The Tampa Marine Institute has helped troubled kids since 1972. But if its state funding is cut, it may have to close.
By RON MATUS
Published April 4, 2003
PORT OF TAMPA - A few months ago, Irvin was like other teenagers assigned to Tampa Marine Institute.
A bad student. A problem child. Maybe an up-and-coming thug.
Like the rest, Irvin was told to keep his pants pulled up, his shirt tucked in, his hands clasped behind his back.
Like the rest, he was told, "We believe in you. Do right, and you will be rewarded."
So, a few weeks later, Irvin was breathing air from a 30-pound oxygen tank and smiling at the bottom of Interbay Pool in Culbreath Heights.
He had done good. And his reward: a scuba lesson and a splash of confidence.
"I thought, "Man, I can't sit down at the bottom of 11 feet,"' said Irvin, 15. "And when I did it, it was so amazing. I was hooked."
Today Irvin, whose last name is being withheld to protect his identity, is a certified scuba diver and hopes to become a SeaWorld volunteer. He no longer worries about succeeding in school.
His charges aren't surprised. The alternative school that offers lessons in scuba diving, boat navigation and life has been turning around troubled kids since 1972.
But now, its long string of successes might be coming to an end.
Gov. Jeb Bush wants to cut $500,000 - the state's share - from the institute's $900,000 budget. In a lean year for government, the governor is seeking to drop preventive programs and use scarce dollars to build juvenile detention centers.
The Hillsborough County legislative delegation is trying to save the institute.
But if its efforts fail, "we're sunk," said institute executive director Mike Thornton.
The Tampa Marine Institute is one of 54 centers around the country run by the Tampa-based Associated Marine Institutes.
In addition to state money, it scrapes up financial support from the Hillsborough school district, the United Way, government grants and individual contributions. It even sells donated boats to raise cash.
The money isn't spent on frills.
The institute is housed in a bland, blue-gray building not far from the 22nd Street Causeway. Rusty warehouses sit across the street. Big trucks rattle past. If not for the tiny tugboat planted on the lawn, the institute would be easy to miss.
Inside, about 80 kids ages 14 to 18 adjust to a school that stresses hard work and discipline but also offers rewards and one-on-one relationships with mentors. Most stay about six months.
The students are either on probation, on the verge of being kicked out of school, or both. Many are ordered by judges to attend. Many are from low-income families. Many have moms and dads and siblings with issues of their own.
On average, they've committed 5.8 crimes each.
The institute won't detail specifics for individual students, but collectively they've sold crack, stolen cars and called in bomb threats. They've burglarized homes, broken into Coke machines and brought brass knuckles to school. They've trespassed and vandalized and attacked other kids with fists and knives.
At the institute, none of that matters.
When a new student's rap sheet comes across the desk, Thornton said, "We look at it, read it."
And forget it.
The students go to class just like they would at other schools.
But they also mop floors, pull weeds and take out the trash. They participate in community service programs, like restoring beaches and delivering hot meals to the elderly.
And when they make progress, they get perks.
Those who earn enough points for good behavior and good grades get time with a PlayStation 2 video game, or the luxury of a padded sofa chair in the lunch room.
They visit parks and see plays. They learn how to operate boats and scuba dive.
At Interbay Pool in March, a half-dozen students got their first diving lessons.
"When I first got in, I thought I was going to die," said Ron, 14.
He quickly learned otherwise. "It's like you're in another world, like you're a fish," he said.
As Ron put his mask back on, other students peppered instructor Cathy Lau with questions.
"Miss, excuse me," said Adam, 18, a beefy young man with a close-cropped haircut. "Why is my air going so fast?"
Lau explained that because he's bigger than the other students, he uses oxygen faster.
"It's not because my heart is weak, is it?" he asked, sounding worried.
Lau laughed: "No," she said.
She assured Adam his heart was all right.
Diving lessons and other water-related activities aren't just for fun.
When students are challenged outside their comfort zones, "you get their attention," Thornton said. "Once you get their attention, you can teach them something."
Often, he said, the students just need to learn they are capable. Often, they just need to be told that.
Many have not been told that.
A year after "graduating," 70 percent of the students have not been re-arrested, institute officials say. The figure for comparable programs around the country is 59 percent.
Institute officials do not know how successful they are long term. No in-depth, follow-up studies have been done on former students and would be difficult to conduct given the transient nature of many of their families, the officials say.
Still, they point to individual stories as proof they're making a difference.
Before Denise Lenton, 19, was admitted to the program in 1999, she had attacked her sister with a butter knife. She ran away from home, she said, after her adoptive mom's boyfriend tried to rape her.
She didn't like the institute at first. Other kids picked on her because her hair wasn't done and her clothes were "raggly," she said.
But the instructors "made me feel real special," she said. "When I left TMI, I cried."
A month ago, Lenton moved out of her aunt's Ybor City home and got an apartment near the University of South Florida. She studies computer software full time at Erwin Technical Center and works two part-time jobs.
Next up: Becoming a prison guard so she can pay tuition at either Hillsborough Community College or the University of South Florida, where she plans to study criminology.
"I want to deal with troubled kids," Lenton said. "I've been there."
Jessica Basinger, 25, told her story to Gov. Bush in February, in a four-page letter.
At 16, she said, she was addicted to crack and living on the streets. A stint at the marine institute was enough to get her a job, but not enough to keep her clean.
Institute officials tried to help, but Basinger had to kick the habit on her own.
When she did, the institute gave her a scholarship so she could become an emergency medical technician.
Now she's planning to become a paramedic.
"If it wasn't for TMI, I probably wouldn't have made it this far," she told the governor. "This school has helped me so much. It's liking having another family."
"I don't know where I would be right now if it wasn't for them."
