The Spillway was long the area's favorite convention center, playing
host to all manner of exploits, legal and otherwise.
At one time on these hallowed grounds, an adventurous fellow could
snag an alligator gar, brave the rip-rap in arial feats of bravery,
back-hook by mistake 30 pound catfish, attend 48-hour parties, swim
with gators or manatees, or both...
The dangers were few but well known... fire ants, dog bombs, gators, moccasins, diamond backs, drunken-but-heavily-armed local heros, vacationing Northerners, lucky shad-raps high in the tree, Devon slowly and knowingly driving down that hill.
The Spillway was always a place of private reflection amidst the excitement. Always, you would find some poor lost soul high on the hill, or on the dam, looking deep into nothing. Quiet fishing for introspection or supper. And the water...how perfect. Just tannin-stained enough to keep the outsiders away. Just fast enough to keep the little kids out. Just private enough to call one's own. Never will there be a better way to wash off a day's August Florida roofing than with a quick-splash into those forever waters.
Today, it is the modern tradgedy. The town ordinance has taken the fire
out of the Spillway's belly. Some lousey slop of an intellectual
has cut out the Native-American sun carving from the sixth rock at
the beginning of the limerock road.
No camping. No drinking. No swimming.
No fishing. How clean and well-kept the grounds are, now that
this proud and reckless native has been domesticated.