A stunning sunrise this morning, (pictured at right,) the ocean silver beneath and rolling a good swell, brushed by gentle south-southwest winds.  The tide being in we took our morning walk along the sidewalk of A1A instead of the beach.

A half-mile north there is an old WWII era submarine observation tower which was refurbished by the county several years ago.  It is just a boxy room about twenty feet up, supported by four large wooden pillars and, to discourage all hooligans, and me, no access.  It is the last of apparently quite a few of these structures set up along the coast during the war and manned by civilians to keep a watch out for German subs.  Anyway, it’s something of a landmark along this part of Skinny Island, and a meeting place for fishermen and other beach users.  In January and February, it is also the morning headquarters for the Whale Watchers.  These are volunteers trained to look for Wright Whales, migrating from colder to warmer waters this time of year, frequently with young calves in tow.  In December a call goes out in the newspaper for potential volunteers to meet on a given date, typically at the library, where a three-hour training will ensue.  Every year I threaten to go in for the training, and every year I back out, because it would mean I would have to interact with others, something long distasteful, that has more recently become something of a phobia.  Consequently, every year I conduct my own Wright Whale search and count which, while perhaps less organized, is just as thorough, since I am almost always looking at the ocean.  I have seen three whales in the past two years, last year’s sighting a large solitary beast quite close in.  Regrettably, caught up in the moment, I did not take pictures.  To date there have been no close-in sightings in this area, but several offshore by boats.  One was found tangled in rope and line, and a great effort was made to free her, including sedating her at one point, a first.  Most of the line was successfully removed, but just two days ago she was found dead out off Flagler Beach, some rope still entangled, and apparently the victim of shark attacks.

This year’s volunteers are out every morning at the sub tower rain or shine, coffee and binoculars in hand, and this morning was no exception.  In passing there seemed to be a lot of talking.  They would not welcome me in their group because I would insist on silently scanning the horizon for whatever time period is customary, having little or nothing to say.  It is best I don’t volunteer, but next year I will again feel the tug.  It is my special curse: a need to be part of doing something good; coupled with a disdain for social interaction.

Again, everything that happens here is more or less seasonally based.  In winter the big thing are the whales; beginning in May and running through the end of August is turtle season, which we will discuss at that time; and of course June through November is storm season, when we keep a watch out for hurricanes.  In March the mullet run, both fingerling and adult, when one cast of the net from the beach can fully stock a smoker; and following the mullet, the bluefish.  In May giant Manta Rays can be seen leaping from the water, both near shore and way out; and throughout the warmer months dolphin are cruising, leaping and body surfing.

But not everything of interest has a season.  One April morning I went down to the beach before sunrise to check the surf and saw something down near the waterline that in the dim light I first took to be a beached dolphin.  Twenty yards away though, I could see it was a man, on his back, totally nude.  On closer inspection I could see he was clearly dead, and had been in the water a long time.  I slowly walked around the body.  His face was featureless; no eyes, the lips, ears, and nose bloated to grotesque proportions; the whole body, in fact bloated with skin and tissue sluffing off the arms, legs, and torso.  Small crabs emerged from beneath the neck.  No identification, just a metal beaded chain around his neck, on which hung a small woman’s ring.  One of the regular early beach walkers joined me then, and volunteered to go up and make a call.  I waited with the body, crouching some distance away, and invented one scenario after another for its presence there on my beach.  In ten minutes I saw the beach patrol truck approaching from the south, coming on the sand, its lights flashing, but no siren.  Clearly no need.  Then came deputy sherriffs, and ultimately, the medical examiner.  It was after ten o’clock before they finally took him away.  It was both disconcerting and magical at the same time; the sea giving up its dead.  There was mention of the find in the paper the next day, but never anything after, so I never knew who he was, or what had happened.  For several days though, quite irrationally, I was fearful of pulling back the shower curtain, but did it numerous times a day, anyway, just to be sure.