Make It Happen, Boat Cap'n--at Navarre Beach!

Make It Happen, Boat Cap'n!

Somebody celebrated a birthday this week. Since she missed someone else's birthday celebration back in May, complete with a "party barge and brownies and cupcakes" per his request, she had a bright idea. Make it happen again. Boat Cap'n. Only this time there would be sandwiches, chips, and cookies. And this time the boat didn't set sail from Destin Harbor. Navarre Beach is more her style. More laid-back. Fewer people. Less expensive.

View of the bridge across Santa Rosa Sound to Navarre Beach from the Best Western on Highway 98.

She is, after all, of the age where night life is now defined by a comfortable bed, quiet, and lights out by 10 p.m. The other day she asked a couple of much younger friends to guess the year of her birth. I'll give you a hint, she said. It was the year John F. Kennedy was elected President of the United States. They were stumped. She didn't think it would help to add that the year ushered in a decade of literary jewels like To Kill A Mockingbird, Catch-22, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. According to this excellent website that chronicles America's cultural history, people, especially the younger crowd, were being drawn like flies to the idea of change in that decade. No, not that stuff that's left in your pocket after you get to pay your fair share these days.

And it's not "the change" often dreaded or maybe anticipated by women of a certain age. Speaking of drawing flies, there were some sort of blood-sucking critters taking over the beach for most of the weekend. The only way to avoid them was to keep on the move or jump in the water. The birthday girl and her party did a fair amount of both...

...whenever they could convince Boat Cap'n to give up on the fishing. If the flies were biting, the fish sure weren't.

One thing that hasn't changed much since the birthday girl first moved to Northwest Florida eight years ago is the amount of development at Navarre Beach. There's no pass like at Destin or Pensacola to enter the Gulf of Mexico so there's no fleet of fishing vessels or hordes of tourists clamoring to charter them. No fancy yachts here.

Tourists who do visit Navarre (and like it) don't mind stepping out of their room to see snapped off trees in a vacant lot next to the hotel--remnants of some hurricane or tropical storm that blew by. Sunrise has a way of softening the effect.

The early bird gets a good spot on the beach too. Even later in the day there aren't any bad spots on the beach. A state park occupies a large chunk of prime beachfront property. According to a gentleman who was out early picking up what little trash had accumulated from the night before, there will soon be artificial reefs in place here for fish to hide in and for snorkelers to explore. He's been a resident of Navarre since the mid 90s and looks forward to this kind of change. A gentle tweaking of the natural beauty rather than a facelift, tummy tuck, or breast enhancement.

Locals and tourists alike enjoy visiting the Gulf's longest fishing pier at Navarre Beach. The pier is celebrating its first anniversary. It had to be rebuilt anyway after being hammered repeatedly by storms a few years back so why not make it the longest? Before the birthday girl headed back to Tallahassee (after doing a drive-by snooting of the old homestead to see if the tenants have changed anything else by landscape looting), she and the original boat cap'n stopped by the pier to purchase some coffee. It was too early for beer...


Navarre Beachside Church



...and it was Sunday morning. If it hadn't been for the biting flies and the drive-by snooting still on the day's agenda, this church without walls would have been a fine place to spend an hour or two. The wind carried the sound of worship music and prayer all the way out to the end of the Gulf's longest fishing pier.

Here I Sit, All Broken-Hearted...

Here I sit, all broken-hearted.

I thought I was done, but, no, I've just started.

Fifty hours of service (at least!) to give,

And ten hours in plant clinic--

Will I live?

I'll know in December if they think I'm okay.

After reading this post,

What would you say? 

From a gardener's perspective, how in the world could I be broken-hearted when the Knockout roses are blooming in synch with this Oenothera (showy evening primrose) in my garden?

Well, there's this seed experiment I participated in. We received these large beans to plant in various growing media, using different methods to induce germination. The beans have a very hard seed coat, and the only two that have sprouted after two weeks are the one that was soaked in vinegar (all the way on the left)...

...and this sorry specimen, which was beaten severely with a hammer. Mechanical manipulation of the seed coat in this case went terribly wrong. I literally beat the daylights out of it. To make matters worse, I can't remember what these plants are. Yesterday was my last MG class, and I left my notebook with the name of the plant written on it in the classroom. At least I think I did. I might have left it outside when we were looking for mole crickets amid signs of armadillo damage to the turf grass. Somewhere between the soap flush test for mole crickets and the goodbyes to fellow classmates, I set down that notebook with four months' worth of notes and forgot it, along with the name of this plant. Oh well! I may never find the notebook, but I will see those classmates again. We have a project to complete by mid October and much planning to do before it's done. I may be mentally rapping myself in the head with my knuckles over the mangled seed and misplaced notebook, but I'm not broken-hearted because of them.

If I don't get these trees in the ground pretty soon, one of those classmates may not speak to me again. She gave me these native swamp chestnut oaks and bald cypress trees last week with the understanding that I would plant them ASAP. It was beautiful outside yesterday, and those trees should have been planted. What did I do after class yesterday morning? I sat on the front porch swing, noting the drive-by snooters--people who stare, stop to pull a spec sheet from the "For Sale" sign box in the front yard, and drive on by--and kept on looking at the trees in the bucket. I was imagining what they would look like twenty years from now. You see, I can do that now without regret. We haven't sold the house, and we are taking it off the market, at least until the market is more favorable. If it takes a few years, so be it. At least I'll get to see these trees grow and thrive. So I'm not broken-hearted about having to leave my home for good.

We sold the kayak after that last trip on Lake Talquin. It wasn't because we don't like it. On the contrary, it's been one of the best boats we've ever owned--no fossil fuel required!--and we have enjoyed every minute we spent pedaling and paddling it. It's just that it weighs more than two aging people can easily handle without injuring themselves. I'm not sure if I'm broken-hearted about selling the thing or the fact that my back ain't what it used to be. No; I'm not exactly broken-hearted about the kayak.

Last weekend while I was visiting SAM in Tallahassee, probably while we were enjoying ourselves on a hike, Son was having his "best friend" put to sleep. Rocky came into our family about 15 years ago when he showed up at Son's workplace. He was a stray, and I resisted adopting yet another pet for a while. It didn't take long, though, for Rocky to wriggle his roly-poly self into our hearts. This love for the mutt somehow developed despite the fact that he loved to dig, uprooting many of my plants, and also managed to kill several trees over the years by urinating on them. He was especially fond of evergreens for some reason. Over the past decade and a half, I must have walked Rocky enough to go at least halfway around the planet. Then a few years ago, he developed a dog's version of arthritis and lately several painful tumors on his legs and feet, making it difficult for him to walk at all. He became anorexic. It was time to let him go. Yes; he was just a dog, but he kept me company on all of those walks. Even in mostly flat Florida, it was uphill all the way for him, listening in silence and wagging his tail while I griped, grumbled, and complained about things, sometimes even out loud! He never judged me, not once, not at all.

Up-Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

--a poem by Christina Rossetti, 1858--