No Place For Wimps

Hiking behind Paul in case we meet a black bear or Florida panther so I can turn and run like mad in the opposite direction. I've got your back doesn't necessarily mean I'm gonna save it. Sorry Paul, love hurts.

Boa constrictors are taking over the Everglades nearly retired Florida school teachers warned us, strongly recommended carrying a knife when hiking the trails at our campground near Tampa. I expect they don't have any issues with misconduct in their classrooms, and no snakes either. They also mentioned stinging Ruddy Dagger Moth Caterpillars, not the adorable, fuzzy Midwestern variety but the spiky antennaed stalkers dropping from trees creating mayhem and screaming hysterics from yours truly. Our son is a teacher too so I have an appreciation for dedicated people who can motivate kids to do things they hadn't even imagined possible, the backbone of society, understandably their DNA requires them to educate us about the entire population of killer predators in the campground. Shopping for a really huge knife, a sheath and a cute outfit to match. 

Strolled into a Middle Eastern Hookah lounge in Jacksonville a few weeks back, dubious glances found us feeling conspicuously old as we nonchalantly worked our way through a dense suffocating fog. Table high bongs feeding mellow patrons in the smoky mist, sitar music creating a mysterious vibe. I imagine Indiana Jones crashing through the door at any moment followed by a herd of charging elephants. Ok maybe not the elephants, better hold the Hookah barista, only cold beer to go for these Midwest old-timers.

An eight footer, that's how folks here describe their alligators. We saw a monster floating dangerously close to the boardwalk we were standing on, a few planks of wood separating us from gruesome death by Florida gator. A nine footer on the local news recently attacked an old guy as he opened his front door to grab the newspaper when the gator sank razor sharp fangs into his leg. I need to buy a video doorbell for the camper.  

Manatee Beach, billowing clouds, sand squalls, howl of the wind, the crashing surf, a siren wails, dangerous riptides, bodies scramble out of the frothing waters. Alabaster sea terns squealing, nervously pacing, feathers fluttering, bodies quaking, inching closer, hunting for that errant crumb, toothpick legs sturdy strong holding steady against the blasting elements. Taking flight suspended in mid air, unable to maneuver against the salty pellets, wings flapping hopelessly appear eerie-still against the constant assault. Finally exhausted, they give in to the barrage, turn and shoot effortlessly down the beach, a powerful blast tosses them carelessly into the surf. 

Thoughts meandering, a thundering ocean hypnotizes an idle mind, a visual of the classic blockbuster Jaws haunts me. I expect Captain Quint, bloody harpoon in hand, stogie hanging from his lower lip, to emerge from the pounding tempest, planting his beach chair right next to mine, uncorking a bottle of Old Grandad with his bare teeth, a wicked grin, a blink and he's gone.  

Lamenting these delusional moments with a friend recently, searching for a valid explanation to my madness. One theory, lack of stimulating entertainment is causing my hallucinations. I have lost control of the TV remote thus leading to brain fog. GRIT or Antiques Roadshow isn't exactly my idea of riveting television, it is honestly driving me crazy. My gray matter smolders with each episode, seems to be shrinking as our trip is getting longer, time to head home for recharge.

It is a wondrous day to witness the almighty majesty of the heavens, a clouded blue sky against a thundering green/black sea, a seasoned shark hunter encounter, a shot of whiskey, an unhinged dreamer's bounty.