Fiji, 1980s. The sun’s a smug bastard, grinning down, reminding me it’s summer here while Los Angeles shivers. Waves lap at the shore, warm as a lover’s whisper, every thirty seconds or so. I’m eighteen, cocky, standing in nemo-print trunks—pre-movie, mind you, maybe I inspired Pixar. Signed up for this swim-snorkel-underwater-cave deal. Sounded like a laugh. I’d done a half-triathlon, so how hard could it be?
We’re five strangers, kicking sand, swapping small talk, waiting for the guide. The hotel flyer’s a joke—dot-matrix print, 200 DPI if it’s lucky, blue ink bleeding red. “Fiji’s Best Underwater Cave!” it screams. Best? Hell, I’m game. No Google back then, no TripAdvisor. The flyer’s got smiling folks in a cave, so I figure it’s legit. I’m a decent swimmer. I got this.
Then Jeet shows up. Fifteen, maybe, lanky as a starved palm tree, red trunks faded to pink, Baywatch tank top ripped like he fought a shark and lost. He flashes corncob teeth, broken English spilling out. “Hi ya, I’m Jeet, you guide. Beautiful day, you see!” We trade looks—half doubt, half “what did we sign up for?” Jeet’s all confidence, wading into knee-deep water, waving us in like we’re sheep. We follow, snorkel gear dangling, a loose pack of idiots in a twenty-foot huddle.
Jeet splashes, grins, and asks, “Ev’ryone swim, right?” Bit late, pal. Then he sinks, bobs up five yards out, and says, “It drop here, ‘bout twenty feet. Then you swim.” My plan’s still solid: 1) Guide? Sketchy teen Jeet. 2) Directions? Vague as hell. 3) Backup? These clowns? I’m the best lifeguard here. But I’m in Fiji, eighteen, jacked, and that flyer had happy cave-swimmers. Screw it.
We’re swimming now, close to rocks slick as glass, no grip, no mercy. Jeet stops at a massive rock formation, thirty feet out. Waves hide and reveal a half-rotted rope, knotted through an eyehook. Jeet grabs it, bobbing like a cork. “Okay, tis rope tied to rok. You swim, follow rope.” He gulps air, cheeks puffing like a blowfish, for effect. “Hold breath, go down, swim ‘bout fifteen seconds. You see light. Rope ends, swim to light.” He smiles, dives, and vanishes. Poltergeist vibes, but doable, right?
We tread water, waiting for Jeet to resurface. Nope. He’s gone to the light. I ask, “Who’s first?” and get a chorus of “Ja,” “Sí,” and grins that say, “You’re up, dumbass.” Spotlight’s on me. No one’s moving. Hail Mary time. I suck in air, dive, and grab the rope. Water’s clear at the surface, then darkens, sun fading. The rope’s limp—tied to nothing, maybe. Panic creeps in. Fifteen seconds? Feels like fifty. Jeet’s timekeeping’s as reliable as his English. I can hold my breath a minute, but doubt’s a bitch. Forward or back? Pride’s a bigger bitch. I swim hard.
Then, light. I break the surface, gasping, in a cave. Jeet’s on a beach, waving, grinning. “Beautiful, no?” I spin around. The cave’s a near-perfect circle, sand ten feet deep, walls kissed by a porthole of sunlight above. Fish, every color of the rainbow, dart through water grass swaying like it’s praising the cave gods. Hans and Franz—my names for the German “Ja” guys—bob up behind me, grinning like we cheated death. We swim to the beach, back-slapping, drunk on our minor miracle.
Jeet says, “I go look,” and dives for the others. I soak it in—light, colors, serenity. Jeet returns. “They go home. We go ten minutes.” The Germans and I flop on the sand, beached whales, silent, awed. At eighteen, this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Still is.
Forty years later, I think about that day. The stupidity, the swagger, the mob mentality, the risk. The reward. Pride dragged me under, but I came up in paradise. Risk is a gamble—sometimes it’s a flimsy rope to nowhere, sometimes it’s a cave lit by gods. At eighteen, I’d do it again. At fifty-something? Hell, maybe. Take the plunge. Sometimes, the light’s worth it.
BB Grey--musings 
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