“I’m going.”
My quiet statement broke the silence shared by the three of us atop the tower
overlooking Wakulla Springs. We each had our own thoughts as we stared into the
huge spring before us. Bill Main let out a little laugh, leaned over, and said
to Bill Gavin,
“Hey Billy, we can’t let our little redneck buddy go solo diving in here. He
might get lost all by himself!”
“We can’t have that now, can we? I guess we’d better go and keep an eye on him.”
The grin on Gavin’s face settled it. I knew I wasn’t going solo--we were all
going. Test dive number three on tri-mix was going to be a shot at the title:
the end of the line in Wakulla. We just had to figure out how to do it without
getting caught. We discussed a few options and agreed that canoeing up the river
was probably our best bet. Gavin and I made plans for the next weekend to check
that out.
Bill met me at the spring, and after a bit of looking around, we got tickets for
the River Cruise. We boarded the boat and sat near the back so we could talk to
the boat captain/tour guide. (He was an older black gentleman who had been doing
this for years.) The boat was about half full. There were three or four families
with kids, the tourists wearing socks with sandals, and some bird watchers. The
last person to board caused me to do a double-take. He had to be the grand
potentate of all birdwatchers. To simply call him a “dork” would be like calling
the Grand Canyon a spot of erosion. “Warren,” all of five foot nothing and a
hundred and ten pounds, was decked out from head to toe in khaki: hiking boots,
khaki shorts, khaki shirt, khaki vest, and a khaki pith helmet. (He
looked like a mushroom to me, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.)
His vest pockets were stuffed with note pads, log books and various field guides
to North American tweetie birds. Glasses? Try “optics” like in “replacement
optics for the Hubble Telescope.” It was a safe bet that in his younger days
Warren had been no stranger to a schoolyard ass-whipping.
We got underway and our guide immediately started pointing out the resident
waterfowl and wildlife.
“The tall gray bird a wadin’ in da shallows to da right is a Great Blue Heron,
one of the largest birds here in da park. He’s tryin’ to catch him some fish for
dinner. The little brown bird a runnin’ cross da lily pads there, is a Florida
Gallinule. If we was in Georgia, he’d be a Georgia Gallinule!”
The birds were non-stop. We saw Ospreys, Anhinga, Double-crested Cormorants,
Night Herons, Loons, Wood Ducks, Marsh Hens, Ibis, Coots, Egrets, Limpkins, and
my personal favorite, the Pied-billed Grebe, to name just a few. Warren was so
excited I thought he was going to have a cardiac event trying to keep his log
books current while juggling field guides. (He was also prone to blurting out
scientific names without warning, e.g. Dorkius Maximus). Bill and I just took in
the scenery while making mental notes of landmarks.
When the guide spotted the first gator of the day, he announced over the
loudspeaker, “Alllaagaaaterr on da left!!!” Everybody on the right side of the
boat scrambled over for a better look. The boat listed to port. One little boy
asked, “Daddy! Is it real?“ We all had a good laugh as his dad and the guide
assured him it was.
We saw many more alligators on down the river-- little baby ones not long out of
the nest, dozens of four to six footers, and a few of what I consider “grown.”
We had gone about a mile down the river when I noticed a small reflective marker
in the middle of the river a short distance away. When we neared this point, our
boat started making a gradual turn. I asked how much further the park extended.
“’Nutha mile anna haf to da fence.”
“Can we go?”
“We don’t go waaay on down yonder. We purty much leave that be.”
“Ever been down there?”
“I been in yonder. Once.”
“What was it like?”
“They’s some sho’nuff gators in yonder. Sho’nuff gators.”
His voice kind of trailed off as he stared down the river in silence. I sure did
want to ask what he was remembering, but I didn’t. Note to self: “Sho’nuff
gators in yonder.”
For those of you not fully versed in Southern dialect, I’ll translate: “Yonder”
is simply a general direction, like “there”. It is most commonly preceded by the
word “over”. For example, the question, “Where’s my dog?” would be answered by
the Southerner with, “Over yonder.” If it was, lets say, a quarter mile away,
the answer would be, “Waaay over yonder”. That was a long way. (Southerners will
stretch out a word for descriptive purposes.) If the dog was a mile away,
“Where’s my dog?” would be answered with: “Lost.” Just because we talk different
doesn’t mean we’re a bunch of dumb-asses; it’s just our way of not sounding like
a Yankee. While we’re on the subject, if you’re visiting the South, there are a
few things you need to know:
”Sho’nuff” is a derivative of “sure enough,” used almost exclusively by rural
black southerners. There are several ways to use “sho nuff”. Here are a few.
“Sho’nuff” can be used in place of “no kidding,” as in this exchange:
“ Did you hear? Leroy done hit the Lotto!”
“Sho’nuff?”
Or perhaps it could mean a great quantity, as in “Leroy said there was some
sho’nuff people at his place yesterday; relatives he didn’t even know he had.”
Now, if the emphasis is on “nuff,” that changes things: It then means atypical,
exceptional or extraordinary, as this final example illustrates: “Dolly Parton
gotta “sho’nuff” pair of…” You get the picture.
I knew what the tour guide was saying about the distant stretch of river. It was
home to a pile of alligators, and some damn big ones. When the cruise was
over, we took another one, just for good measure. After that, we headed down to
where the highway crosses the Wakulla River at the southern park boundary. We
launched the canoe there and waited briefly for darkness to fall. It was time to
make a little covert reconnaissance trip up the river.
Approximately fifty feet north of the bridge, a chain link fence and three rows
of barbed wire spans the river. We moved the barbed wire and slipped beneath the
fence and paddled into darkness. The fence was installed many years ago by the
former owner of the property, Mr. Edward Ball. Since this is the one and only
fence across a river in the state of Florida, some additional information about
Mr. Ball and how this came about is due. Ed Ball bought the property from George
T. Christie in 1934. (Christie had acquired it in 1925 and began development and
boat tours). In 1937 the Lodge opened for business and became quite popular. Ed
Ball was a business man; he managed the multi-billion dollar estate of Alfred I.
duPont, and he did a few real estate deals here and there for himself. His
philosophy regarding land acquisition was simple: he didn’t want all the land in
Florida; he just wanted what was next to his. (This apparently worked quite
well: when he died in 1981 at the age of 93, his St. Joe Company was the largest
land owner in the state with over one million acres.) Ed was especially fond of
his three thousand plus acres that surrounded Wakulla Springs. The place became
more and more popular, and some people came up the river in their own boats. He
didn’t like that. So he had the Army Corps of Engineers survey the river. They
deemed the Wakulla River “un-navigable”. He then promptly slapped fence across
it, right at his property line.
Mr. Ball was used to getting his way. He was also known for being a bit
“eccentric” at times. (Did you ever notice that a lot of old people with waaay
too much money, are “eccentric”? ) Mr. Ball just up and decided one day that he
had to have himself a bear. (Yes, a bear!) So, he got one: a real live,
honest to God, wild Florida Black Bear. He kept it in a cage down the river a
short distance from the boat docks. Now, according to Florida Statutes, this is
a no-no. When he was informed of this and instructed to release the bear, Ed
Ball said, “No!” That was his bear, he liked it and was going to keep it.
The state countered with the old tried and true, “We will sue you.” (Which, by
the way, works like 99% of the time.) Now, the eccentric Mr. Ball, who was also
known for being just a wee bit cantankerous at times, took offense. Mr. Balls
reply was a gem: (that wasn’t a typo; this took “Balls”.) “Go ahead, I’ve
got more money than you’ve got time.”
I don’t know just what all went down behind the scenes, but the old man kept his
bear. Like I said, he was used to getting his way. (I think it had something to
do with the golden rule: The one with the most gold - rules.)
Bill and I had settled into a comfortable rhythm, silently paddling along in the
darkness. We both wore head-mounted lights but elected not to use them. If a
Park Ranger or Wildlife Officer happened to be in the area, we didn’t want their
“attention.”
About 20 minutes up river, I decided to be Bill’s tour guide. When some unseen
bird made a noise, I immediately identified it - “Pied-billed Grebe on da lef.
Florida Gallinule on da right.” Bill couldn’t help but chuckle at my
impersonation of the boat captain. The jovial mood was soon to end. Our
countdown had begun; we didn’t know it, but we were “Go for Launch”. I was about
to say something when All Hell Broke Loose! A thunderous explosion of water and
mayhem erupted at our bow, violently flinging me skyward like a baby seal being
tail slapped by a killer whale… Thankfully, I did, for the most part, land back
in the canoe. It wasn’t one of my most graceful moments. Bill struggled to keep
the boat upright. I was stunned, thinking, “They mined the river!” I managed to
right myself, find the seat, and Lights On! Time to find out what the hell just
happened.
“Lammer, What was THAT?”
“… That would be one of those Sho’Nuff gators,” I replied. We watched
about fourteen feet worth of pissed-off reptile slowly swim away. This apex
predator wasn’t accustomed to getting out of the way for anything, and we just
paddled right up on top of his head. He apparently didn’t like that very much. I
took a quick look around and added,
“He’s not alone.”
Bill switched his light on, also. Everywhere we looked, there were eyes looking
back. We killed the lights and rested a minute. (My heart rate was a little
elevated). As we got underway again, Bill offered this sage advise:
“Try not to fall out of the boat, OK?”
“I’ll try my very best.”
I decided this was where the river became “un-navigable”. I imagined the Army’s
Corps of Engineers seeing this bunch of monsters. Not wanting to risk becoming
the Army’s corpse of Engineers… “Whoa, we can’t go any further…
Un-navigable. Let’s get out of here!”
Bill named our friend “Thunder Lizard.”
We met three more “Thunder Lizards” on up a ways, and you know what? You just
don’t get used to that.
Before long, things started to look familiar. Soon we rounded the bend and were
on the home stretch. The headspring was lit up like New York City. We turned
around just shy of the boat docks and headed back. Piece of cake; only took an
hour.
Next Sunday, (9-27-87) we met back at the bridge. We loaded the boats down with
gear: Each of us had twin104’s filled with “Sneak Mix,” an 80 with air, an O2
bottle, deep modified Teknas, plus the usual suits, lights, etc. Gavin was in
his 12’ aluminum boat with an electric trolling motor, while Bill Main and I
were in my 20’ canoe. I insisted that Bill sit in the front. (I did not want
another front row seat when we met the Thunder Lizards. Also, I knew firsthand
that the person in the front gets the spider webs.) As soon as it was dark, we
were under the fence and on our way.
With great anticipation of things to come, we navigated in darkness. Gavin and I
were hoping Bill would be properly introduced to Thunder Lizard. We got our
wish.
“Hoole Leee SHIT!…That scared the Hell outta me!”
“Mr. Main, say hello to Thunder Lizard.” It was spectacular. Gavin and I both
took great pleasure in the unnerving of the Main man.
With our heavy load of gear, it took us two hours to reach Wakulla Springs. We
eased into shore right beside the boat docks, behind the ticket building. There,
just waiting for us, was a big old picnic table. We immediately put it to good
use. Main said, “This is just like gearing up at Ginnie.”
We got suited up and into our gear with hardly a sound. Bill and Bill were
already in the water. As I eased into the water, something bad happened: My
primary regulator went into a roaring free-flow. I had my hands full with deco
tanks and my scooter while my “high performance” side exhaust regulator went
flying about my head, dumping my precious gas. It took me a good four or five
seconds to stop it, but that was just the tip of the iceberg; the blast set off
a chain reaction of noise unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Remember all the
birds? Well, those bastards woke up. It started in the tree tops right above our
heads when something went, “Bwaaack!” This led to what sounded like a helicopter
taking off as a whole squadron of pond birds left in a big hurry. (“Bwaaack”
apparently means, “Fly or Die!”) Birds scattered in all directions, repeatedly
crying out in alarm, and sadly for us, many of them had a bowel movement as they
took flight. “Fly or die” turned to “shit and git.” I was aghast. As shit rained
down, untold scores of waterfowl were awakened. The symphony had begun. Each
species, represented by hundreds of individuals, was trying to be the loudest.
The noise was deafening, and my partners were not amused…Gavin didn’t say a
word, but his teeth were clinched and he was shaking his head. Hogarth, bless
his heart, had to say something.
“Gawd dayum! Why don’t you just send up a flare?! You know what those birds are
saying? ‘There’s some asshole trying to sneak in with an Omega!’ Get a Conshelf
- they don’t do that.”
“Shut up, Bill. Let’s go.”
We ducked under the water and motored towards the tower. The sounds of exhaust
bubbles and the whirring of scooters were a welcome change from the noise at the
surface. I thought about where to get a Conshelf... Somewhere between the boat
dock and the tower, I unknowingly picked up a hitchhiker who would later make
his presence known in a big way.
We surfaced at the tower for a quick look around, then descended to the ledge at
twenty feet. A quick gear check was done, and all systems were go. I checked the
time; it was straight up midnight. We stepped off the ledge and did a free fall
into the unknown with no lights. At 170’ we hit the bottom and turned on our
lights. There, right in front of us was the beginning of the line. Perfect! We
clipped off our oxygen bottles, switched over to tri-mix, and clipped off our
air bottles. Visibility was about 40’--not ideal--but I had been waiting for
this moment since the very first time I laid eyes on this spring. We were headed
in!
The bottom angled down and funneled us into the cave. The floor was literally
covered with Mastodon bones for quite a ways. In no time we were well past 200’
and getting deeper as we followed the line along the right wall. Visibility was
dropping also. The further we went, the worse it became. We were on the line now
as visibility continued to decrease. Gavin stopped; visibility was five foot,
but we had reached the end of the line. Gavin tied off the reel and handed it to
Bill Main as planned. Bill turned toward me, and we just looked at each other.
No signals needed: “the look” was quite sufficient. Main turned and handed the
reel back to Gavin, whom we assumed would cut it. We were wrong. The intrepid
Bill Gavin did the unthinkable: He hit the trigger!
Eight hundred feet in, at a depth of 280’, on experimental mix, in a cave 100’
wide and 50’ high, on a sneak dive in the middle of the night, Gavin starts
laying line off a scooter - in five foot visibility… Main again turned and
looked at me. Again our expressions were identical. (“Oh Shit!”) We followed
Gavin, thinking, “This is fuckin’ nuts! We’re all going to die.” Before
long Gavin stopped to wrap the line. I was thinking, “what a good spot to tie
off,” but he finished the wrap and again motored away into blackness. The next
run was a lot longer and, for me, more stressful. The only things I could see
were the tips of Gavin’s fins and the line, and both were moving. It became
quite disorienting not having a wall or anything for reference. Whenever I
looked back to check on Bill, the vertigo got worse. My eyes were straining to
see anything other than darkness. We continued on.
It took us all totally by surprise: sensory overload! The lights came on. We had
broken out into the clearest water imaginable; everything just lit up! My eyes
hurt trying to deal with light that seemed to just explode in all directions. We
stopped for a few seconds to adjust, then got down to business. About fifty feet
ahead, we hit the mother lode: To the right was a massive tunnel with black
walls that looked like the Devil’s Eye system on steroids. To our left was
another tunnel not quite as big, but it was pure white and, to me, more
appealing. We hovered motionless, looking back and forth. It was decision time.
I started pointing left. Main pointed right. We started flashing our lights and
were insisting on opposite directions. Two huge virgin tunnels were just begging
to be explored and each had a proponent. Gavin settled it when he went left with
the reel. I was right behind him. Main went right, thinking we were behind, but
that wasn’t the case. He went a couple hundred feet into the other tunnel before
he turned to join us. Gavin made a wrap while we waited for Bill to catch up.
The next several minutes were as good as it gets. We lit it up! Delta formation
at full throttle, down the center of a beautiful borehole tunnel. Gavin was in
the lead, I was the right wingman and Bill was on the left. Gavin never let off
the trigger. I would occasionally drop out of formation to make a quick wrap,
then get back into position. The cave was stunning; 40’ to 60’ wide and over 20’
high. It just got bigger and better the further we went. It was just ride and
look. Needless to say, we were all grinning from ear to ear.
In what seemed like no time at all, the knob on Gavin’s reel was spinning like
crazy as the last few wraps of line were coming off. A thousand feet of line was
gone. Gavin was tying off, and my primary regulator went into another free-flow
that wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t make it stop. Finally I crimped my long hose and
began shutting down my right post. Bill Main finished it for me. I took a look
at my pressure gauge and went, “BWAAACK!”
Gas goes quick at three hundred feet… I was at halves. Not good. We go NOW! I
flashed Gavin and gave the thumbs up and pointed to my gauge. We headed back
with me sandwiched between Gavin and Bill. (I did a little skip breathing on the
way out.) I checked my gauge again as we approached the dark water. Going to be
close…
Hitting the dark water was strange. Your whole world shrinks to just a line in
the darkness. Lose it and die is about what it boils down to. The line had my
utmost attention. I was puzzled when we came to the wrap; the line went back
hard to the right, more than 90 degrees. It seemed like we were going the wrong
way, but this was our line. (What actually happened was that while motoring in
the dark water laying the line, we inadvertently went across the main “A” tunnel
and were headed out on the opposite wall when we hit the clear water and
discovered “B” and “C” tunnels. They were named “B” and “C” by those who would,
weeks later, “discover” them during the first Wakulla Project).
We had passed the old end of the line, and visibility began improving. A few
minutes later, we were near the entrance. I reached for my pressure gauge but
didn’t bother to look. It was limp. I was expecting to run out of gas at any
moment, and did so right as I arrived at my deco bottles. I made “dead sure”
that the one I selected was air and not pure O2.
As we settled into deco mode and got comfortable, I took apart my primary to see
what its problem was. The “problem” was a small Apple Snail stuck to the inside
of the housing. Apparently it had moved just enough at the right time to wedge
the demand lever open. I pried him free and sent him on his way.
Five hours later, we would be on our way as well. We surfaced at 5:30 am and
quickly got our boats loaded and under way. We hoped to be past the fence by
daybreak, but we missed that by thirty minutes. At the boat landing, we packed
up and said goodbye to Gavin, who had to drive to Panama City and go to work.
Bill and I returned to the scene of the crime. We went back to Wakulla Springs
and had breakfast at the lodge. Seated on the patio with a view of the spring,
we had steak and eggs, grits, and biscuits with gravy: it was a fine breakfast,
and a fitting end to an incredible adventure.