I don’t know her name, nor do I know his, but I will never forget her scream…

Late 1980s. Lemon Bluff Fish Camp. Osteen, Florida.

We call it a campground; however, none of the campers and RVs are temporary. All are nestled in semi-permanent spots and all are called home.

Scattered across gray Florida sand that blackens bare bottom feet, these dwellings are filled with a hodgepodge of folks, including my own family.

Across the dirt road from the campground is a restaurant that feels like home during the day and an old beer joint late at night where ‘My Toot Toot,’ by Rockin’ Sidney and ‘Bop,’ by Dan Seals seem to alternatively play on the jukebox one after another, day after day.

On the other side of the restaurant, down a tunnel of stairs, is a row of fishing and airboats tied to floating docks on the Saint John’s River.

My grandparent’s fifth wheel camper is sparkling new compared to its neighbors and all of the kids of the camp are in awe of the four steps staircase that lead to the loft where my grandparents sleep. So fancy.

This beauty of a camper replaced a worn-down and tired old white RV they’d relocated to Lemon Bluff from nearby Quail Ranch prior to my arrival and is something we are really proud of. It is filled with love and the constant smell of fried chicken, homemade buttermilk biscuits and warm coconut pies.

My young self doesn’t have much. When I moved with my Mom from Tennessee to Florida, somewhere between the multitude of Greyhound busses on the journey, all but one box of our personal belongings was lost. The move was a start over in every way.

In time, my mom gifts me a brand new twirling baton…a metamorphic surprise for a kid like me, with so little. I am filled with elation and joy as I twirl it across my knuckles, finger to finger just as my aunt taught me years prior back in Tennessee.

Little Me, spinning and twirling with the confidence of mastery that could only be championed by the innocence of a child.

‘Watch this,’ I shout to my cousin as I release my baton in what was meant to be the quality of a collegiate Golden Girl toss-and-catch maneuver, but undeniably becomes a mistake of guilt, shame and come tomorrow morning, world stopping blame.

The baton shoots from my hand with the speed and direction of a firecracker from a glass Coke bottle that has fallen on its side- straight through the window of the camper next to ours.

The immediate understanding of the damage I’ve done to this person’s home sends anxiousness from the bottom of my belly to the swell of a lump in my throat as the tears of sorriness pour down my freckled cheeks.

I understand that folks like those in our community rarely fix things that are broken, as the expense is often too much. If your window is shattered, you simply board it up and move on.

With a sincere apology, I express my deep regrets and the gentleman who owns the camper gracefully brushes it off and tells me everything is alright.

The next morning…

I lie asleep in the tiny loft of my grandparent’s camper. The swampy heat is seeping in and it is unusual to be sharing a bed with my snoring Papaw. Ordinarily, I sleep on a pallet nestled next to the kitchen sink downstairs.

I don’t know her name, nor do I know his, but I will never forget her scream…

It is a horrifying, bellow with the undertones of a wailing cry…a shriek, a shrill. Indescribable fear from the voice of a woman seemingly just outside our window envelopes all that is around.

In an instant and with one swift motion, the aluminum door of our camper slams shut behind my Papaw as he shouts to me, ‘STAY INSIDE!’

Suspended and petrified, I obey my Papaw, but the sounds of the calamity outside are inescapable.

I can hear the seriousness in his voice as he takes control of the situation from the screaming woman. His voice, although still very much his own, is encapsulated with a tone in which I am unfamiliar. He is counting. He is pausing. He is giving directions. He is performing CPR.

He is trying to save the life of the man with the broken window.

But, it’s too late…

And Little Me is certain the broken window and I are to blame. Maybe, I naively think, he froze in his sleep. Maybe a poisonous or ravenous animal got in overnight. Maybe anything, but certainly in my Little Me mind, it’s my fault.

Present day, I don’t remember much after the sounds outside the camper shifted from fear to sorrow. I do, however, remember the look of grief and failure on my Papaw’s face when I finally hugged him…he mentioned a heart attack and never again spoke to me about what happened that morning for the remainder of his life.

I often think of the man in the camper and the woman who loved him so much.

I don’t know her name, nor do I know his, but I will never forget her scream…

Epilogue

Years later, while reading online articles regarding the decline in Old Florida fish camps, I stumbled across a decades old report published in the Orlando Sentinel about the acquittal of Lemon Bluff Fish Camp’s well-known owner in a second degree murder trail…a trial and accusation I knew nothing of.

With my Papaw’s passing, I cannot ask him if this story represents the truth of the man in the camper. I will never know, but I can’t help but wonder, as the timeline and next morning story eerily parallel.

Lemon Bluff Fish Camp operator Leonard Harrell was found not guilty of second-degree murder Thursday in the death of his longtime associate and employee James Dowdy.

The verdict came exactly one year from the day that Dowdy, 44, was found dead in his trailer at the Osteen fish camp, following a fight the night before with Harrell.

During the three-day trial, witnesses who attended an Oct. 25, 1988, birthday party held in Harrell’s honor at the fish camp restaurant described a drunk and offensive Dowdy who was shoved to the floor by Harrell.

What was described by some witnesses as an intentional shove, followed by brutal punching and kicking, was described by others – including Harrell – as an act of self-defense.

“Jury Acquits Fish Camp Owner in Employee’s Death.” Orlando Sentinel, 27 Oct. 1989, https://www.orlandosentinel.com/1989/10/27/jury-acquits-fish-camp-owner-in-employees-death/

An undated photo of Lemon Bluff Fish Camp ruins. The camp’s restaurant sat atop the retaining wall. The aforementioned stairwell is located in the center and the wooden posts depicted served as braces for the covered floating docks. Source: Pinterest, photographer unknown