No Beach

 Today John and I walked the trail at Smyrna Dunes Park (I’ve written about it before), with the main goal of seeing the beach in a commotion, as Hurricane Erin passes by. We saw two gopher tortoises before we even got to the beach. When we got to the steps we sat down to take a cigarette break and a surfer guy walked up to us and said “You guys want to see a baby sea turtle?” He did indeed have a baby sea turtle, and it was dead. It was black and small and fit in the palm of his hand. In fact, from what we could see, all of the protected turtle nests were under water (the ocean was in rare form), and John actually moved some of the protective mesh off the beach so it wouldn’t get carried out to sea. “There is no beach!” John commented. There was water, lots of it, and John was itching to get in it, so I held his shirt and shoes in my backpack so he could cleanse his spirit (and also his cigarettes, lighter, knife, wallet, and keys. I love backpacks). We walked through the plasma that is sand-and-water until I realized we’d be walking the beach forever if I didn’t say something. So we got back on the trail and continued to the dog beach, which again was no beach, but plenty of dogs having fun. I think one of the dogs was getting swimming lessons.  At this point I was tired of walking, dying for a coffee, and sick of swatting away wasps (you thought snakes were a problem ( Im a complainer but I mostly complain in my head)). 

We moseyed on down to Flagler Avenue to eat at the Flagler Tavern. The air conditioning felt wonderful (and John’s pants were wet (I hope he doesn’t read this post. Just kidding!)) and the fresh Coke was phenomenal (forgot all about that coffee didn’t I). The consensus was nachos, but our hungry pig brains said “turkey club!” and “au jus sandwich!” so that’s what we got. I got coleslaw and John got fries. I forgot how big clubs were, with that extra piece of bread in the middle. I let John try the bacon and he said “That’s burnt! You should say something.” No way. Just a little crispy, maybe black, but not worth mentioning. A music duet was playing classic songs and I thought the girl sounded like Carole King. We finished our Cokes and walked back to the car parked by the Banyan tree and discovered two roosters, pretty roosters, too. John scrounged up some leftover cat food with Cheerios (we keep it for the turtles) and they pecked at it. Mission accomplished. 

When we got home I fed some of the turkey to our cat Earl Grey. He approved. We’ll be keeping an eye on the beach for some massive waves. It’s hurricane season, so y’all be safe.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Wildlife

 Today I saw a woodpecker and its baby, while standing in the Elks field talking on the phone. The mother and baby exchanged food mouth to mouth. They both had a red tuft of hair in their head. In Bushmann Park we counted eighteen turtles in the water. They gobbled up dry cat food (don’t use wet. It sinks). “Feeding twenty cats, eighteen turtles…and a partridge in a pear tree,” John said. We used to feed a colony of cats several streets behind the Dollar General. “Old Faithful” was one of the regulars. He had a bad eye. We grew attached to an orange kitten. Mostly they got dry food, but often we brought turkey or tuna or salmon or all of the above (one time a guy on a bike rode by and called us “cat assholes”).  My neighbor Jim puts his leftovers on a tree stump for squirrels and raccoons. But the park just issued a notice not to feed stray animals. Don’t they realize we’ve got a multitude of stray cats and anybody is feeding somebody something? Exactly. John used to feed mull...
Read more

Recovery

 I didn’t write when I was actively drinking, focused on more immediate sources of pleasure. Plus, the way I drank didn’t permit introspection; noticing the flowers, commenting on the taste of beer. Anne Lamott was different, going to writing retreats with her own stash of liquor, getting drunk off her ass ( my forte as well). Anyways, I didn’t (drink in moderation) imbibe just enough to get in the writing spirit, but enough to obscure my thoughts and my handwriting to slurred letters. I liked to consume: music. It was all about the music, what song could evoke the most emotional of emotions: “Free Bird,” “The Crow Chasing the Butterfly,” “Closer to the Heart,” “More than a Feeling.” But it was feel good music too: Sugar Ray, Chicago, Rush (I like the alliteration there). I would work YouTube until I was blurry-eyed and spent, when John would take burning cigarette out of my hand and put me to bed. He bought a new speaker set, sensing my enthusiasm for loud tunes. I tried to look u...
Read more

Thanks Whatever: Spruce Creek Park

 We went for a walk in Spruce Creek Park. It’s down the road from our house, heading south towards New Smyrna Beach. We walked through the woods, over several wooden planks, to the treehouse. I prayed we didn’t see a snake! We didn’t (why do I go on these adventures?). Just the small holes of fiddler crabs. We walked up the two levels of stairs to the top (I need to stop smoking (I did not bring cigarettes with me)).  What a view (and I’m not talking about the various graffiti inscribed on the wood). Then we walked past the treehouse, down a dirt road to a worn grassy trail that leads to a picnic shelter (tightly packed with picnic tables), and farther yet, past the “END OF TRAIL” sign (says who?), where there must have been water once, according a myriad of mangrove sprouts. “Is that poop?” No, it’s just small balls of dirt that small creatures move to dig holes. We could walk no further: the non-trail ended. My back was sweaty and I yearned for a cold water. The flies were c...
Read more