We were about to enter the dark aperture of the cave, like burglars slipping in through a window. To my left and to my right at the mouth of the cave were waving plants and little pink fish. Then, we were going through this dark cave with clumps of drab stalactites. I pitched my body toward the mossy bottom, reached my hand down and spread my fingers through the dull carpet. I remember distinctly, this one clump of aluminum fish swam beside my hand and then disappeared into the roots. I remember how magical that was and how attached I felt to them. In the distance, I could see the end of the cave (or kind of felt more like a tunnel) that we were diving through. I couldn't get through it fast enough. I was following Josh's flippers and all the while feeling like at any moment he might just leave me behind and be gone.
The sound was perhaps most terrifying: a symphony of blue tremors, of waterlogged deafness. I was so sure cobalt fish faces hid in the wall cavities and stalactite valleys. They wanted to speak to me as their long spaghetti-plant hair fanned out in the water, then whooshed behind them as I whooshed past.
- from a longer piece by Alyson Luthi