“Oh…” I say, unable to hide my disappointment.
“Good news is the cabin you’re staying in will be newer construction, which includes an air conditioning unit.”
Considering how hot it is outside, that’s something I’m grateful for. I spin the beads on my old friendship bracelet and give him a small nod of thanks. It’s time to find my home for the weekend.
Despite being in a different section of the park, each step is steeped in nostalgia. Grabbing my luggage, I decide to walk from the parking lot. My cabin doesn’t seem too far, and if I’m going to be here a few days, I might as well acclimate to the weather.
I reach it in no time, and it seems they re-purposed some of the signage with repainted numbers in the old script. I can’t resist tracing my fingers over it.
Inside, it’s small, but still feels too big for a solo traveler. There’s a cozy kitchen and living room combo. The window AC unit hums, blowing musty air across my skin. There’s a note with check-out instructions waiting for me on the table, but leaving is future Marina’s problem. A question hangs in the stale air as I glance around the empty cabin.
What now?
Heaving a sigh, I unpack my keyboard. The paint is chipped on the edges, and some of the keys don’t work—yeah okay, it’s a little broken, but so am I. That hasn’t stopped me from making music yet. Still, what am I expecting it to do—a back flip? Instead, it stays on the coffee table, as inspired as it was at home.
Rude.
If the inside of the cabin isn’t enough inspiration, then it seems a walk is in order. I leave my stuff in a pile on a sunken leather couch and head out the door.
Damp air wraps around me as I head toward the boardwalk. While it’s been upgraded, there are still the same shops, boat tours, and rentals that I remember. Sun beats down on the linen button-down I’ve thrown on over my long pants and tank top. More psoriasis on my knees has flared over the past week. The bumpy, itchy layer of skin rubs against the fabric with each step. It makes me want to tear off my clothing and dive into the water.
Maybe it wouldn’t beso badto change into a pair of shorts, I think. Lifting long strands of hair away from the base of my neck, I notice a woman staring at the patchy, rash-like patch of skin as I walk by.
I let my hair fall back into place and the thoughts along with it.
My shoulders droop forward as I fight the urge to return to my cabin. That is, until an announcement for the next boat tour plays on the loudspeaker.
At camp, we’d split into groups and take the tours as a field trip. Looking down through the crystal blue water would always inspire me to fill up my notebook—hopefully, it’ll do the same now.
Not only will it be good for inspiration, but I’ll be able to regain the lay of the land.
It’s early, but there’s still a crowd. Considering this is one of the main attractions of the springs, it makes sense. I hop in line, looking forward to getting a top-down view of the water.
It’s the same as I remember. The boats, while well-maintained, are old with creaky floors and uncomfortable bench seating along the perimeter. There’s a drop in the floor with a large glass window and a view into the water.
Movement bubbles under the surface, within the low caverns, and I grin at the schools of fish happily swimming together. A feeling swells in me—something I’m not sure I could voice with words—but a melody? It builds in my chest until I’m quietly humming to myself.
The magic of the springs isn’t just in the depths. It’s all around us: from the hanging cypress trees to the dragonflies skimming across the water.
Over by the cabins, I note an abandoned canoe, moored right across from Camp Mangrove. From the sound of it, we’re not allowed to explore the old grounds, but if it’s easy to get to by boat…
The crackling sound of old speakers snaps me back from my thoughts. Our tour guide greets us with cheesy jokes that only the adults laugh at. I make note of all the movies that were filmed on property once upon a time. I’m sure Grams and I have watched a few, but I wouldn’t mind a refresh, and not-so-secretly hope at least one is a musical.
The breeze ruffles strands of pink hair across my eyes. I exhale, turning into the wind to rest my cheek against the hard metal frame of the window.
Gators cluster on the shore piled on top of one another like a litter of kittens basking in the sun. I should be scared, but my growing urge to pet them probably says something disappointing about my survival skills.
Still, cute is cute, so I snap a photo and send it off to Grams.
Marina: You think the pet policy at your place covers these?
Stowing my phone, I flip to a page of my old journal, adding a new drawing of a gator next to one that’s faded with age.
I sink into my surroundings, remembering the good, the bad, and … my last night here.
I realize my fingers are again at my neck. Grams’ voice echoes through my head, and I stop myself from scratching. Instead, I fidget with the beads of my friendship bracelet. I spin and spin the beads across my skin until—
Snap!
