Fate—or is it karma?—sends me from high school to university
in an area of Florida that is home to the largest concentration of freshwater
springs on the planet. The first spring that I visit is Poe Spring on the Santa
Fe River where a thick, knotted rope hangs from a tree that stands sentinel on
the bank. I grab the cable, pull it a few steps backward, then run forward to swing
out over the spring, let go and hang suspended for a split-second before
plunging into the cool water. This, I think, must be what it’s like to fall
into love.
My creative writing teacher and I have a conversation about
my experience at Poe Spring. She tells me about a larger spring, Ginnie, off
the same road in the northwestern part of the county. I write down her
directions: Pass a set of large
power transmission lines and then a smaller set of lines. Turn right onto a
dirt road that’s bounded by a line of trees along the west side of a pasture.
Follow the dirt road as it rounds downhill through the woods toward the river.
There I find the most beautiful spring I’ve ever seen, a pool of translucent
water edged with a lush growth of underwater plants. The water shimmers as it deepens
from pale aquamarine over a limestone shelf to deep turquoise blue over the
spring vent. And there is a rope swing here, too!
Ginnie Spring becomes my happy place. Before I leave work at
4:30 p.m., I change into my bathing suit and drive out to the spring on long
summer afternoons that seem to last forever. I drop into the spring from the
rope swing and swim laps around the perimeter, then take breaks and rest by
floating above the vent, aware of the afternoon sunlight as it dapples through
the trees surrounding the spring onto my closed eyelids. On many afternoons, I
am the only person there. This, I think, must be Paradise.
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| Ginnie Spring, Gilchrist County, Florida |
One afternoon, someone brings his Irish setter to the water.
I watch as the dog does interminable laps around the spring. Finally, the owner
goes into the spring and fishes his tired dog out.
On another afternoon, my friend brings her Afghan hound. Eager
to teach the dog to swim, she supports the Afghan with her arms under its chest
as they wade into the water. When they reach deeper water, she lets go and the
Afghan sinks to the bottom! My friend dives underwater and quickly retrieves her
dog.
When I start seeing more and more SCUBA divers at Ginnie, I
learn that there is an underwater cavern and cave beneath the spring vent. One
day, I’m happily floating on my back above the vent when I’m tipped over by a
hard bump. I roll around to see a SCUBA diver, who has just surfaced from the
cave, shoot me a nasty look before he swims away. I start to notice that the
two groups—swimmers and SCUBA divers—don’t interact much and tend to give each
other a wide berth.
I fall into conversation with a woman who is sitting on the
underwater log that crosses the spring run as it flows out toward the river.
She tells me that she and her family have purchased the property and have plans
to construct restrooms and other facilities. The restrooms, at least, are
needed and will be welcome.
There are other springs on the property and I like to take
my first dip of the day at Ginnie, then hike upriver past an old hollow cypress
tree to Devil’s Ear and Devil’s Eye springs. I swim from there at an angle
across the river to July Spring, then back across the river at another angle to
Ginnie, then hike downriver to Dogwood Spring and Twin Spring. I marvel at this
oasis of beauty and clarity.
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| Devil's Eye Spring, Gilchrist County, Florida |
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| Dogwood Spring, Gilchrist County, Florida |
A friend and I visit Ginnie Spring in the winter, when the
72-degree, constant-temperature water is warmer than the air. We decide it will
be fun to tell people about skinny-dipping in the cold weather, so we strip off
our clothes and jump in. We swim around until—much to our dismay!—two vanloads
of SCUBA divers arrive out of nowhere. Embarrassed, we slither back into our
clothes and escape as fast as we can.
My college geology class takes a field trip to Ginnie
Spring. While other class members explore the area around us, I stand on the
bank of the spring with my instructor, Jean Klein. We are silent, looking into the
depths of the spring, when Jean says, “If these springs ever get polluted, it
will take hundreds of years for Nature to clean them up.” This moment burns
like a brand into the deepest cells of my memory.
Chad, one of my roommates who meets many people when he delivers
pizza for a local shop, tells me he has learned about a spring I’ve never heard
of—Ichetucknee. With our other roommate, Pam, we make a longer than usual drive
northwest of town, then out a two-lane blacktop to a dirt road that leads back
into the woods. It’s a beautiful autumn afternoon and the three of us are the
only people at the spring. When we’ve been swimming for a while, Chad climbs up
onto a rock, produces a bar of soap that he has hidden, and begins singing and
lathering up in a mock soap commercial. After laughing so hard my sides hurt, I
climb out of the spring and walk up a little hill where I can spread out my
towel and lie in the late afternoon sunlight. All around me, trees are
beginning to turn gold, russet and crimson. A gentle breeze stirs the leaves
and I lie back, closing my eyes. I can hear Pam and Chad laughing from the
spring. As I rest, the rustling leaves begin to sound like whispered voices.
The murmuring gradually gets louder and louder until it resolves into words—but
these are words in a language I’ve never heard. There must be other people in
the woods, I think, foreigners of some sort. I rub my eyes, stand up, and slowly
turn in a full circle, looking for the people I can now hear speaking clearly.
But there is no one else there.
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| Ichetucknee Spring, Columbia County, Florida |
Many years later, I visit Wakulla Springs for the first time
with a friend who is working on a book. We are waiting to take the river tour
and curious about why the glass-bottom boats aren’t running. A park ranger
explains to us that the spring is too dark, too polluted, so the glass-bottom
boat rides have been halted. We talk for a while about the pollution that
plagues the springs. After a moment of silence the ranger says, “That’s all
right. Mother Nature will eventually take care of it.” What rings like a clear bell in the silent air
between us is the rest of his thought: “But we won’t be here to see it.”
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| At Wakulla Springs |
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| Algae at Wakulla Springs |
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