A Tight Spot
Jon Cohen with his children, Ben and Molly, in a cavern somewhere.
This morning, randoming around the internet, I came upon this description of Buckminster Fuller: “Mr. Fuller was an engineer, inventor, mathematician, architect, cartographer, philosopher, poet, cosmogonist, comprehensive designer and choreographer.’’
Well, yawn, big deal, I mean, who isn’t a cosmogonist?
Buckminster Fuller, curse him, invented the geodesic dome. Ever been in one? Not the spacious kind you don’t feel, like at Epcot, but a pint-sized version? I have. It was the site of my first panic attack.
It was 1973. I was visiting a forest-dwelling hippie couple who lived in a diminutive dome. Stupidly, I reached up and touched the weird plywood ceiling. That’s when I panicked. Ceilings should be well out of reach and not – I know you agree – composed of icosahedronic triangles. I felt like I was trapped inside a giant housefly’s eyeball. I bolted into the woods.
Uh oh – my brain’s pinging. That word “giant.” Gulp – I’m having a flashback. It’s . . . it’s 1963. I’m inside the “Giant Heart” at the Franklin Institute! The heart, not the hippie geodesic dome – that’s where I had my first panic attack. I see my fellow third graders gleefully filing through that oversized heart. And I see a little boy – it’s me, I’m there right now – bespectacled, wobbly, pale. I release a muffled scream and run, shoving my classmates aside, bouncing off aortic valves and throbbing ventricles and rubbery dangling arteries. I clatter down the exit ramp, careen across the hallway and practically leap into the marble arms of Ben Franklin, serene in his marble chair.
Deep breath, Jon! And again. Okay. Calming, calmer, calm. And . . . I’m back.
I know what you’re thinking – claustrophobia. No, I only freak out in enclosed spaces conceived by over-bright humans like Bucky Fuller or the brainiac who created that horrible heart. But naturally occurring enclosed spaces . . . like caverns? Love ‘em! On road trips, I’d be driving along with Mary and the two kids and suddenly spot a fading gaudy billboard for some cavern tourist trap.
“We’re going!” I’d shout.
I still hear Mary, Ben, and Molly yelling in unison, “Nooooooo! Please.”
Ignoring their pleas, I’d gun the minivan off the highway toward subterranean wonder. Because, this time – as opposed to the hundred other sucky times, slogging through dank, cramped, one-stalagmite non-wonders of the world – it would be great!
And one time – Howe Caverns, New York, 1999 – it actually was great.
The big draw at Howe Caverns is an underground “lake.” And of course, it’s actually a dinky, elongated pond, with some college kid taking you on a three-minute flatboat ride, kind of like the one Charon uses to ferry you across the River Styx.
Eight people in the boat, our guide Mike standing up front, poling us along the little body of crystal-clear water, the rock formations lit up with the requisite spotlights. Mike held up some sort of clicker device. “Okay, ready for some dark?” he said, and clicked his clicker. Darkness, profound and spooky.
“Cool, huh?” came his voice.
Totally. The boat sliding forward in the dark. Watery sounds echoing. One of my kids grabbed hold of my hand. I smiled.
And then, at strobe-light speed, this happens. Mike clicks. The lights go back on. He turns, eyes wide – he’s mis-timed his little show. His head whams against the main attraction – a huge stalactite dangling above the center of the lake! His eyes roll and he drops, folding over the prow, his entire head going under water.
And that’s what saves Mike – the ice-cold water. He immediately pops up. Punch drunk, he shakes his head. He’s young and strong, thank god. “I’m good! I’m good!” he sputters.
At the time, I was an ICU nurse. I knew I had to do a neuro check on Mike.
“Mike? Michael, please identify precisely the speleothem against which you just struck your head.”
He stared at me. His eyes cleared. I could practically hear his brain regain its full synaptic zip.
“Stalactite,” he said.
Correct! Not stalagmite – stalactite. The water revived him, but it was my esoteric geologic question that rewired Mike back to 100-percent brain function!
Disappointingly, I had heard both my children simultaneously whisper the wrong answer, “Stalagmite.” Okay, so my kids aren’t Bucky-level brainiacs. On the other hand, they’ll never invent some conceptually weird horror that will cause their sensitive father to break into a sweat and run screaming into the woods – or the arms of Ben Franklin, if he’s close by.
Writer Jon Cohen lives in Swarthmore.
