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Tarheel Divers

Myth of the Cave

Band-Aids and medical tape hung loosely from my fingertips. My nails ached from tugging at the seven millimeters of neoprene rubber, which clung to my sweating skin. Wisps of hair peeked from beneath my hood as I pulled at the collar to allow a few gulps of air to enter my lungs. With barely bending arms and legs, I waddled to the back of the family van, and using whatever limited flexibility I had over my movements, I twisted and contorted my body into the Trans-Pac harness. After I secured all straps, reels, lights, and clips, I rolled off the bumper of the van supporting all 110 pounds of equipment on my back. Slowly, I managed to stumble towards the spring’s entrance, grabbing my mask and fins on the way. Before reaching the bottom step, I filled my wings with air and made all final preparations. Finally, with the grace and agility of a floundering beached whale, I allowed myself to fall into the icy water.

Cave Diving Song (Parody)

My head hurts, my fleece stinks and I don't love Exley,
It's that kind of mornin'
Really was that kind of night
Trying to tell myself that my finning is improvin'
And if I don't drown by Thursday, I'll be diving Friday night

The Cave

With tanks assembled ready still

The mind of cavers, iron willed

The morn’s confusion slowly dies

Replaced by eagerness relied

Upon the hope that they just might

Return again into the light

Anticipation building slow

Ready for the morning’s go

At learning secrets underneath

The caves imposing limestone teeth

Without the help of maps or signs

The cave decides who will survive

And who returns unto the sun

Though risking death is half the fun

Metaphor Killed the Cave Diver

Life’s brave beacon stood so fine,

Characterized by golden line.

Solemn Reaper stood as guard,

O’er the cave whose entrance he barred.