The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek. ~ Joseph Campbell
It has been a while since I posted, not since I dove, just since I posted. A good trip was in order. I think I accomplished that..... I think.....
It was a Monday in May and I was driving leisurely up Rt 19 and heading for the land of caves and wet rocks. I was meeting Barbara Dwyer from California, but she was not to arrive until late, and so with errands to run I made the rounds dropping off comp. magazines at Cave East and Amigos and stopping at Ginnie Springs with seconds to spare and renewing my yearly pass.
I checked in at the High Springs Country Inn, dropped my bags and headed across the street to what is currently called the High Springs Diner, but will forever be known as “Floyds”.
Morning arrived with sunshine and a promise of things to come. I was meeting Jim Wyatt at Ginnie for an early dive while jet lagged Barb slept in. Jim was getting in some practice and tweaking time on his new rebreather and we caught up on things as we geared up. We dropped down into the clear water at the bottom of the stairs and as I clipped on my O2 bottle I could hear the distinct sound of bubbles. Not happy champagne bubbles or the excited warbling of the lil fishies….. but a rush of bubbles….. dive stopping, equipment failing, trip ruining bubbles. My left post was making Lawrence Welk proud and Jim, try as he might, could not get it to stop. He continued on solo as I made my way up the stairs.
Since Jim could not get any results with all his attempts at the regulators, I decided to try switching tanks. Marching back down to the water, I swam, fluttered and twisted with no sign of my previous bubbles. Satisfied, I sat on the stairs, hanging lazily from my tanks by my harness and passed the time talking shop with groups of divers as they came and went. Before I knew it Jim was back and wondering if I had moved yet.
For the afternoon dive we were meeting up with Jim Fishback, who I understand may have been around longer than even Forrest Wilson; and that’s a long time. He gave us some history and a few stories of the first dives At Ginnie as we geared up. Talk of running wreck reels through the woods in order to find their cars and how each passage opened up when they thought they were at the end.
We head for the eye, making our way over the lip of rock and on down to the sandy bottom. Here, a lone rock sits in the center of the sand and a tree trunk worn smooth by the waters flow marks the entrance to the cave. We wind our way through the zigzag tunnel over boulders and past gravel piles of limestone with three beams of light slowly scanning the darkness and guiding us along.
The Grim Reaper still stands sentry at the start of the gold line and we clip off our tanks and hit our inflators to get up to the ceiling and out of the worst of the flow. The Gallery Tunnel is massive and the ceiling rises and arches like a huge stone cathedral. Jim had explained when Ginnie was first discovered, the entire cave was covered in black with goethite (a reddish-brown to black iron oxide deposit). Through years of diver use and exhaust bubbles from their breathing, the Geothite has been dislodged and washed from the cave; the cave is now almost entirely white. As I make my way back I am more observant of where the black patches lie and his story.
As we pull our way along, I am also apprehensive. My last trip here, the Lips had its way with me; flying me like a flag in the current and keeping my next hand hold secreted from me in a vicious game of hide and seek. The more frustrated I became, the worse the short trip through this short passage became.
The Lips is a wide low opening in the limestone wall about mid-cave height approximately 200 feet into the cave. I release my air and drop heavy onto the smooth limestone shelf and feel the force of the spring’s current as I reach out and…… find a small hand hold to pull myself along. And then another and then just the smallest of bumps but I am almost there and with one last push I am through and preparing for the keyhole, a restriction shaped long and narrow….. like a keyhole. From here we turn at the park bench and through the cornflakes where I am sure to look off to the side where the last of the fragile cornflakes still lie, just as Jim described.
Our jump is at the Hill 400 and we meander along the line and I notice there is more black to the walls here. The limestone is still smoothed from the waters flow and dotted with holes and finger-like out croppings; but I can see more dark patches and long swaths of black appear as we make our way back.
My time has come and I signal my turn time and we slowly make our way back out. With the flow at our backs we move more easily returning around the bench and up through the keyhole and can feel the suction of the lips as we approach and the flow increases with the narrowing of the tunnel.
We make our way out and back to the sand where the light filters through the river water above and tubers frolic one last time before day’s end.
From here we will pack up and go to dinner and Jim will tell us stories, amazing stories, funny stories, stories that come from a lifetime of diving before roads and tank benches ever reached these Florida caves. I hope he tells me more and that he writes them down to be shared. I loved hearing them and would love to hear more.