The Ground Beneath

Wallace Finch does not trust the ground he walks on. For the past twelve years, the retired structural engineer has dedicated his life to mapping the underground topography of Marion County, a region famous for its horse farms and its catastrophic sinkholes. His garage in Ocala is filled with ground-penetrating radar equipment, geological survey maps, and buckets of core samples that he has collected from local backyards. Finch, sixty-five, wears a pair of mud-stained hiking boots even when he is sitting in his living room, a habit that his wife views with a mixture of amusement and despair. He believes that the earth is constantly whispering its secrets to those who know how to listen.

The paradox of Finch’s work is that while he is obsessed with predicting the next disaster, he enjoys the thrill of the unpredictable. He speaks of sinkholes not as destructive nuisances, but as beautiful, natural phenomena that reveal the ancient, hollow geography of the Florida peninsula. He hates the suburban sprawl that has covered the county, yet he relies on the developers' excavation reports to build his underground maps. "We are living on a giant limestone sponge," Finch said, pointing to a red-highlighted map on his computer screen. "Every time we build a new supermarket, we are just adding another weight to a roof that is already sagging."

Late one afternoon, Finch stands on the edge of a newly formed sinkhole behind a housing development, watching a giant live oak tree slide into the muddy water below. He takes out a laser rangefinder to measure the depth of the void, his face lit with a strange, academic excitement. He knows that his warnings are usually ignored by the local planning commission, but he is content to keep his records for his own satisfaction. For Finch, the true pleasure lies in knowing what lies beneath the surface, even if that knowledge only serves to confirm his suspicion that everything is eventually destined to fall.