Chapter 3
Marina
Darleen Wiles can, in fact, talk me into anything.
When people have bad days, they go home, make a cup of tea, or buy a little treat from the grocery store. They watch bad TV, scroll social media, even call an ex, but not me. Nope, nope, nope. Grams’ original suggestion of musicals and girl-dinner is long gone.
I’m in my car, heading hours away with my keyboard, a coffee can filled with cash, and a few outfits Grams helped me pack, all for the sake of a song.
One that will be dedicated to the unofficial sponsors of my trip: the poker club. At least they’ll be excited to hear about my destination.
Florida.
The Sunshine State comes up a lot in a senior community.
Though the residents mostly seem to be waxing poetic about how nice it must be to live in The Villages—a destination for folks their age to find a summer hookup or so I’ve been told.
But romance is the last thing on my mind as I make my way toward Camp Mangrove.
Though my memories there hold something equally as important.
My first real friend—well, almost.
As I drive, I can’t help but wade into memories of a time when I was young and it was easy to believe in the impossible.
Thoughts of running around the springs together, the two of us hidden in plain sight; they fill my heart with an ache every moment I’m on the road.
Back then, to anyone watching, I must have looked like a loner, but I never felt alone at camp—not for long, at least.
Gale always listened. He was always happy to see me. I can’t think of childhood summers without thinking of him.
My drive is measured in rest stops and too many cups of bad gas station coffee.
By the time palm trees line the highway, my hands are shaking on the steering wheel.
When I notice signs for “Boiled P-Nuts” and tourist traps, I’m practically vibrating.
To balance out the jitters, I reach for my go-to snack.
This state may be big, but the giant container of cheese balls in the passenger seat might be bigger.
They’re a road trip staple and have been since I was a kid. I’d beg my uncle to buy me a giant container every single summer, and he always did. It didn’t matter that it never fit in my suitcase and he had to lug it over his shoulder all the way to my cabin.
“Cheese balls for my little cheese ball,” he’d say with a grin, as if he hadn’t just been screaming at my cousin and I on the long car ride hours before. But that was what it was like with Uncle Orson: a snap of emotions that varied from moment to moment.
Grams said he never could deal with all the guilt about my parents, but the more I think about it as an adult, I wonder if his anger issues had more layers.
One of his emotional outlets was music, just like me—we bonded over it and yet, I think my presence took away from the escapism.
Still, I’d listen as he played the old songs he wrote with my dad, his older brother.
That flicker in his eyes when he looked at me always made me so sad.
My face was a constant reminder of who he lost.
I learned not to ask too many questions, to try to be good, stay out of trouble, and be the best extended house guest I could be. I never really relaxed, not until summer rolled around and I was safely away from it all.
Camp Mangrove.
The way I remember it, the blue water and tall trees always felt magical.
It was easy for me to escape into music and friend-shaped delusions.
Despite the draw of nostalgia, Gale is the one thing I can’t seek out this weekend.
I want everything I experience in the next forty-eight hours to be real.
Still, my mind wanders to the time I spent imagining the impossible as I pull into the large lot outside the state park.
Will it still feel the same without racing into the arms of something pretend? I gulp as I park my car, leaving the cheese balls in the passenger seat—for now.
Shadows dance at my feet from the heavy garlands of Spanish moss that sway in the trees.
As I step toward the ranger station to pick up my keys, I’m greeted by the loud serenade of cicadas.
It’s a comfort I didn’t realize I missed, though it’s grossly overshadowed by the feeling of stepping into a dishwasher.
The thick humidity sticks to me like a second skin, hot and overbearing even in the shade.
The person working at the ranger station hands me a map, my home for the weekend circled in shiny red pen. I squint at the illustrated rendering of the state park. I knew it would feel different, but this seems like a whole new layout.
“This was Camp Mangrove, wasn’t it?” I ask, and the ranger shakes his head, pointing to the big patch of land in the center of the springs.
“That was Camp Mangrove,” he corrects me, drawing little cabins and a welcome sign on the plain patch of green. “The old campgrounds are defunct, lost to time and rot, but you can canoe or kayak past them using this path.” He draws another line with pen.
“Oh…” I say, unable to hide my disappointment.
“Good news is the cabin you’re staying in will be newer construction, which includes an air conditioning unit.”
Considering how hot it is outside, that’s something I’m grateful for. I spin the beads on my old friendship bracelet and give him a small nod of thanks. It’s time to find my home for the weekend.
Despite being in a different section of the park, each step is steeped in nostalgia. Grabbing my luggage, I decide to walk from the parking lot. My cabin doesn’t seem too far, and if I’m going to be here a few days, I might as well acclimate to the weather.
I reach it in no time, and it seems they re-purposed some of the signage with repainted numbers in the old script. I can’t resist tracing my fingers over it.
Inside, it’s small, but still feels too big for a solo traveler.
There’s a cozy kitchen and living room combo.
The window AC unit hums, blowing musty air across my skin.
There’s a note with check-out instructions waiting for me on the table, but leaving is future Marina’s problem.
A question hangs in the stale air as I glance around the empty cabin.
What now?
Heaving a sigh, I unpack my keyboard. The paint is chipped on the edges, and some of the keys don’t work—yeah okay, it’s a little broken, but so am I.
That hasn’t stopped me from making music yet.
Still, what am I expecting it to do—a back flip?
Instead, it stays on the coffee table, as inspired as it was at home.
Rude.
If the inside of the cabin isn’t enough inspiration, then it seems a walk is in order. I leave my stuff in a pile on a sunken leather couch and head out the door.
Damp air wraps around me as I head toward the boardwalk.
While it’s been upgraded, there are still the same shops, boat tours, and rentals that I remember.
Sun beats down on the linen button-down I’ve thrown on over my long pants and tank top.
More psoriasis on my knees has flared over the past week.
The bumpy, itchy layer of skin rubs against the fabric with each step.
It makes me want to tear off my clothing and dive into the water.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to change into a pair of shorts, I think. Lifting long strands of hair away from the base of my neck, I notice a woman staring at the patchy, rash-like patch of skin as I walk by.
I let my hair fall back into place and the thoughts along with it.
My shoulders droop forward as I fight the urge to return to my cabin. That is, until an announcement for the next boat tour plays on the loudspeaker.
At camp, we’d split into groups and take the tours as a field trip. Looking down through the crystal blue water would always inspire me to fill up my notebook—hopefully, it’ll do the same now.
Not only will it be good for inspiration, but I’ll be able to regain the lay of the land.
It’s early, but there’s still a crowd. Considering this is one of the main attractions of the springs, it makes sense. I hop in line, looking forward to getting a top-down view of the water.
It’s the same as I remember. The boats, while well-maintained, are old with creaky floors and uncomfortable bench seating along the perimeter. There’s a drop in the floor with a large glass window and a view into the water.
Movement bubbles under the surface, within the low caverns, and I grin at the schools of fish happily swimming together. A feeling swells in me—something I’m not sure I could voice with words—but a melody? It builds in my chest until I’m quietly humming to myself.
The magic of the springs isn’t just in the depths. It’s all around us: from the hanging cypress trees to the dragonflies skimming across the water.
Over by the cabins, I note an abandoned canoe, moored right across from Camp Mangrove. From the sound of it, we’re not allowed to explore the old grounds, but if it’s easy to get to by boat…
The crackling sound of old speakers snaps me back from my thoughts.
Our tour guide greets us with cheesy jokes that only the adults laugh at.
I make note of all the movies that were filmed on property once upon a time.
I’m sure Grams and I have watched a few, but I wouldn’t mind a refresh, and not-so-secretly hope at least one is a musical.
The breeze ruffles strands of pink hair across my eyes. I exhale, turning into the wind to rest my cheek against the hard metal frame of the window.
Gators cluster on the shore piled on top of one another like a litter of kittens basking in the sun. I should be scared, but my growing urge to pet them probably says something disappointing about my survival skills.
Still, cute is cute, so I snap a photo and send it off to Grams.
Marina: You think the pet policy at your place covers these?
Stowing my phone, I flip to a page of my old journal, adding a new drawing of a gator next to one that’s faded with age.
I sink into my surroundings, remembering the good, the bad, and … my last night here.
I realize my fingers are again at my neck. Grams’ voice echoes through my head, and I stop myself from scratching. Instead, I fidget with the beads of my friendship bracelet. I spin and spin the beads across my skin until—
Snap!
The tired elastic falls away from my wrist. With a yelp, I scramble to catch the beads before they can slip through my fingers. Instead, they plummet into the water.
No!
“Miss, stay in your seat!” the guide orders. “Once we dock, someone will help you with your lost items.”
I sink back onto the bench. If only that were possible. The beads are probably already lost to the bottom of the springs. I shake my head, imagining a glittering freshwater pearl adorning the home of a fish.
I guess some things aren’t meant to last forever.
Reeds sway heavy and black against the glass bottom of the boat. It’s dark and moody. The shadows contrast the sunny cloudless skies.
Then, something yellow, like eyes, seem to stare from deep in the shadows. I can’t help but move forward to try to get a better look.
“Again, miss, stay in your seat!”
But how can I when something—someone—is blinking at me? Despite the warnings, I continue to peer into the water. There’s nothing for a moment.
Then, scales of green and blue gleam like stars under the surface of the water. I let out a gasp that makes the woman next to me jump.
It’s not—
It couldn’t have been.
I trace the “G” carved into my notebook as I shout, “Did anyone see that?”
My abdomen folds in half over the safety rail as I bend to get a better look.
“Miss, please be patient!” the tour guide warns.
“There was something down there!” I explain, but the boat continues to move through the scenery until the water below is crystal clear. There’s not so much as a fish in sight, and begrudgingly, I take my seat.
“Manatee season isn’t ’til fall… but I suppose we could have early arrivals,” the driver says with a shrug. I know I only saw it for a second, but manatees aren’t covered in scales. Unless I’m mistaken, aren’t they a little less … leggy?
I clamp my mouth shut. I’ve been here for… what? A few hours? I’m already letting my imagination get the best of me—again. When I was a camper here, girls in my cabin would play mermaids or princesses. Not me, I made up a fish person to be my best friend.
I just didn’t think at 22 years old it would be so easy to fall back into this. My shoulders slump forward as I disembark the tour boat. The apology I sheepishly offer the guide doesn’t do much to temper the deserved glare I’ve earned for breaking half of their safety protocols.
It’s not ’til I’m on the dock, gazing back into the water, that I think of Gale again, imagining what it would be like if he was somewhere out there, waiting for me.
But that’s a fantasy I won’t get lost in—not this time.