Stepping into the Cenote

In the almost dark, I push my body through the cave. My hands grasp salt-licked limestone and my feet slide over rocks smoothed by thousands of years of changing tides. The ocean curls around my calves. Behind and below me, waves swell and slam into the cliffs. The sea echoes through this hollow chamber.

The cave twists and I duck under dangling stalactites. Hundreds of crabs cling to the calcium. They watch me pass. I run my fingers over porous rock until the cave unfolds into light. The waves on the other side are only whispers now.

I step into the cenote. Light streams down the cliffs through tangled vines. Birds rustle branches. Cicadas howl. The water spans out before me. It’s as smooth as glass. I want to lie on its surface and stare up at the arching walls draped in emerald leaves.

I reach for your hand. The humidity of jungle air has made your palm sweat. I clasp my fingers around yours. Neither of us speak. Standing there, in this other hidden world, I want time to stop. At least for me. At least for us. I want to watch water drip from the cave’s ceiling until it streams into stalactites. I want to watch the limestone dissolve. I want to watch the algae grow.

But this place is meant to be ancient and we are not.