A race against time

                                   A Race Against Time

I live in a mountainous area. It may seem bizarre, but one of my weekly pleasures was to go and spend a couple of hours in a subterranean cave I had found at the foot of one of the mountains. I enjoyed the silence, away from the noise of human endeavors, and the dark, damp atmosphere with only my torch giving me some light. I sensed an enormous feeling of peace and safety. I often wondered why this cave with tunnels had been constructed. Eventually, I asked the village mayor. He was surprised I had found them, as most people would never find the entrances. He told me that in the village archive there were documents dating back over two hundred years. They told the stories of the village coming under attack, so the cave and tunnels were built as a hiding place and a storage area in times of need.

One Sunday morning, there I was sitting in the cave enjoying reading a book by torchlight when I heard a loud rumbling noise of rock cascading down the mountain. Before my mind and body had a chance to react, the small entrance hole above was completely covered with large rocks. Some small rocks fell into the cave. My first reaction was to focus my flashlight toward the opening. It was completely blocked. I was still gazing at the cave’s roof when I felt cold water seeping through my shoes. I quietly turned the torch's beam to my feet. There I saw that a slow, but constant stream of water was entering the cave.

It took maybe a minute for me to assess the situation. This was serious. If I remained in the cave, I would drown in a few hours. The only possible solution was to find the other entrance, which I gauged was about 700 yards away. This would take me about 8–9 minutes if I hurried. There were two burning questions: What if that entrance was also blocked? Was there water in the tunnel leading to the other entrance? A few years ago, I explored the tunnel leading off the cave and found this other entrance. It was slightly smaller than the entrance I used. At the time, I noticed there had once been metal bars acting as steps hammered into the rock face. These bars led down from the entrance hole to the tunnel’s floor. I remembered a few of the bars were missing. The entrance I used allowed me to climb down the rock face, as it had plenty of handholds and footholds to the cave below. The question I quickly asked myself: could I remember how to find this other entrance? I took another minute to try and trace the way in my mind. I remembered there were two forks in the tunnel. If you take the first right fork from my cave, you arrive at a dead end several yards down the tunnel. I imagined that the tunnels already had water seeping into them. The second fork  —- the choice of connecting with the right tunnel — I could not remember. I would just have to guess.

As I got up to start my journey, I noticed my feet were covered with water. The flow of water was faster than I thought. I started down the first tunnel. As I had suspected, I was walking with water up to my ankles. While I sloshed my way forward, I thought about all the possible items on me that might be of use. The torch, fundamentally necessary, the batteries should last. A small lunch box with a little food. My mobile phone, of no use underground. My belt, this might be useful if I have to climb those steps. A knife in the lunch box. A handkerchief in case of wounds or for protecting a hand. A book — I just let it drop in the water, a pity as I was enjoying it. I came to the first fork. By now the water was up to my knees. I took the left fork and waded on. My mind was completely blank except for the effort of concentration to get to the other entrance and know my fate. I arrived at the second fork with the water just below my belt.

Here I stopped. I was faced with the junction of two tunnels. One I knew led me to the possible exit. The other I had never been down. I stood there feeling the pressure to decide. Also, the cold water on my lower body was giving me the occasional shiver. I was desperately trying to remember if it was left, or right. The phrase "left, right" was a marching order shouted out on military parade grounds. Surely I would have remembered that by association. I thought in a daze of desperation that the correct tunnel had something to do with the parade ground. The water was now above my waist. I had to decide. My head ached with the complications of the decision. This was life-threatening. If I went down the wrong tunnel, my certain death would be drowning. I went left.

I waded through the water. By now it was nearly up to my shoulders. Then I stumbled by tripping over something on the ground that was covered by water. I fell forward, saved by the density of the water, but I lost my torch and lunch box. As I straightened myself, I realized I was now in pitch darkness. I would never be able to find my torch; even if I did, the batteries would be ruined. I paused to catch my breath and consider the situation. I was completely wet from head to toe. If I had any hope of survival, I must continue to move forward with all possible speed. I reached into my pocket and took out my wet handkerchief, binding it around my left hand. I blindly groped for the tunnel’s wall. Once my hand touched the wall, I started again to move forward. The only thought I had was death by drowning. How long could I hold my breath for until I was forced to allow the water into my lungs? Would I struggle with an attack of panic?

It must have been about another two minutes before I saw a tiny speck of light coming from the ceiling ahead. The first hurdle had been cleared. Now, did I have the strength to get there quickly? This needed concentration, physical strength, and that undefinable emotion of hope. Two minutes later, a foot touched the first old iron bar of the primitive ladder leading up to the ground entrance above. The water was now up to my neck. The entrance hole above shed a dim light on a series of step bars, with a few missing, leading up the rock face. The question in my mind was whether the step I felt with my foot would hold my weight. I did not have an alternative. To try and alleviate the pressure of my weight, I undid my belt and strapped it to an iron step I could see above me that looked solid. I then leveraged myself up by using my belt before I put my foot on the step. The step held; now the water was at chest level. Using this technique, I slowly used all my remaining strength to reach the top. I did stop on the way up to try and gain a little vigor. I finally reached the top, and as I poked my head out, gasping for fresh air, I saw where a gap had been left on the mountainside from all the fallen rocks. I pushed through the small opening by grabbing tufts of grass. I lay there completely exhausted. My only thought was the saying of Oscar Wilde that flashed through my mind:

"Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us."