or forty feet to the far wall of the cave in no time at all. The
moment we surfaced, Rodrigo's torch beam blazed about the shadows to his left. He had
obviously spied something in the water.
"What is it?" I asked, lending my own eyes to the frantic search.
"I thought I saw... yes!! There it is in the rock... Can you see... Steps! Steps in
the rock. They start ten feet below the surface. Where do you suppose they lead?"
I was glad to have Rodrigo with me. The fellow was always a lit fuse, liable to explode a
practical joke or gesture of brute honesty in someone's face without warning, but his
unpredictability also had its benefits, namely an uncanny resourcefulness under pressure. Our
various scuba exploits over the years had taught me that.
We clambered onto a narrow cross-walk which jutted out a few feet from the sheer rocky
rise before us. This ledge wound toward the mysterious stairway directly. Not wishing to dally a
moment longer, we made our way over, and it was there I gained my first clear view of what
seemed to be the only potential dry route from the cave.
I was less than enthusiastic, though. While definitely not a natural feature--the steps had
been carved, in the loosest sense of that word, at some point in time--the flight itself rose upward
in a steep, precarious manner against the edge of the rock. The word that came to mind was scale
rather than climb. In order to ascend the sixty or so feet until the steps disappeared into a tight
crack in the wall, we would have to be agile, flexible, unencumbered by our bulky diving
gear.
"Let's see how far we can get," Rodrigo said from between chattering teeth, "before it
starts snowing in here."
We left our extraneous equipment on the frosty shelf, and decided not to use our change
of dry clothing just yet; our wetsuits were far better insulators against the cold. The only item we
presently needed from our survival hold-alls was footwear--boots, rather than flippers, with
which to make our ascent. Nevertheless, I insisted we take our full packs along. One can never be
too prepared.
Rodrigo took the lead and made short work of the climb. Balance rather than effort was
required, sure-footedness as opposed to stamina. Together, we reached the point of ingress into
the rock and pressed on. A tiny pitter-patter of droplets fell from our wetsuits onto the bare rock.
The poorly cut stone route spiraled upward inside the cliff. And as we stayed low to the ground,
torchlight ensuring our only visibility in that claustrophobic vena cava, I recall just an endless,
dizzying creep, ever higher and ever warmer, to the heart of the island, to a daylight I thought we
would never reach.
The passageway opened suddenly to the bright afternoon. The final few stairs were
exposed to the elements, and were overgrown with moss. They ended at a shallow, inclined verge
of short, dried grass. I breathed deeply as we stood there, not quite sure what to do next.
The sweet smell of newly-cut grass excited my senses with a potent mix of ease and
nostalgia. I certainly didn't feel thousands of summers from home.
Before climbing the verge, I wandered over to the cliff's edge. The scenario so closely
resembled my childhood jaunts atop the coastal heights of Cornwall that for a few moments I was
that dauntless boy again.
But an anchor wrenched my gut as I looked down over the vertical drop. Our vessel was
in a shallow, undersea harbor far below. I stepped back from the seize of vertigo, and instead
focused on the inland view. A dense, arboreal shield of a forest barred our way, stretching as far
as the coast allowed in either direction. Lime-colored, the vista was muddied by an oppressive,
sentry darkness lurking between every leaf and bare trunk.
I strode over to Rodrigo and joined him in unpacking our kits for a change of clothing.
He extended his arm toward me.
"I'm gonna need the torch again," he said with his eyes fixed on the trees ahead. He
flinched as I placed a metal object in his
moment we surfaced, Rodrigo's torch beam blazed about the shadows to his left. He had
obviously spied something in the water.
"What is it?" I asked, lending my own eyes to the frantic search.
"I thought I saw... yes!! There it is in the rock... Can you see... Steps! Steps in
the rock. They start ten feet below the surface. Where do you suppose they lead?"
I was glad to have Rodrigo with me. The fellow was always a lit fuse, liable to explode a
practical joke or gesture of brute honesty in someone's face without warning, but his
unpredictability also had its benefits, namely an uncanny resourcefulness under pressure. Our
various scuba exploits over the years had taught me that.
We clambered onto a narrow cross-walk which jutted out a few feet from the sheer rocky
rise before us. This ledge wound toward the mysterious stairway directly. Not wishing to dally a
moment longer, we made our way over, and it was there I gained my first clear view of what
seemed to be the only potential dry route from the cave.
I was less than enthusiastic, though. While definitely not a natural feature--the steps had
been carved, in the loosest sense of that word, at some point in time--the flight itself rose upward
in a steep, precarious manner against the edge of the rock. The word that came to mind was scale
rather than climb. In order to ascend the sixty or so feet until the steps disappeared into a tight
crack in the wall, we would have to be agile, flexible, unencumbered by our bulky diving
gear.
"Let's see how far we can get," Rodrigo said from between chattering teeth, "before it
starts snowing in here."
We left our extraneous equipment on the frosty shelf, and decided not to use our change
of dry clothing just yet; our wetsuits were far better insulators against the cold. The only item we
presently needed from our survival hold-alls was footwear--boots, rather than flippers, with
which to make our ascent. Nevertheless, I insisted we take our full packs along. One can never be
too prepared.
Rodrigo took the lead and made short work of the climb. Balance rather than effort was
required, sure-footedness as opposed to stamina. Together, we reached the point of ingress into
the rock and pressed on. A tiny pitter-patter of droplets fell from our wetsuits onto the bare rock.
The poorly cut stone route spiraled upward inside the cliff. And as we stayed low to the ground,
torchlight ensuring our only visibility in that claustrophobic vena cava, I recall just an endless,
dizzying creep, ever higher and ever warmer, to the heart of the island, to a daylight I thought we
would never reach.
The passageway opened suddenly to the bright afternoon. The final few stairs were
exposed to the elements, and were overgrown with moss. They ended at a shallow, inclined verge
of short, dried grass. I breathed deeply as we stood there, not quite sure what to do next.
The sweet smell of newly-cut grass excited my senses with a potent mix of ease and
nostalgia. I certainly didn't feel thousands of summers from home.
Before climbing the verge, I wandered over to the cliff's edge. The scenario so closely
resembled my childhood jaunts atop the coastal heights of Cornwall that for a few moments I was
that dauntless boy again.
But an anchor wrenched my gut as I looked down over the vertical drop. Our vessel was
in a shallow, undersea harbor far below. I stepped back from the seize of vertigo, and instead
focused on the inland view. A dense, arboreal shield of a forest barred our way, stretching as far
as the coast allowed in either direction. Lime-colored, the vista was muddied by an oppressive,
sentry darkness lurking between every leaf and bare trunk.
I strode over to Rodrigo and joined him in unpacking our kits for a change of clothing.
He extended his arm toward me.
"I'm gonna need the torch again," he said with his eyes fixed on the trees ahead. He
flinched as I placed a metal object in his
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