Chapter 12: Saving Summer

August 3, 1962 - The Kings Your Friend

The next morning, I rode my bike to the Martinson place. Their house sat on the far side of Lake Sebring, a modest white clapboard with a long wooden dock stretching into a cypress-lined cove. Kip waited on the porch steps, jumping up when he saw me.

“You really came!” He looked both relieved and terrified.

“Said I would.” I propped my bike against a tree and adjusted the canvas bag hanging from my shoulder. Inside was my snake stick, collapsible snake tongs, heavy gloves, and a cloth sack. On my belt was a first aid kit the Institute fixed up for me, consisting of: Dried antivenin, saline solution to mix the antivenin with, a syringe, antiseptic and bandages.

Mr. Martinson emerged from the house, wiping his hands on a rag. “You’re the snake catcher?” He assessed me skeptically. “Bit young, aren’t you?”

“Dad,” Kip groaned. “He works at Silver Springs.”

“Just the water shows, at the springs” I clarified. “But I’ve been catching water moccasins all summer. Animal Control can vouch for me.”

Mr. Martinson grunted. “Well, they’re down by the boathouse. Can’t even get my johnboat out without worrying about getting bit.”

We walked single file down a narrow path toward the water. The July humidity pressed against us like a wet blanket, though it barely bothered me now, the bomber size mosquitoes droning in our ears, were another matter entirely. The boathouse was little more than a weathered shed with an attached dock, surrounded by saw palmetto and thick undergrowth.

“There.” Kip pointed to a jumble of rocks near the dock’s base. “That’s where I saw them.”

I approached cautiously, scanning the area. The rocks formed a natural hollow, perfect for a snake nest. Instead of prodding immediately, I knelt and observed, waiting for movement.

“I don’t see any...” Mr. Martinson started, but I held up my hand.

There. A glossy black shape slid between two rocks. Not a water moccasin.

“Florida indigo snake,” I said quietly. “And not just one.”

As my eyes adjusted to the shadows, I could make out multiple sleek bodies; most smaller than the first. A family nest.

“Are they poisonous?” Kip’s voice cracked.

“No. They’re actually the opposite of trouble.” I readied my snake stick. “These are the best neighbors you could ask for.”

With a careful movement, I pinned the largest snake, over five feet long, and lifted it. The indigo writhed but didn’t strike as I transferred it to my hand, supporting its body properly. Its scales gleamed blue-black in the sunlight.

“This is your security system against venomous snakes,” I explained, letting the indigo drape across my arms. “They’re mostly resistance to pit viper venom and actually hunt and eat other snakes, including water moccasins.”

Mr. Martinson took a step closer, fascination replacing his skepticism. “You’re saying these things kill the dangerous ones?”

“Exactly. Plus, they eat rodents that might otherwise attract rattlesnakes.” I carefully demonstrated the snake’s features, the smooth scales, the wedge-shaped head distinct from vipers. “Most of these are juveniles. The adults can reach eight feet.”

Kip had inched forward, torn between fear and curiosity. “Can I ... touch it?”

“Gently, along its back. If provoked they might give you a nasty bite but, if you clean the wound good, you’d be fine.” I held the snake securely as Kip ran a tentative finger over its scales.

“It’s not slimy,” he marveled.

“I’d recommend leaving them,” I said, returning the indigo to the rock pile. “But if there are too many when they mature, I can come back in a couple weeks and relocate some. They’re actually protected species, illegal to kill.”

Mr. Martinson looked thoughtful. “So, all this time I’ve been threatening to clear them out...”

“You’d have been removing your best protection,” I finished. “These indigos are better than any pest control service. The only other thing I would recommend is clearing out the weeds, at the dock and back a few feet along the path there, don’t give them an invitation. I could do that for you next week; my rates are fairly reasonable.”

“What about moms’ chickens? Snakes are always getting into the coop and taking eggs.”

They took me around to the back of the house. “I don’t know a lot about chickens ... but you haven’t had any chicken killed by snake, have you.”

“No just the eggs though we have had some by other varmints, weasel we think.”

“You could try trenching around the fencing and bending a layer of hardware cloth, so it makes a barrier about a foot from the fence and running up the chicken wire a couple feet. Most snakes can’t support their bodies more than a foot or so to climb over and an animal would usually try to dig their way in right next to the fence, also seal off even the slightest gaps. It’s not a guarantee but the best affordable option.”

As we walked back to the house, I described how to identify various snake species. Mr. Martinson listened intently, occasionally nodding.

“Hardy,” he said when we reached the porch, “you’ve got a real knack for this. You should think about working with wildlife professionally someday.”

The comment caught me by surprise. Nobody had ever suggested a future based on something I was good at, only what I should avoid becoming.

Choreography

My second weekend at Silver Springs arrived with the August heat already promising to fry everything under it. we arrived early, eager to escape into the cool water of the springs.

I went to the Institutes intake desk to check in, while Elaine headed to change in the locker area of the small ready room next to the theater, and check out our air hoses. She glanced up when I entered. “There’s my fish boy,” she called. “Ready for another day of playing mermaid?”

“As long as you don’t expect me to wear a tail.” I grinned, pulling on the weighted fins we used to give us a neutral buoyancy under water, the women said it would be a crime for them to have to wear a bulky weight belt and would distract from the effect, I had to agree. Unfortunately, when they suggested replacing their conservative Janzen suits to bikini’s, the idea was rejected, this being a family venue and all.

The underwater shows had become a highlight of my week. Something about moving through that crystal-clear water made everything else, my grandmother, the memories of St. Augustine’s, feel distant and unimportant.

We slipped into the water together, checking our air hoses. The observation windows showed a handful of early visitors already gathering, their faces pressed against the glass.

“Let’s give them something worth watching,” Elaine said with a wink.

We descended into the clear blue depths. Sunlight filtered through the water in rippling bands. Elaine moved with practiced grace, her hair floating around her face like flame underwater. I found myself watching her more than performing for our audience.

As she swam past me to retrieve a prop shell, I was struck by how beautiful she looked, weightless and free in this underwater world. Without thinking, I swam after her, tapping her shoulder. When she turned, I puckered my lips in an exaggerated kiss.

Elaine’s eyes widened in mock outrage. She wagged her finger at me, then darted away through a stand of eelgrass. The chase was on.

I pursued her around the grotto, our movements creating a underwater ballet. When I nearly caught her, she twisted away, bubbles streaming from her silent laugh. The crowd at the windows had doubled, children pointing excitedly.

Finally, I cornered her against a rock formation. She held up her hands in surrender, pulled her air hose close and took a deep breath. Before I could react, she swam forward and planted a quick kiss on my cheek, then pushed me away.

The audience applauded, their muffled clapping barely audible through the water. Elaine took a theatrical bow, and I followed suit. When she motioned for me to come closer, I swam to her side.

She removed her mouthpiece and offered it to me, taking mine in exchange. We breathed from each other’s air supplies, performing an underwater dance as we circled, never letting the hoses tangle. The simple act felt strangely intimate, sharing the very air we breathed.

When we emerged an hour later, Derek was waiting with a broad smile.

“You two are a hit,” he said, tossing us towels. “Word’s already spreading. The next show has people lined up around the building.”

Elaine laughed, wringing water from her hair. “Tom’s a natural. Most guys I’ve worked with are too busy showing off to create something people actually want to watch.”

I felt my face flush, grateful my already-reddened skin from the water would hide it.

The rest of the day followed the same pattern, Elaine and I playing underwater tag, trading air, creating stories without words. By the final show, the observation area was packed three-deep with visitors.

As we dried off after the last performance, Derek approached us with two envelopes.

“Bonus,” he explained. “That was our highest Saturday attendance all summer.”

Elaine bumped my shoulder with hers. “Not bad for a boy who just showed up to deliver snakes.”

On the drive home, Elaine took a detour past the bustling construction site that would soon become Six Gun Territory. The employee parking lots were connected so we could actually drive through the main street, even in the Sundays evening hours, workers swarmed over half-built facades of an Old West town, a saloon, jail, and what looked like the beginnings of a blacksmith shop. I rolled down my window, breathing in the scent of fresh-cut lumber and paint.