Classic Passion: Origin
Copyright© 2026 by RedRambler
Chapter 10: Snakes & Water
July 20, 1962 - Snake Wrangling
The next morning, I woke early despite having no real obligations. Freedom seemed to come with a new kind of problem for me, boredom. After a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, my first meal prepared in my own kitchen, I decided I should rebuild my finances after making such a big dent in them yesterday. I grabbed the snake stick one of the city’s animal control officers had given me and carefully checked the seams of the heavy canvas sacks I’d collected.
Lake Sebring was a maze of interconnected waterways, canals, and marshy areas that made perfect snake habitat. Chief Simmons had warned me about venomous snakes when I first arrived, but now I saw them as an opportunity rather than just a threat. The municipal bounty program had been implemented after several children were bitten last summer.
I spent hours walking along the canals, eyes trained on the ground and water’s edge. My approach was methodical, water moccasins liked basking on fallen logs or hang from branches over the water. By midday, I’d already caught two fat cottonmouths, their diamond-patterned bodies thrashing in my snake bag.
The third moccasin almost got me. I was reaching for what I thought was just another water snake when it opened its mouth, displaying the startling white interior that gave it its “cottonmouth” nickname. I barely jerked back in time, heart pounding as I regrouped and captured it with my snake tongs.
On the second day, I ventured deeper into the swampy areas west of town. The humidity was suffocating; my shirt plastered to my back within minutes. But the hunting was good, I caught two more water moccasins before noon.
It was while searching a pile of rotting palm fronds that I spotted it, the distinctive red, yellow, and black bands of a coral snake. Unlike the aggressive moccasins, it tried to flee, but I carefully pinned it and transferred it to a separate container. Its slender body was barely wider than a pencil and less than a foot long, but I knew its neurotoxic venom was far more dangerous than the hemotoxin of the pit vipers.
When I took my catch to Animal Control at the end of the day, the attendant whistled.
“That’s five moccasins and a coral snake in two days? You’ve got a knack for this, kid.”
He counted out my bounty, $250 for the moccasins and $25 for the coral, while I filled out the paperwork.
“You know,” he said, handing me the cash, “if you’re looking to make more money off these, the Ross Allen Reptile Institute over at Silver Springs might be interested. They milk them for antivenin research.”
“That’s about an hour from here, right?” I tucked the money into my wallet.
“Closer to two. But I know someone who works at the springs. Elaine Pritchard. She might give you a ride if you’re willing to spend the day there.”
“Would she mind a bag full of venomous snakes in her car?” I asked.
He laughed. “Elaine? Nah. That girl’s afraid of nothing. she Sometimes helps out at the reptile shows too.”
On a hunch, I asked, “I’m only fourteen. Would I need parental permission to go?”
“Technically, yeah. But...” He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a form. “You can get an exempted work permit. Since you’re collecting dangerous animals as a public service, it should qualify.”
I filled out the form, thinking of my grandmother. She’d probably refuse to sign just to spite me, but when the clerk mentioned Chief Simmons could approve it given my “special circumstances,” I knew I’d found my loophole.
July 21, 1962 - Ross Allen Reptile Institute
Chief Simmons signed off on my permit the next day, and I arranged to meet Elaine on the 21st. She turned out to be a vivacious blonde in her early twenties who didn’t bat an eye when I loaded my snake containers into her beat-up Chevy.
“Just keep them secured,” she said, gunning the engine. “I don’t fancy wrestling a moccasin while driving seventy.”
The Silver Springs complex turned out to be three connected attractions: Entering the area was a construction site, the sign said Six Gun Territory western town opening soon. The original Silver Springs with its glass-bottom boat tours, the Ross Allen Reptile Institute. My eyes widened as we pulled into the packed parking lot of the springs.
“First time?” Elaine asked, noticing my expression.
I nodded. “We just moved here from New York. Grandmother isn’t big on tourist attractions.”
She snorted. “Well, stick with me, kid. Employee entrance means no waiting in lines.” She walked over to a desk and was given a card on a lanyard that read visitor. “Wear this, it will get you into almost all areas of the park. I’d go with you but need to get ready for work. Tell the host at the institute that Elaine sent you.”
“Wait, you never told me what you do.”
She had a cute laugh. “Just go to the Submarine Theater, you’ll probably find me there.”
I went to where Elaine had pointed to drop my snakes off at the Reptile Institute. A weathered man with leathery skin examined my catch, nodding appreciatively at the coral snake.
“Good specimen. Clean capture too, no damage.” He tested its reflexes with a metal hook. “We pay $10 for copperheads and Rattlesnakes, $25 for moccasins, and $100 for corals, any exotics you find we’ll negotiate. The coral snakes harder to keep alive in captivity and the venom is more valuable, that’s why we pay a premium. We can take whatever you can get. If we can’t use them the Serpentarium in Miami is always looking for specimens.”
I did the math quickly, another $225 on top of my bounty money. With the $275 I’d received from the city, I’d more than replenished what I’d spent on furniture and food.
I pocketed my earnings with satisfaction. Two-hundred and seventy-five dollars in three days, not bad for a fourteen-year-old. That would cover my groceries for months, with plenty left over for savings.
With my snake delivery complete, I had the whole day to explore Silver Springs. The place was already packed with tourists despite the early hours, families in colorful vacation clothes wielding cameras and pointing excitedly at everything.
I followed the signs to the famous glass-bottom boat tours. The dock bustled with activity, guides in crisp white uniforms ushering visitors into long, flat-bottomed boats with transparent viewing panels built into their floors. I boarded the first available one, finding a spot on a bench next to a young mother struggling to control a squirming toddler.
“Please sit back from the edges, folks,” the guide announced as we pushed off. “The springs are crystal clear but over thirty feet deep in places.”
As the boat glided over the water, I leaned forward to look through the glass panel. My breath caught. Below us, an entirely different world existed, vast underwater caverns, swaying plants, and schools of fish darting through the sunbeams that penetrated the crystal-clear water. The guide pointed out different species, her voice fading into background noise as I became transfixed by the underwater landscape.
“Is that an actual turtle?” I asked, pointing at a large shell moving slowly across the sandy bottom.
“Softshell turtle,” she confirmed. “They can grow over two feet across.”
Beside me, the young mother was having increasing difficulty with her son, who squirmed against her grip.
“Dylan, please sit still,” she pleaded, adjusting her hold on him. “Mommy wants to see the fish too.”
The boy only struggled harder, leaning dangerously toward the edge.
“Ma’am, please keep your child,” the guide began.
It happened in an instant. The boy twisted free, slipping through his mother’s fingers and over the low railing with barely a splash.
“Dylan!” The woman screamed.
I didn’t think, just reacted. I rolled over the rail, slipping into the water feet-first. The cold spring water shocked my system as I opened my eyes. Below me, the boy was sinking fast, his little arms flailing. I powered downward, frantically kicking to propel me through the water to the child.
I reached him before he was all the way down. His eyes were wide with surprise, bubbles escaping his mouth. I pinched his nose closed and gave him a quick puff of air from my own lungs, a method Coach O’Shanahan had taught me for emergencies, then wrapped my arm around his chest pushed off the sandy bottom and kicked hard for the surface.
We broke through with a splash right next to the boat, the boy coughing and sputtering, then amazingly started giggling like this was great fun. The boat guide had already jumped in after us, a safety ring in her hands. She quickly slipped it over young Dylans head.
“Give him here,” she said urgently.
I passed the boy to her, treading water as she secured him. The mother was hysterical on the boat, reaching for her son as other passengers helped pull the ring toward the vessel.
“You ok? Theres a foothold toward the aft section, easier to get out.” the guide told me. “The current’s stronger than it looks.”
“I’ll swim to shore,” I said quickly. “Don’t make a fuss about me jumping in, okay? I don’t need the attention.”
She hesitated, then nodded. I struck out for the boat launch area, at first diving deep and off to the side to avoid being spotted then realizing how foolish it was trying to hide in the crystalline water and just swam freestyle to cut through the water. Behind me, I could hear the commotion as they pulled the boy back aboard, his crying now mixed with his mother’s relieved sobs.
When I reached the concrete launch, I pulled myself out, water streaming from my clothes. A few tourists looked at me curiously.
“Fell off the darned edge,” I explained with a sheepish grin, gesturing toward the distant boat. “Got distracted watching all the excitement out there.”
An employee approached with a towel. “You alright, son?”
“Fine, thanks.” I took the towel and draped it over my head, using it to obscure my face as I walked away from the curious onlookers.
Caught
Using Elaine’s visitor pass, I slipped through a door marked “Employees Only,” finding myself in a quiet hallway. I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, adrenaline still coursing through my system. Water pooled at my feet as I attempted to wring out my shirt.
“You’re making a puddle on my clean floor.”
I jumped, turning to see a middle-aged man in a maintenance uniform.
“Sorry,” I said. “I fell in the springs.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t question my presence in the restricted area. “Bathroom’s down there if you want to dry off proper,” he said, pointing down the hall. “Got hand dryers.”
In the bathroom, I did my best to dry my clothes, holding my shirt under the hand dryer. It was a futile effort, the heavy fabric remained damp, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. My shoes squished with each step.
While attempting to salvage my appearance, I replayed the rescue in my mind. The boy’s terrified face underwater, the instinctive way I’d shared my air with him. I hadn’t thought twice about jumping in. Was it the CYO training? Or something else, some innate part of me that reacted before conscious thought?
Birdie would have approved, I thought with a small smile. She always said I had a hero complex buried under all my caution.
I emerged from the bathroom still damp but presentable enough. Following signs toward what I hoped was the Submarine Theater Elaine had mentioned, I wondered what kind of performance I might find there. I’d earned my $275 today, but I’d also gained something else, the certain knowledge that when it mattered, I acted without hesitation.
I found my way to the Submarine Theater and stopped in my tracks. I was standing in a large room with glass panels along one wall of the chamber offering a panoramic underwater view very close to the springs bottom. A small crowd pressed against the glass, gawking and pointing.
Swimming in the crystal-clear water was Elaine, dressed in a powder blue swimsuit that glimmered in the filtered sunlight. She moved with graceful precision, wiping the exterior of the glass with a squeegee, occasionally taking a breath from an air hose before continuing her underwater maintenance. Every once in a while, she would concentrate on a particular spot and breath on it to moisten the spot, but of course it was already wet and she was blowing bubbles instead. This amused kids and parents alike. Her movements were like watching an elegant dance, she’d clean a section, wave to the delighted tourists, maybe get to the level of a little kid, her kneeling on the springs bottom, then glide to another area.
When she spotted me among the onlookers, recognition flashed in her eyes. She held up five fingers and pointed toward what I assumed was her exit point, before returning to her performance.
I worked my way through the crowd, following the direction she’d indicated. A small door led to a backstage area where several employees in similar swimwear were preparing to rotate shifts. I stood awkwardly near the entrance, water still dripping from my clothes and forming small puddles at my feet.
Five minutes later, Elaine emerged from a changing area, toweling her hair dry.
“There you are! Why do you look like a drowned rat?” she asked, eyeing my soaked clothes with amusement. “Did you decide to join the underwater show without an invitation?”
Before I could answer, a middle-aged man in a crisp Silver Springs polo approached us. His name tag identified him as “Derek Bowman, Operations Manager.”
“You must be the snake kid Elaine mentioned,” he said, giving me a once-over. “So are you the klutz who fell off my launch dock, or the one who ‘accidentally’ fell off the tour boat?”
I froze, realizing my cover story hadn’t fooled anyone. The manager’s expression wasn’t angry, just knowing.
“The boat ... well both, I guess” I admitted, seeing no point in continuing the charade. “The little boy went overboard, and I jumped in after him. Honestly I didn’t even think about it until I was handling the kid over, can you believe, he was actually laughing, as soon as we reached the surface.”
“That’s what Taresa, our boat guide radioed in. Evidently you were so fast, everyone thinks she rescued the kid single handed.” Derek confirmed. “When she said you asked her not to make a fuss about it, I told her to go along with it. Any particular reason you’re dodging the spotlight, young man?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I just don’t want the attention, sir.”
Elaine stepped forward. “Derek, this is the kid I told you about, the one from St. Augustine’s.”
Understanding immediately dawned on the manager’s face. “The military school they just shut down? That mess was in all the papers.”
“He doesn’t need reporters asking questions or people making him into some local hero,” Elaine explained. “He’s had enough unwanted attention.”
Derek studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. The mother’s been asking to thank whoever saved her son. I’ll tell her you’ve already left the park.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, relief washing over me.
“You did good work today, twice over,” Derek said, gesturing to the container receipt sticking out of my pocket. “Ross Allen himself was impressed with your coral snake specimen. Said it was caught cleaner than most professionals manage.”
He extended his hand, which I shook.
“Next time you come, stop by my office. We might be able to work something out if you’re interested in regular collecting. Always need good specimens for the institute.”
After Derek left, Elaine grinned at me. “So you’re a regular snake charmer and a lifesaver? Not bad for your first visit to Silver Springs.”
“Just did what needed doing,” I said, uncomfortable with the praise.
“Well, hero or not, you need dry clothes before we head back,” she said, leading me toward a staff area. “Let’s find you something that doesn’t squish when you walk.”
“Wait up,” Elaine said, stopping suddenly and turning to her boss. “Henry didn’t show up this morning, and I’m without a swim buddy for the afternoon shows.”
Derek frowned. “I know. I’ve been trying to find someone to fill in.”