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Hitting Home

Hitting Home

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The monster storm known as Milton made landfall last night about 9:30 p.m. It came ashore on the very same Florida beach I’ve been escaping to for more than a decade, Siesta Key.

A barrier island known for its sugar-white sand and relaxed village vibe, Siesta Key is a place I’ve come to know and love. The thought of it pummeled by 120-mile-an-hour winds and submerged under 10 feet of storm surge is making my stomach turn.

It’s too early yet to tell the extent of the damage. I’m hoping it’s minimal, but I’m afraid it’s not. In other words, Florida is still on my mind.

(A Siesta Key evening, 2023)

Florida on My Mind

Florida on My Mind

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I’m thinking today not just of how beautiful it is — though it is certainly that — but of how low-lying, how houses and docks cluster along the shoreline and canals, how the place is threaded through with water.

Soon, the winds will blow, the seas will rise, the rain will fall. People are doing everything they can to prepare for the monster Milton, but how can any place cope well with storm surges of 10 feet or higher?

My trips to the west coast of Florida through the years have shown me how intimately people can live with water, how close to it they want to be, how calming they find its presence.

Now the presence has become a menace.

Sand: An Appreciation

Sand: An Appreciation

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A return yesterday to the coolest weather I’ve experienced in weeks. No heat wave, no subtropical humidity. Instead, a pleasant warmth and weight to the air. I can’t say I miss the heat, but I do miss the beach, the breeze, even the sand. 

Yes, it sticks to the back of the legs and collects in the shower drain despite best attempts to wipe it off at the door. But sand is a most amazing element. 

I think of my beach walks, striding across the fluffy stuff to find the hard-packed sand at water’s edge, constantly adjusting my route based on wave reach and tide. 

I think of the bounce in my step sand provides: what a wonderful striding surface it is. 

My beach trip may be over, but the memories remain. And a little of the sand does, too. 

The Sky Rules

The Sky Rules

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It’s what I notice first every year, even before the foamy breakers, the spun-sugar sand. It’s the sky: vast and blue and dotted with clouds.

Here at the beach the sky stretches out boldly to the horizon, no curtain of green to obscure it. 

Were I to live always beneath such a sky, I’d feel bare and exposed. But when I’m here, for this precious week, it opens me up, enlarges my vision. 

Here at the beach, the sky rules. 

Endless Summer

Endless Summer

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There was a freeze warning last night, and the furnace is humming as I type these words. Time to remember warmer weather. 

I’m thinking of a beach: salt air, gentle surf, an inquisitive egret strolling through the waves, eyeing the bait bucket as he passes a fisherman on the shore.

I’m remembering the way my body feels in the sun, loose and warm and grateful to be alive.

I’m reliving walks under palm trees, fronds clicking in the breeze and the air heavy and full.

As the season turns, the mind can mutiny, can claim for itself an endless summer. 

Scenic Hospitality

Scenic Hospitality

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I made my first trip to Florida at the age of 10. It took us three days to drive from Lexington to Miami. 

It was January. We’d left the cold behind by day two of our drive, but even so the balminess of the Florida air was a surprise. It was nighttime when we finally pulled into our motel near Biscayne Bay, and the combination of darkness and sultriness has stayed with me all these years, potent memories of a place different from any other I’d visited. 

Florida has changed drastically since then, but it retains that other-worldliness. Like the lush Northwest, Florida is its own place, and it’s a privilege to spend a week a year savoring its big sky, palm trees and sugar-sand beach. It’s a combination I’ve come to think of as scenic hospitality, and this morning, back in Virginia, I’m appreciating it all the more.

(A picket fence I walked by every morning on my way to the beach. It’s decorated with pineapples, the symbol of hospitality.)

Afterglow

Afterglow

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I felt like a commuter walking against the throng. Everyone was leaving. I had missed the sunset, one of the chief entertainments around here.

Taking myself to task as I watched the darkening sky, I wished I’d spent less time searching through the t-shirts and trinkets.

But light was lingering in the west. I could still enjoy the afterglow. Which is what I did … and what I plan to do as this beach trip becomes another beautiful memory. 

I’ve Got Rhythm

I’ve Got Rhythm

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A walk by the sea provides its own ceaseless beat. In and out. Strike and pause. The rhythm of the surf is the rhythm of life, more or less. 

As I’ve walked the strand these last few days, I’ve thought about family and friends, about how grateful I am for them — and how grateful I am for this time apart in which to appreciate them. 

Just as a wave rolls to shore before being absorbed back into the ocean, so does all life pulse with this ebb and flow. We are not inert creatures but products of movement and motion. 

I’ve got rhythm. We all do. 

Storm Dodger

Storm Dodger

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Storm chasers are bold (some would say foolish) folks who race to observe a hurricane or tornado. I’ve become just the opposite, a storm dodger. Afternoon showers are such a common occurrence here that I plan my days around them. 

I walk the beach in the morning. At 3 p.m. I’m scanning the sky. Are those dark clouds forming in the west? How quickly are they moving? When do I leave the beach and head for shelter? 

There’s an art to this. Depart too soon and I’ll miss out on precious time in the sun and surf. Leave too late and I’ll be drenched. 

In fact, I’m writing this post while waiting for some storm clouds to pass so I can take a dip in the pool. Another day in the life of a storm dodger. 

Throwing Shade

Throwing Shade

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No insult intended, but all shade is not created equal. There is the thin stuff you find on a warm summer afternoon. It’s accidental, created only by the intersection of building and sunlight. It’s great to find it, and I’ve even crossed a street for it, but it’s not a true, deep, cultivated shade. 

There’s a watering hole I pass on my way to the beach, a small restaurant and bar that has mastered the art of shade I remember from trips to hot, faraway places where air conditioning is nonexistent. 

This is intentional shade: deep and palmetto-fringed. Ceiling fans are whirring and large rotating fans are blowing. The place is recessed but open. Every time I pass by I’m tempted to linger in its recesses, to seek relief in its dark, cool interior.