The Skinny Island Post

You can’t make this stuff up.  Reading the appearance of this ferret on the beach this morning as some kind of sign, the Feral Poet split for parts unknown, leaving this photo and nothing else.

Ferret on a leash

A friend wrote today from Colorado with word that aerial spraying for mosquitoes had started out there in the mountains, which started me thinking of skeeters here, and skeeters past.  When it’s wet and warm and there’s standing water, you have skeeters.  We were a long time without rain here on Skinny Island, but in the past week we’ve had a good bit, the rain barrels are full to over-flowing, and breeding the little rascals.  The ones we get are more nuisance than anything else, ankle biters, late night intruders that buzz the ears and nip exposed veins on ears and between fingers when they slip in unnoticed when you pass through the screen door.  We are not concerned with disease, and generally pass it off as part of living here, and count ourselves lucky, especially when compared to our experiences in the Keys and Everglades.  There, throughout most of the day, through most of the year, though it is warm and wet always, there is generally some trade winds or breezes to keep the varmints at bay, but at dusk, and through the night, the wind almost always dies to nothing, and there is no netting, spray, or lotion, that can save you.  We have been driven to the very edge of complete insanity by huge gangs of  mosquitoes there.  We have worn full net suits and helmets.  We have cursed and cried.  We are still here.

We haven’t seen or heard them yet, but the county periodically sends out trucks to spray when the skeeters get bad, even out here on Skinny Island, where we are mostly (thankfully) forgotten.  It is an anemic, mostly invisible spray, which, environmentally speaking, is a good thing, we suppose, but we are unconvinced as to its effectiveness, and are nostalgically drawn to the way things used to be.

Growing up in Tampa, (the bay, the heat, the rain, the standing water,) we wistfully recall the “Skeeter Wagon.”  This was a large, cylindrical tank fixed to the back of a flat-bed truck, and said truck was driven, at a modest pace, up and down every street, emitting a thick, very thick, white fog, which spilled into the street behind, and flowed, like a San Francisco evening, into all lawns, alleys, and adjacent lungs.  But more than that, the appearance of the Skeeter Wagon was cause for joy and celebration.  On hearing its approach, we kids would spill out onto the curb to await its passing, in full view of and, one supposes, at least tacit indifference of our parents,  then dash into the street behind the truck, vying to see who could get deepest into the fog.  Lets see; eagles, pelicans, osprey were dying off at almost irretrievable rates from DDT, but not Post-War kids.  Ummm.   Or was there some other, untold, secret effect?  Still don’t know.  Social upheaval, civil rights, cell phones, Facebook?  Nixon, Reagan, the Tea Party?  I guess it depended on some deeper hard wiring how it effected us.  Probably it had no effect at all.  Anyway, the skeeters are still here, year after year, and so are we.  So is the fog.

Exceptional light and mood on the beach this morning.  Scattered clouds, light breeze from southwest, falling tide.  Many egrets and one lone heron hunting crabs.  Nuff said.

We have generally tried to steer clear of political and social issues here at The Skinny Island Post, except for an occasional aside, focusing instead on what was directly in front of us– lizards, starfish, waves, wacos on the beach– but a current national insanity, which chooses to focus on denying Love, the most fundamental element of the Universe, perhaps the very expression of God itself, has forced the editorial board to take a stand.  How’s that for a compound sentence.  You should try it.

To wit:  Our very own Feral Poet has a friend, whom, though not known to us personally, has a case we feel compelled to champion.  He is in love with a chicken, a chicken who loves him in return.  He wishes to marry this chicken, but, as you might expect, the state of Florida, and, in fact, the entire United States of America, frowns on such a union. It is illegal here, to marry a chicken, a goat, a dog, a cat, a parakeet, no matter the extent of expressed commitment, to say nothing of marrying one of one’s same sex.  We find this a fundamental abomination and denial of pursuit of happiness, especially in light of all the waste, lies and true inequity we endure: wars without end, starving children, shoddy education, incarceration for addiction, worship of greed.  We will start here.  We think an individual should be allowed, no, encouraged, to marry who or what he or she wants, be it man, woman, or chicken.  For better or worse, world without end, amen.  Bring it on, but I warn you.  I am something of a Biblical scholar, if that’s where you want to go, a Christian Lefty, if you will, so gimme chapter and verse.  There is nowhere to stand but this.  Let’s move to something substantive.  What possible harm could come from marrying a chicken?

 Check out this little guy.  I don’t know what kind it is, and I don’t see them too often, probably because they are so well camouflaged, and are ocean-dwellers, not beach.  This one had succumbed, probably recently, and I found him in a couple of inches of water in one of the tidal pools. Amazed at the structure of the tiny thing, the claws, legs, joints, carapace, markings, and inside, a heart, circulatory system, etc., all miniature, but fully functional (when alive.)  So complex and beautiful.  Yet again I was reminded of the Watchmaker Analogy, a teleological argument that essentially states that design implies a designer.  The argument has been shot full of holes, of course, since it’s introduction centuries ago, but all you need to do is spend some time absorbed in nature and all its intricacies, and you become less certain of rational explanations.  I’m just saying.

Found this guy on the beach this morning as well.  Looks like he’d been hooked, and the fisherman didn’t know what to do with him.  He’s a Spinner Shark, about 3 1/2 ft.  They’re about 6-ft fully grown.  You sometimes see Spinners this size flying out of the water after mullet, and executing a spinning motion, hence the name.  What a piece of design he is, too. Unbelievably sleek and efficient.   I know; evolution; and I’m a total subscriber.  I’m just saying, again.

* * *

In the spirit of full disclosure, I must report that we turned on the A/C here this morning in the little hacienda.  No, not expecting company, just a hedge (temporarily) against the oppressive heat and humidity, but mostly the smoke that’s been blowing on us for days from wildfires to our west.  West winds in the morning blow it to the coast and out to sea, then the sea breeze kicks in and blows it right back at us.  Not too thick today, but the smell is still out there, and the morning low temp was 76.  Have to admit, it feels pretty good, but can only stand a few days of it.  Start feeling out of touch.  And just can’t escape the deeply held belief that air-conditioning was one of the worst inventions ever.  Just think what Florida would be like without it.  Maybe 500,000 people living here, total, if that. Nice, very nice.

It appears even the Feral Poet had a father.

Pressure Treated

Measure twice; cut once.
In time the measuring
and cut are one, the unforgiving
blade neither right, nor left
of a penciled line, instead
erasing it, opening
the wood to final liberation
of precognitive pine scent.
A clatter of wood on wood
as gravity, that oldest of wardens,
receives the excess,
and

for a moment I stand aside
to probe the supposition
that molecules spinning from
this healing cut account
for the swoon of recognition
and remembrance.  All thought
and memory simply ions
in synaptic soup.  A clean,
believable explanation,

but unfinished.  In the smell of wood I recognize
my father’s admonitions:
start your cut with a backward pull
of the handsaw; drive the nail
at an angle; flatten nail tips to prevent splitting.
I do these things and a deck takes shape,
spilling slowly down the slope beneath the trees.
He, obstreperous and distant,
long-buried in an oak coffin;
me years past the age he died;
that healing cut
a faint, window-shaped scar
on the forearm of time;
keep your shoulder still, hammer from the elbow down.

One damn fine legacy
after all, something to serve me well.
And as it turns out, I don’t know how to do much else,
have faked my way through
the rest of it to get here, but this
I can do with some absorption,
and so it goes.

I did not know it at the time,
perhaps he did; those plain instructions
were a life ring thrown to a man
drowning years in the future.
Measure twice; cut once.
Build yourself something to float on.

Finally got off the arse and took the kayak out today.  We got two of these several years ago, 11-ft. Wilderness Tarpons, buoyant, safe, easy paddling, lots of fun.  We’ve taken them to the Keys a few times, and over into the marshes and canals of the Intracoastal and Tomoka Basin, but I like ocean paddling best– when I can get out.  Much of the year it’s just too rough to get out through the surf, and even worse outside, but summer brings lots of days like today, light winds, relatively flat and calm ocean, great dome of blue sky overhead.

Chasing Mullet

Paddled through huge schools of finger mullet, not big enough for smoker size, darn it, but wonderful to watch.  You see individuals popping the surface all the while, but then you startle a large, closely packed group, and the water explodes, like a sudden boil, or like it was sprayed by machine gun fire.  Just as quickly calm again.  I tried to get a picture of the explosion, but they tricked me every time.  Surprisingly, I saw no bigger fish or dolphin feeding on the schools, which tend to stay very near the surface.  The bright yellow of the kayak may have spooked any predators.

The Little Hacienda

The Little Hacienda as seen from out on the water.  We’re hunkered down in the palm oasis there, center of the photo. You can just see the shutters of the studio, down most of the way against the morning sun, on the extreme left of the house, not much else.  Jack’s house on the left; Spinnaker Condo on the right.  (Water on the lens.)  Always strange and a little foreign from this perspective, and how close the condo is. We have a privacy fence on that side so we don’t see it much.

Looking South

Daytona and Ormond in the distance, where it starts to get crowded.  A little chop appearing on the water as the wind freshened out of the southwest, diminishing water visibility and mullet sightings.  A lone pelican sat riding on the swell about a quarter-mile east of me here, but no other birds noted.  A word about the swell.  Today it was light, but discernible, until the wind kicked up, a short interval swell, five seconds, and maybe only a foot high, but you still see and feel the rise and roll and thickness of it as it passes under.  Never ceases to fascinate.

Submarine Watch Tower

A surfaced submarine view of the submarine watch tower, still keeping an eye on things.  The last of a series of WWII installations on this coast, this one was across A1A from a long-time RV park that went under about 10 years ago.  The county refurbished the tower and made a little park there. Unfortunately, there’s no access to the tower, but it’s an iconic landmark along this stretch of beach.  Click on it for a better look.  This is where the whale watchers gather on February mornings with their coffee, so I guess this is a whale’s view, too.  Somebody wave!

File Photo

That little ragged, disorganized low pressure system that’s been spinning down in the Caribbean for days finally went up the Straits and out into the open Atlantic.  The wind that had been coming in off the ocean for days, (high to low; a simple pressure gradient) law down overnight, and presto! low in the ocean; no wind; great waves.

A 7 a.m. paddle-out proved it better than it looked from shore.  Falling tide, long interval, thick, speedy waves with 6-7 foot faces.  Partly cloudy when I got out, the sky quickly went to overcast, and then the sky and water were the same pale grey, very spooky.  Much mullet activity and visible evidence of some feeding going on to add to the enjoyment level.  (We saw a six-foot black-tip tear into some mullet as we were swimming a few days ago, and after I got out this morning a guy I met on the sidewalk said he saw a 6-7 foot hammerhead close in down by the submarine tower at 6:30.)  Naw.

It’s been a long time between jake surf days and it showed in my lack of conditioning.  I struggled, but caught a few bombs, and didn’t get worked too much.  Smallish by world standards, but good for here, and impressive power, and hey, it was a short walk.

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Posing Brown Anole

This guy, a Brown Anole, was putting on a show as I sunned on the deck after the surf.  He climbed up onto an ancient conch shell and turned this way and that, making sure I could see his lovely red throat sack when it flared.  I did.  very impressive here, as well.  They are so cocky, territorial, and aggressive.  Glad they don’t get any bigger than they do.

Cocky Anole

Dear Friends, yesterday’s posting about seaweed, tidal pools, and the solitary Royal Tern clearly should have been entitled, “Gulfweed, Tidal Pools and a Left Turn.”  Go back, you’ll see what I mean.  Sorry for not thinking that through.