Along the Florida panhandle, if the green water and white sand don’t scratch something deep, stick around for the sunset. There’s more.
Around 7 p.m., folks start gathering on the beach. Here, from the porch, if you squint your eyes, the shoreline looks scattered with pick-up sticks. Only upright, as though stabbed in the sand. Everyone’s gazing west. Yearning in unison to see the sunset. Lovely.
Several times throughout the night, it pulls me out of bed to the porch like a magnet. I’m always, surprised.
These sketches in the sky change in seconds so you best be camera ready. I’ll be looking at a horse’s mane and by the time I’ve gone to grab my own camera, the horse has hightailed it and something like Thor’s hammer is happening. In the natural world, life turns on light.
In the eastern sky, an encore is on the rise. Mister Moon, a supermoon they call it, is making his move up and out over big blue. Several times throughout the night, it pulls me out of bed to the porch like a magnet. I’m always, surprised.
During one of these visits, I see a light on the beach that suddenly slips into the ocean as easily as an otter. I can’t make out what it is, but in a few seconds, it’s already reached the first sand bar. Then, the light clean disappears and the otter lets out a shout. More like a song, really. The kind that comes from someplace deep.
I realize then that it’s a man in a kayak. I stay with him and his song for a long time, gliding further and further out with no hesitation, feeling like I am riding there too. In the great green Gulf of Mexico, now, blue.
"Hat."
