The Need for Nothing at All
As always, the scales get tipped. In this case, my sponge-like need for dance, movement, live music, personal embraces, social joy is saturated. I feel complete. I can move on, eating lots of egg dishes....scrambles, frittatas, quiches, and some over-easy. The shells are long gone, and I seem to have side-stepped illness. It is my hope that we have gotten to some kind of Covid herd immunity for the moment. Now it is time to re-group, decompress, transition back to a different life back home in Vermont.
I have not explored much of Florida, and so it is, I start. I have to either drive east , then northeast, or north and northeast. I step over the Alabama/ Florida border to Pensacola and Gulf Shores National Seashore. My National Park Senior lifetime pass gets me past the gate for free, but, really, there is no one at the gate checking. BUT, it is the half off camping fees that are the best help. A non-electric tent site ends up at $13 per night. I couldn't afford this nightly fee for a long period of time, but for a handful of nights, I can. I don't care which site it might be. I only park and sleep in the back of my truck. Ah, but those hot showers!
Individual white, silky, sand granules, dancing their own beach dance in the wind, skirt the beach surface, coat my bare legs and arms. My blue, canvas beach chair sits low and the aluminum frame sinks into the sandy powder. Waves curl onto themselves and break onto the shoreline, as it should be. This is what I want-- the meditative whoosh of the break, the cry of a black-faced seagull, the low scan of a flying pelican. I want to think about nothing at all. Down the sparsely populated beach, several fisher-people have upright poles held by planted beach tubes, lines outstretched into the rip-tides of the Gulf Coast. Small children fly brightly colored kites, or make ditches in the wet sand. Today, one lone surfer bobs while waiting for a wave big enough to take her into shore.
I close my eyes, feel the bombardment of sand grains against my skin, inhale the salt in the air. The temperature is in the low 70's, not hot enough to want to swim. I pull on my long-sleeved shirt to warm up from the windy bluster. And when the day is on its way out, people gather to watch the large yellow-orange sun melt down onto the horizon while brush-washing its hues across the sky. I doubt any of us would grow weary about watching the sun set anywhere--across the sea, over mountaintops, or a cityscape of tall buildings. Without saying a word to anyone else, we are in awe, as if any muttered syllable would break the spell.
When I am not sitting, not thinking, I walk parts of the Florida Trail that starts in this National Seashore and winds its way over the Panhandle and down the spine of mainland Florida. From the Fort Pickens Campground, I stroll the trail looking for wildlife: birds, snakes, armadillos...
and end up in history somewhere around the Civil War.
Individual white, silky, sand granules, dancing their own beach dance in the wind, skirt the beach surface, coat my bare legs and arms. My blue, canvas beach chair sits low and the aluminum frame sinks into the sandy powder. Waves curl onto themselves and break onto the shoreline, as it should be. This is what I want-- the meditative whoosh of the break, the cry of a black-faced seagull, the low scan of a flying pelican. I want to think about nothing at all. Down the sparsely populated beach, several fisher-people have upright poles held by planted beach tubes, lines outstretched into the rip-tides of the Gulf Coast. Small children fly brightly colored kites, or make ditches in the wet sand. Today, one lone surfer bobs while waiting for a wave big enough to take her into shore.
I close my eyes, feel the bombardment of sand grains against my skin, inhale the salt in the air. The temperature is in the low 70's, not hot enough to want to swim. I pull on my long-sleeved shirt to warm up from the windy bluster. And when the day is on its way out, people gather to watch the large yellow-orange sun melt down onto the horizon while brush-washing its hues across the sky. I doubt any of us would grow weary about watching the sun set anywhere--across the sea, over mountaintops, or a cityscape of tall buildings. Without saying a word to anyone else, we are in awe, as if any muttered syllable would break the spell.
When I am not sitting, not thinking, I walk parts of the Florida Trail that starts in this National Seashore and winds its way over the Panhandle and down the spine of mainland Florida. From the Fort Pickens Campground, I stroll the trail looking for wildlife: birds, snakes, armadillos...
and end up in history somewhere around the Civil War.
Fort Pickens
Pensacola Bay afforded excellent anchorage and protection for ships. After the Adams-Onís Treaty of 1819, also called the Transcontinental Treaty, in which Spain ceded East and West Florida to the US, Pensacola Bay became US territory. In 1825, President James Monroe signed a law establishing a new navy yard and depot on the bay. Forts were needed to protect the natural bay and navy yard, and thus Fort Pickens was conceived.
One of four forts on the bay, Fort Pickens was completed in 1834 and was one of the few forts in the South that remained in Union hands throughout the American Civil War. It remained in use until 1947.
As I walk the grounds, a military plane flies low overhead along the long and thin spit of land composing Santa Rosa Island. Military presence exists somewhere near Pensacola.
Cannons, and their aftermath, are still in full view as one walks through the brick and stone halls and chambers. Because freedom back then was meant for white males, the fort was built by enslaved Native Americans separated from their tribes. This is not a part of our history I like. My heart feels heavy walking the hallways knowing about it. And yet, I suppose, if the Confederate troops had taken the fort, and others, even more would have stayed enslaved. Nothing is easy to digest for me, and after I tour the fort, I hoof it back down the Florida Trail to the campground and beach.
One of four forts on the bay, Fort Pickens was completed in 1834 and was one of the few forts in the South that remained in Union hands throughout the American Civil War. It remained in use until 1947.
As I walk the grounds, a military plane flies low overhead along the long and thin spit of land composing Santa Rosa Island. Military presence exists somewhere near Pensacola.
Cannons, and their aftermath, are still in full view as one walks through the brick and stone halls and chambers. Because freedom back then was meant for white males, the fort was built by enslaved Native Americans separated from their tribes. This is not a part of our history I like. My heart feels heavy walking the hallways knowing about it. And yet, I suppose, if the Confederate troops had taken the fort, and others, even more would have stayed enslaved. Nothing is easy to digest for me, and after I tour the fort, I hoof it back down the Florida Trail to the campground and beach.
From the campground, I can access other sections of the trail, and boardwalks over fragile dunes and vegetation.
From the campground I say goodbye, as it is with my armadillo campsite visitor as it scoots into the brush. It is time to go home....for both of us.