’ve kept me long enough. I perceive my group, too, feels we’ve overstayed our welcome, especially White T-Shirt guy, who I’m beginning to understand. We need to breathe again, to see again. To be free again. Get me out of your blinding corridors, that sparkle and constrain. Get me away from your incessant dripping that doesn’t fade. You are ominous, oppressive, and jagged. I wanted to be amazed by you, but now I’m dazed and confused by you. I’m lost, and I’m lost, and I’m losing my mind. Drip, drip, drip. The guide’s voice is drowned out by the sound of my heart. Drip-drip, it beats.  

You are my anxiety. You are horror. No more caves. Never again. I am done with you.