The Monsters of Weeki Wachee Springs
From the edge of a small platform, suspended in the middle of a clear, dark lake, my five-year-old eyes gazed into the chilly water. My parents and grandparents had brought me to beautiful Weeki Wachee, near my grandparents’ house in my home state of Florida. As legend would have it, mermaids swim among the caves formed by the Weeki Wachee Springs.
As a five-year-old child, I had a strong belief in this myth. To further this vision, my father, Michael Snyder, pointed out a large, white conch shell at the bottom, and what appeared to be strands of mermaid hair—which was actually seaweed—entangling it. Fascinated, I told my dad that I wanted to investigate the shell. He nodded in encouragement, and watched me don a small mask as I entered the water.
Once immersed, I looked toward the shell, which was seemingly hundreds of feet below. In reality, the shell was only twenty feet down.
I took a deep breath and kicked my legs over my head to descend. I kicked, stroked, and then kicked again. The burning in my lungs grew, and the water’s pressure pushed on my ears and mask in a way I had never felt before.
A few feet down, I began to imagine monsters that might be lurking in the dark waters around me. Jules Verne-style giant squid swam alongside freakishly large great white sharks in the depths of my imagination, and I began to panic. I aborted my mission and shot up to the surface.
I panted heavily as I searched around for my dad, who, I finally noticed, was watching intently from a nearby swimming platform. I began giving him an elaborate description of the scary seascape that I imagined. Without being able to fully understand my garbled words, my dad recognized my fear and jumped into the water next to me. He grabbed me by the shoulders while treading water and explained that while I might be afraid, the only way to conquer my fears was to acknowledge and embrace them. He asked if I was willing to give up on the wonders of the deep, the shell, and the mermaid’s hair because I was afraid.
“I’m not afraid!” I exclaimed with all the bravado that a five-year-old could muster, even though I was.
My dad smiled and said that he would go down there with me.
Together, we spit in our masks like Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws. After wiping the masks clean and putting them on, we took deep breaths and kicked our feet over our heads. We descended toward the imaginary sea monsters.
Once again, I became afraid as I kicked and stroked. Sensing my fright, my dad put a hand on my shoulder and ushered me further down. I looked at his face, which was oddly squished because of his mask, and saw him nod in encouragement. My dad’s presence and support steeled my youthful resolve, and I began furiously stroking towards the conch shell.
As the burning and pressure intensified, I finally reached the white shell. I planted my little feet on the sandy bottom, grabbed a hold of the shell, and pushed off with all of the energy that I had left.
After kicking furiously, I returned to the surface in triumph. While gasping for air, I placed the shell and mermaid hair—as I firmly believed it was—on the swimming platform.
As always, my dad was right there to congratulate me. Together, we investigated the bounty I had stolen from the monsters of Weeki Wachee Springs.
MY FATHER AND MY MOTHER, Valarie, met while they were teammates on a medical emergency response team in Reno, Nevada. My mom was a neonatal intensive care nurse, while my dad was a respiratory therapist. Together, they would board a small helicopter and fly to remote parts of Nevada to pick up sick or premature newborns, and bring them back to the better-equipped hospital in Reno.
After I was born, we moved to Florida to be closer to my grandparents. Before long, our family began expanding, first with my brother, Mitch, and then my youngest brother, Russ. In the hopes of eventually earning more money, my dad began taking night classes in electrical engineering, while my mom began picking up every possible overtime nursing shift.
To make things a little easier on my mother, her dad would often take me off her hands for a weekend, or even a full week. I absolutely loved these adventures with my grandpa. He lived about eight miles from Weeki Wachee Springs in Brooksville, Florida.
My grandpa, Forrest Lindsey, literally laid the foundation for his retirement by buying a plot of land and building Lindsey Acres, a small neighborhood subdivision. On the largest lot, he designed and built his dream home, where he and my grandma would enjoy their retirement. Even at the age of five, I knew I wanted to be just like my grandpa.
As I grew up and started going through old photos, I learned that my grandpa had served in the Navy. My grandma would later explain he had been a torpedo man during World War II. Incredibly, my grandfather’s honorable service in the Pacific had included the epic Battle of Midway, which famously took place six months after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.
Following his tours of duty, my grandpa returned to the East Coast to train new recruits. Then, his airplane crashed off the coast of New York, killing everyone aboard except for my grandpa, who would spend four years recovering from severe injuries. It was then that he fell in love with his nurse: my grandma.
After hearing my grandma’s story, I saw my grandpa in a whole new light. I couldn’t believe he had lived such an impressive life without feeling the need to speak about his enormous accomplishments. After I finally recognized his humility, courage, and unconditional love, my grandfather instantly became my hero. I could only hope to live a life worthy of his example.
ABOUT A YEAR LATER, my dad and I were attending an air show at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Seeking new work opportunities and a cheaper cost of living, my family had relocated there when I was six years old.
In amazement, I stared up at a small aircraft deftly maneuvering across the pale blue sky, as its daredevil antics left behind trails of white smoke. After an intricate series of barrel rolls, steep climbs, and terrifying dives, the aircraft disappeared from view. In the silence left behind by the departing aircraft, I surveyed the airstrip in front of me.
I glanced up at my father, who was standing to my left, and I noticed him dialing his binoculars toward a spot on the runway near the horizon. Following his gaze, I noticed the profile of a dark, ominous-looking aircraft that seemed to be constructed from many flat panels glued together into a strange, yet elegantly symmetrical and cohesive triangular shape. My dad then knelt down and explained that the craft was an F-117 stealth fighter, designed by the US military to creep under the radar systems of our enemies to spy and sometimes attack the bad guys.
My dad was always passionate about learning, reading, and understanding the way things worked, but there was a special respect exuded whenever he spoke about the military. We would spend hours playing catch outside while he told stories, including the exploits of his father, Vincent Snyder, who after serving in World War II, spent the rest of his life building US Navy ships that would carry future generations of sailors and Marines. As we tossed the ball back and forth, my dad explained how brave American warriors prevented evil dictators from threatening our way of life.
Always inspired by my father’s lessons, I would then go straight from playing catch to leading my G.I. Joe heroes—Duke, Sgt. Slaughter, and Snake Eyes—in ferocious combat assaults on our backyard’s small sand dunes. I would continue playing with G.I. Joes throughout my childhood, and like so many young American boys, dream of becoming a real-life warrior.
Sometimes, after the sinking sun brought us inside, I was allowed the special privilege of staying up late. My younger brothers and my newborn baby sister, Elyse, were put to bed while my father and I settled in for our favorite show, Tour of Duty, which was about an infantry platoon during the Vietnam War. Seated on the floor, my little feet tapped along to the beat of “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones as images of jungles, helicopters, and American soldiers flashed across the screen. My dad always sat behind me, rocking gently in his bentwood rocker, and answered my many questions about the show and our country’s military.
Occasionally, when my mom worked the night shift at the hospital, my dad and I would venture to the video store and pick out a war movie that we hadn’t seen. Our mutual favorite was Platoon. Over the years, we’d watch everything from Apocalypse Now to Stripes.
I didn’t realize it until much later in life, but my desire to serve came from these early experiences. I could hear my father’s deep-rooted respect for our armed services in his many lessons and stories as we stood outside playing catch. His own inner child was exposed whenever we went to air shows or when he’d let me stay up late with him to watch war movies. He always had a gleam in his eye when he spoke about his own dad, and I remember wanting to earn that same respect. I wanted to make my dad proud, and I wanted him to talk about me with that same gleam in his eye.
OUR TIME IN THE Colorado mountains didn’t last long. Struggling with the demands of four young kids and missing the warmth of the beach, my family returned to Florida when I was nine years old. I was a pretty awkward kid, and starting over in a new school wasn’t easy, but I was glad to be closer to my hero, Grandpa Lindsey, who we saw every few weekends. Sadly, though, Grandpa died of cancer less than three years later, leaving behind an incredible legacy and a family who loved him very much.
MY FATHER DROVE ME to the local pool to try out for the swim team when I was eleven years old. While my early dive into Weeki Wachee Springs had given me an appreciation for the water and confidence in my swimming ability, those feelings largely disappeared when I witnessed the swim team’s practice. These young athletes swam with great elegance and precision, and I doubted that I could ever reach their level.
After testing my raw, unpolished skills, the team’s tough and burly coach, Todd Mann, surprisingly told my dad that while I “needed work,” I could start practicing with the team the very next day.
My first practices were horrible, and I repeatedly voiced my frustrations to my dad. In response, he would tell me that nothing worth doing ever came easily. He said that if I truly dedicated myself, I would achieve success, and that the feeling of accomplishment after so much hard work would make the endeavor worthwhile.
I heeded my dad’s advice and resolved to work as hard as I could every day, even as other kids teased me for looking like a dork in my new Speedo swimsuit. Before long, I started making progress. Striving to continually improve then became almost addictive in nature.
A few summers later, I was well-trained, polished, and much stronger. I remember feeling elated while taking my first lead in a big race, only to feel crushed after realizing that I had lost by a few hundredths of a second.
After drying off, I looked up at my father expecting to see disappointment. To my surprise, he was sporting a huge grin.
“Great job, Brad,” he shouted in excitement. “That’s your best time ever by over forty-five seconds!”
I couldn’t believe it. How could my dad be so dim? He had completely glossed over the fact that despite all the effort, I had come up short. I lost! How could he not see that?
My father truly didn’t care whether I won or not. Whenever I struggled in the pool or in life, my dad would explain that each failure reveals an opportunity to make ourselves better. He taught me not to define my success by results, but by the virtue attained in the process. Even though I lost that race, my dad’s lesson erased any remaining doubts about whether I could compete and eventually succeed. From that day forward, I wanted to be a swimmer.
MY EARLY RESOLUTIONS TO swim and to serve were never written down. I didn’t discuss them with anyone, and honestly didn’t even think about these dreams or realize that they had become an integral part of my character. That was, until I was introduced to the United States Naval Academy.
I was offered a tour of Annapolis, Maryland, during my sophomore year of high school, and was instantly enamored with the legendary institution. With my eyes wide open and mouth agape, we strolled down Stribling Walk, paid homage to Tecumseh and John Paul Jones, and met a few midshipmen who greeted us with enthusiasm. The gravity of Navy’s Bancroft Hall sucked me in, and I knew with one hundred percent certainty that Annapolis was where I wanted to begin my adult life.
Before leaving town, I stopped by the Admissions Office and inquired about starting the painstaking process of becoming a midshipman. I was handed a small checklist of items and targets for aspiring candidates. That checklist may as well have been a religious text, as I studied and committed to its every letter for the rest of my high school years.