Chapter 13: Springs Cleaning

August 7, 1962 - Juniper Springs Clean Up

I woke to the sounds of groaning from the other tents.

“My back is killing me,” someone complained.

“Pretty sure I slept on every rock in Florida,” another voice added.

I stretched, feeling surprisingly good. Years of sleeping on hard surfaces had made me adaptable. Jake, on the other hand, looked miserable as he crawled from our tent.

“How are you not sore?” he mumbled, rubbing his lower back.

“Practice and hollowing shallow spots for the hips sometime helps.” I replied simply.

Mr. Peterson already had the fire going, bacon sizzling in a large cast iron skillet. The smell drew boys from their tents like a magnet. I helped by mixing pancake batter while Jake sliced oranges we’d brought from his father’s grove.

“Nothing better than pancakes outdoors,” Mr. Peterson announced, flipping a golden-brown cake with practiced ease.

“Yeah, a little fire ash adds hint of crunchiness to the batter.” I jested.

“Funny kid, that’s what, your fourth or is it your fifth flapjack?”

“What can I say, I love the crunch.” That broke everyone up.

“Hardy, can you start the eggs?”

I cracked two dozen eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a splash of water I’d learned makes them fluffier. The younger boys set out plates and utensils while we cooked.

Breakfast disappeared quickly. Ryan, a skinny kid who seemed to eat twice his weight at every meal, stacked his pancakes four high, drowning them in syrup.

“Alright, Scouts,” Mr. Peterson called once we’d cleaned up. “Conservation detail starts in fifteen minutes. Everyone grab gloves and trash bags.”

To my surprise, no one complained. Our work yesterday had shown visible results, and the boys seemed proud of what we’d accomplished.

“Come on,” Jake nudged me. “I’ve got an idea.”

We walked to the camp kitchen and borrowed two of the older large plastic buckets that were cracked, drilling several holes in the bottom, and a metal colander with a handle. The scout trailer also had a couple of face masks for us to use.

“For the underwater trash,” Jake explained. “You’re a better diver than anyone here.”

At the swimming hole, we found more litter beneath the surface than I’d expected. Beer bottles, soda cans, even an old tire half-buried in silt. Jake brought the buckets to the surface since I could stay down longer at a time and fill them with debris. When we found broken glass embedded in the sandy bottom, we used the colander to gently sift it out, careful not to raise a cloud of sand or cut ourselves.

“This is like a treasure hunt,” Jake said. “Only after trash.”

“Not quite as rewarding, but then once we finish, I think it will be it’s own reward.” Jake nodded his agreement.

Other Scouts worked along the shoreline and trails. By mid-morning, we had assembled an impressive pile of bulging trash bags near the park’s collection bins.

“Hardy!” Mr. Peterson called. “County Parks truck is here. They’re wondering about all our bags.”

I joined him as he explained our cleanup project to two city workers who’d arrived to empty the park’s bins.

“Thirty bags?” One worker scratched his head. “That’s more than we collect in a year.”

“Place was pretty bad,” I said. “Especially underwater.”

“Well, we appreciate the help,” the older worker said. “Don’t suppose you boys are planning to clean the rest of our parks too?”

Mr. Peterson laughed. “We’re focusing on this one for now.”

“We’ll bring extra bags tomorrow,” the worker promised. “Maybe the boss will spring for some proper grabber tools for you boys.”

As we returned to our work, I noticed other campers had begun picking up trash in their areas. A family with three young children collected bottles near their picnic table. An elderly couple with pointed walking sticks gathered paper wrappers along the boardwalk to the shower and bathrooms.

“Look at that,” Jake whispered. “We started something.”

By lunchtime, our small troop had attracted a dozen other volunteers. A mother with two daughters approached Mr. Peterson.

“The girls want to help,” she explained. “Is that okay?”

Soon we had organized teams: shore cleanup, trail cleanup, and underwater recovery. I taught two older boys the basics of diving for trash, watching as they competed to see who could bring up the most.

“You should be careful,” Jake said as I prepared for another dive. “There’s a news van pulling in. I know you don’t like the spotlight.”

“How do you know that?”

“Phil, over there, is Elaine’s cousin. He told me that something happened at the Springs that you didn’t want any credit for.”

I turned to see a white station wagon with “WOCA-TV Ocala” painted on the side. A woman with a beehive hairdo and a man carrying a bulky camera emerged.

“I’ll stick to the far side; the face mask will help.” I said quickly. The last thing I needed was my grandmother seeing me on television. She’d find some way to turn even this into something to punish me for.

The reporter interviewed Mr. Peterson while I kept my back to the camera, diving repeatedly to clear a section of lake bottom near the far dock. From the water, I watched the cameraman pan across our volunteers, now numbering at least twenty people of all ages.

“This is incredible,” Jake said when I surfaced with another bucket of debris. “Look how many people joined in.”

Indeed, what had started as our troop project had transformed into a community event. A man in a park ranger uniform arrived with a pickup truck, distributing heavy-duty bags and work gloves to anyone who wanted them.

“The ranger wants to know who started this,” Jake mentioned. “Mr. Peterson said it was your idea.”

“Tell him it was the troop’s idea,” I replied quickly. “I don’t need any attention.”

Jake gave me a curious look but nodded. “Whatever you say.”

Throughout the afternoon, our cleanup force grew. Campers from three different sites joined in. A local church group arrived after hearing about it from someone who’d driven by. Even a few teenagers who’d come to swim pitched in after seeing everyone else working.