Made possible by FDR and the CCC.

The source... of flying dreams.
Escaping the grownups, you shoot just under the surface, reluctant to leave the Florida heat, so torturous on the barefoot run from camp. The first wet shock ripples over your sunburned back and flaps your stubbed toe. Your bare, open eyes flow over fish and eels, freshwater wands of waving vegetation, and white sand boiling with pressure from deep in the earth and your heart rebels from the chill. You take a deep drink and the water rushes into your hot gut as your body moves forward and around it. The bottom is a mere five feet below but suddenly it drops away and all is a blue blur. You want to suck in your breath, but realize it is liquid, and feel as if you could fall into the cold, white canyon. You scream, unable to contain your glorious panic, and deliciously aware no one can hear over the thunder and rasping sand of the spring. The hair in the peeling small of your back stands on end. Water flies as your head snaps back for one quick gasp of air, then you kick your way to the bottom, 22 feet down, returning numb and nearly drowned with a handful of snails and white clay raised in a fist to the empty, burning sky. The muck rinses quickly away, as you slip silently under the shadow of your big sisters, tanning safely on their blow up matresses... In all your dreams to come, no one in them can ever see you fly, but you remember.
-Juniper Springs, Ocala, FL