You see it in the eyes of Carol Ann Johnson as she gazes out on the turquoise Atlantic. You hear it in the continuous rise of Harold Braynon's voice or the light that dances off the eyes of Wilhelmenia Franks Jennings.

Living through the indignity of segregation and fighting passionately for civil rights in South Florida, Johnson, Braynon and Jennings were part of a generation who found solace in one special place, a respite for black residents of what was then known as Dade County: Virginia Key Beach.

Virginia Key Beach, created as a recreational refuge for black South Floridians barred from Miami-Dade County's otherwise segregated sands, reopens Feb. 22 as an oceanside park open to all.

The former "colored-only'' beach opened in 1945 then closed in 1982 because of high maintenance costs.

A grand unveiling of what's now called Virginina Key Beach Park comes after nearly a decade of wrangling by black and white preservationists who fretted the City of Miami would put commercial development of the park ahead of historic significance.

The diligent group of activists and historic preservationists hope the beach's reopening rekindles a passion for black families who pushed to get a foot into ocean waters and thousands of residents and tourists of all ethnicities who don't know the beach's history.

"It was too important to save a resource that was historic, environmental, beautiful,'' said Gene Tinnie, chairman of the Virginia Key Trust, the group created to push for its the beach's reopening.

So far, the trust has spent about $6.5 million on building renovations, parking lot improvements, picnic tables and grills, shoreline renourishment and installation of a new playground for children with special needs. The money comes from $11 million in federal funds to restore the 82.5-acre historic site.

The trust still hopes to build a civil rights museum that would promote the early aspects of the beach and showcase the struggles for equality by black Miami-Dade residents.

Trust executive director David Shorter said that the renovation plan ensures that everyone will feel welcome. "It is not the intention of the Trust to mirror any of the original restrictions to the property,'' he said.

Sunrise at Virginia Key Beach Park. CARL JUSTE/MIAMI HERALD STAFF

Although the warm waters off Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean have long been draws to Miami for residents and tourists, the beaches were off limits to black people. The exception was during the 1920s when D.A. Dorsey, a black real estate magnate who owned 21 acres of what is now called Fisher Island, opened it up for black residents to swim and have picnics.

After that brief experiment, residents and their guests who wanted to wade in the surf had to drive to a segregated beach in what is now Dania Beach.

Adventurous teenagers, mostly boys, took their chance -- unbeknownst to their parents - diving into in quarry pits near Liberty City that when filled with water were deliciously and dangerously inviting.

"You'd be standing there and suddenly drop off into 10 feet of water. Those were the only places open for us,'' said attorney Harold Braynon, 75. He said he never took such risks, but had a cousin who did around 1946, with deadly consequences.

A small group of citizens staged a "wade-in”' at Baker's Haulover Beach on May 9, 1945, to protest segregation. On hand were no more than eight residents - ordinary citizen who belonged to the local NAACP and their attorney, Lawson E. Thomas. All but Thomas got in the surf, said Edward Braynon, a retired dentist, and son of late May Dell Braynon, one of the protesters. She was the one who held the money to bail out the would-be scofflaws if needed.

"Yes, she was the bag lady,'' said younger brother Harold Braynon, a retired attorney.

A Miami Herald article on May 10, 1945, recounted the actions by a "group of negroes testing their right to use county-owned bathing beaches [who] trooped up to Baker's haulover area'' to splash in the surf. They alerted the sheriff's office in advance, the article states.

Eugenia B. Thomas, widow of Lawson Thomas, did not go to the wade-in, but shared his version of the encounter:

"They went into the water, and the sheriff comes out and says, 'Get out of the water.' Are you going to put them in jail?'' Thomas asked. The deputy stammers. Thomas tells the group, "go back into the water,'' which generates more stammered protests from the deputy.

No arrests were made that day. But historians later would hail the moment as the start of the civil rights movement in Miami.

Shortly afterward, Eugenia Thomas said, county Commissioner Charles Crandon called Lawson Thomas's law office. "Tell Thomas to come down here and we'll work something out,'' she said Crandon told her husband.

The compromise was Virginia Beach, which opened in August 1945.

The black community, Thomas said, got "the best, the prettiest beach. You look ahead and here's nothing to block you. It's just God's water.''

For so many of Miami's black residents who hailed from the Bahamas or other parts in the Caribbean and had a long tradition of enjoying aquatic activities, Virginia Beach was a godsend.

The only transportation to the island for the first two years was by ferry until Rickenbacker Causeway was completed in 1947. People made the financial sacrifice to get there with their children.

Wilhelmenia Franks Jennings, whose father ran ferry boats for fishermen and tourists, developed a booming business. She and her two sisters, Witlean and Marie, fell in love with the island.

In its heyday, the beach was a very popular place for black families. COURTESY OF THE HISTORIC VIRGINIA KEY BEACH PARK TRUST

"He would take us over on the island for picnics,'' said Jennings, 90. She and her husband of 57 years, Sonny, spent part of their honeymoon there. In later years, they brought their families and out-of-town guests.

"It seemed like we stayed all day,'' said her daughter, Patricia Jennings Braynon, director of the Miami-Dade Housing Finance Authority. "They would pack up picnic baskets and take food out there. It was always a family event whenever we went.''

The beach quickly became a popular spot for celebrities, too. Carol Ann Johnson remembers meeting boxer Kid GavilÍn and Brooklyn Dodgers pitcher/slugger Don Newcombe, both of whom were regular visitors.

Greg Bush, University of Miami history professor, said it's hard to say how many visitors came. There were no turnstiles to track the cars that came through.

What seems certain, he said, is the beach was popular, judging by historical photos that show a parking lot crowded with automobiles.

Few people knew the beach as intimately as Johnson and her family. For nearly two decades, they lived on-site, in a bungalow provided by the county. Her father, Daniel James Johnson Jr., was appointed superintendent of the park at its opening. Initially, they were the sole inhabitants.

Johnson, now 65, didn't realize the significance of her dad's work when she was a child. "I took the whole thing for granted at the time,'' she said.

A new coalition emerged in 1999 to rescue Virginia Key from a planned eco-tourist camp possibly condos. Bush, the UM history professor, alerted Pinkney, then chair of the Dade Heritage Trust, and artist Gene Tinnie while the three were protesting a separate plan to put a condo at the Miami Circle excavation site.

"I came to the conclusion as did others that you needed to build a constituency to save it,'' Bush said.

Added Pinkney: "Greg [Bush] said, 'What are y'all going to do about Virginia Key Beach?' The black community didn't know what was going on.''

Black historians, including community matriarch M. Athalie Range, and preservationists united to fight the development plan at Miami City Hall. Tinnie told commissioners of the beach's historical significance to the black community and brought reinforcements in the form of Thomas, Pinkney, Range and other matrons with long memories.

The late Commissioner Arthur Teele Jr. and Commissioner Tomas Regalado supported the group's efforts. Miami commissioners unanimously agreed by the end of 2000 to create a trust that would oversee 82.5 acres of the property. In 2002, it was added to the National Register of Historic Places.

Thomas said she hopes the historic beach empowers young people the way some in her generation were empowered, despite widespread fear, to fight segregation. "Those who come after me will be able to enjoy [the beach] and know that they're just extraordinary people doing extraordinary things. When they hear this story it gives them courage to not be afraid. You're human just like everybody else.''