Zibby Mag

By Alisha Fernandez Miranda

Coming out of the winter lockdown, I knew that I was going to be like a bear emerging from hibernation — ravenous for food I didn’t cook myself, requiring the removal of excess hair, and, having forgotten what it was like to be around people, I would also have to relearn how to socialize.

I just never thought it would involve an actual cave.

First, some context. Growing up, I spent afternoons with all the neighboring kids on my block. We rode bikes, climbed trees, and tore through each other’s houses, taking for granted the simple joy of friendship based on convenience and proximity.

I moved to New York in 2005, where it became a lot more complicated to befriend my neighbors. And by complicated, I mean impossible. I lived in a “recently renovated” building in the East Village — a euphemism for erecting drywall partitions that divided small apartments into yet smaller apartments. My neighbors were rich kids writing theses on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I felt like I knew them, but only because the walls were so thin that I was aware of the most intimate details (bathroom habits) but none of the basics (their names).

When I left for the U.K. in 2008, I was determined to become a better neighbor. Like a Norman Rockwell subject, I’d go door-to-door to drop off freshly baked pies (in this vision, I’m wearing heels, which is how I know it’s not real).

Moving to London in my late 20s required that I “put myself out there,” often via group activities with strangers. I was terrible at pottery and kickball, but I eventually joined enough book clubs, choruses, and Colin Firth appreciation societies that I made a nice group of friends. Thankfully, I also got to know my wonderful neighbors. There were pies involved.

As an adult, I moved to New York, where it became a lot more complicated to befriend my neighbors. And by complicated, I mean impossible.

But in 2020 I moved again, amid a pandemic, no less, to a very remote community in Scotland. It’s like Green Acres, but with bagpipes. This place is so small that if you pulled together a random group of ten people, at least three of them would be cousins.

I’m not related to anyone here and, thanks to Covid, there are no pottery classes or kickball leagues to be found. What’s worse, I can’t even bake for people.

I have been hard up for human contact. Last month, I went to get a pap smear just to have a reason to leave the house. The nurse guided me to the exam room and asked me to take off my pants. It was the most personal conversation I’d had in months.

I positioned my legs in the stirrups with no more than a sheet of paper covering my modesty. In went the speculum, and I heard the dreaded click click click.

The nurse looked up over my knees. “Do you have twins by any chance?” she asked.

“Oh my god, can you tell that just by looking?”

“No no, my son is in your children’s class. It’s nice to meet you.”

I tried not to wince as she prepared to swab my cervix, and responded: “You too.”

Just as I was considering setting up an appointment with my gastroenterologist to see if we’d hit it off, I found a different opportunity to expand my social circle. My neighbor Sara asked if I wanted to join her “Wild Women” group on their next weekly outdoor adventure. Normally, “wild” for me is taking a flight with more than one layover, but my desire for friendship caused me to abandon my scruples. I agreed and immediately went online to order a wetsuit and gloves. (Apparently, it’s your hands and feet that you’ll lose first in the event of hypothermia.)

I Googled our destination, which turned out to be a cave. I learned that the trip should only be attempted at low tide. “Bring snacks in case you get stuck for 12 hours until the tide goes back out!” one blogger wrote. Any activity that required slavish obedience to a tide table seemed more trouble than it was worth. Plus, how accurate could those things really be?

But the next morning I got up early to pack: headlamp, wetsuit, ice grips for my shoes (even though it was April), socks, extra socks, snacks, extra snacks (in case the tide tables were wrong, which I highly suspected), a water bottle and a flask of whisky for liquid courage. My backpack was the weight of a ten-year-old, but at least I was prepared.

I have been hard up for human contact. Last month, I went to get a pap smear just to have a reason to leave the house.

An hour later, I was in the passenger seat next to Sara, who gave me the skinny on the Wild Women. “The main one is Tammy,” she said, swerving to avoid a sheep. “She’s ‘medium hard-core,’ I’d say. She’s bagged all her Munros.”

If “medium hard-core” meant climbing all 282 of the tallest peaks in Scotland, what did that make me?

It started snowing. We made small talk the rest of the way, but I was distracted. Thank god I brought the ice grips, I thought. Maybe our trip will get canceled due to inclement weather. Then I could get credit for trying to go, but not actually have to go. But, as we pulled into our designated meeting spot, the storm had cleared and it was bright and sunny.

There were three women around my age in various states of undress, shimmying into their wetsuits. One by one, they came over to say hello: Hillary, (“rhymes with Celery!”) with her five-month-old puppy; Tammy, fierce biceps signaling that she was more than medium hard-core; and Melinda, who was wearing a hot pink bathrobe and purple boots over her wetsuit. “Don’t worry,” she said when I expressed apprehension. “I’ve done this hundreds of times.”

Together with these strangers, I set off down the path. The day was glorious now. From the top of the hill, we could see far islands in the distance. It was almost beautiful enough to distract me from what lay ahead.

On an episode of his show, Bear Grylls abseiled to get to this cave, which I suspect would have been easier than the winding, muddy path we took. “I’ll catch up,” I yelled, falling behind. But, since her puppy was even more insecure on her feet than I was, Hillary stayed behind and distracted me with small talk as I slid down the steep parts on my butt.

Once at sea level, I gingerly navigated boulders to reach the cliffside we would then have to gambol around, with only our toes to grip the sides of the rock, thinking more than once that maybe I didn’t need any friends and that human connection was vastly overrated.

Many scratches and bruises later, we reached the entrance to the cave and switched on our headlamps. Inside it was pitch black. There was a steep hill made of calcified white stone, giving the place an unearthly aura that I begrudgingly admitted was amazing. As the rest of the group skipped ahead, my headlamp flickered. I remembered too late that my twins had been using it to play hide-and-seek in the dark.

I called up: “My light is out ladies, but don’t worry, I’ll wait down here!” But I had barely finished my statement when Melinda, a vision in her fluffy bathrobe, came bounding down with the agility of a mountain goat. “Here, take mine,” she said. “You won’t want to miss this.”

Newly illuminated and unable to back out, I scrambled to the top, Melinda coaxing me gently the entire way. It was worth it. Inside the highest part of the cave was a waist-deep pool, maybe ten meters wide, and we jumped in. The water was freezing but as we laughed together and took selfies, I didn’t care about hypothermia anymore.

Hours later, we returned the same way we came, but I felt different. Wild, even. I had gone well beyond the boundaries of my comfort zone. Furthermore, I remembered what it was like to feel the joy and camaraderie of a kick-ass group of women. My toes may have been turning purple, but I had the warmth of chit-chat, laughter, and the bond that comes from facing a challenge together. These women had been strangers, but they were on the fast track to becoming my friends.

Now lockdown is ending, but the Wild Women are continuing apace. I suggested that the most wild thing we could do is share a drink in an indoor space; but instead, next week, we’re going paddle boarding.

I’m bringing the pie.

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Alisha Fernandez Miranda is a Miami-born writer, entrepreneur, and CEO. After 13 years in London, she currently lives on Scotland’s Isle of Skye, where she’s one of only two Cuban-Americans (the other being her husband). She’s been published in Grazia, Metro, Herstry and an upcoming anthology, Waterproof. She’s currently working on her first book, The 40-Year-Old Intern, her coming of (middle) age tale, detailing the year she went from CEO to intern, in an effort to understand what might have happened if her life had taken a different path. Say hi to her on Instagram.