Day Returns

Silence, and wind, and... Sunrise this morning was a primitive experience. Rays of light rose behind a seething cauldron of thunderheads and higher, wispy clouds. Saffron rain fell, the wind continued to rise along with the light, and the horizon on all sides was ringed with towering cumulus clouds. I stood in the center of the Giant's Dance and welcomed the dawn...

Wildlife...

After Wilma, I got to see the hermit crabs go shell-shopping. It was fascinating to watch them cruise over the drifts of sea detritus washed onshore, in search of the perfect new home. Clearly "a man's home is his castle" doesn't apply just to homo sapiens if the care these hermit crabs put into shell selection was any measure.

Storms are Big Events in the life of the island inhabitants. Two days ago, it rained for the first time since I've been here. I was on my way out to clean the composting toilets, and decided rain could be a good thing. I like getting wet. Moreover, at that time of the day they are brutally hot. You're guaranteed to lose 5 lbs, get heat stroke, or both. Of course it would be even worse later in the day... So I sauntered out into the brisk rain, taking care not to move too rapidly. I wanted to enjoy the wet. When I arrived at the loos and went round to access the cleaning supplies, I was greeted by an unusual sight. Hundreds of hermit crabs, of every conceivable description all hanging out in the drifts of sea grape leaves. I looked a bit further, and they were festooning the branches of the sea grape. As I stood there admiring the staggering variety of shells, and sizes--everything from a half-inch shell to one the size of a softball, MORE of them appeared. Finally there were so many I called Logan, one of the SOAR counselors, who was camping for R&R over to admire them.

I've had this theory that the island is really ruled by the hermit crabs, and we're tolerated. The first time I came camping, the island was covered with people tracks when I went to sleep. When I woke up early the next morning, all the footprints had been covered over by hermit crab tracks. That took a LOT of hermit crabs, moving round all night. So far they haven't carried anyone off--that we know of.

Thirty minutes after it started, the rain had stopped, the loos were clean, I didn't have heat stroke, --but I was nearly dry again. The hermit crabs were nowhere to be seen. For a desert island, this place has an amazing variety of wildlife, all well adapted to capitalize on available resources. Utterly fascinating.

Morningsong

What must it have been like, to be present at the dawn of the world... Every morning I get to put up the flag. Its one of those honorary chores I've gained by default. My quarters are closest to the flagpole, and its a well known fact round here that I'm a light sleeper who likes to see the sunrise. Sunrise from the top of the fort is beautiful, and infinitely variable. This time of the year, I've actually only seen the sun rise twice. Every morning I dash upstairs, and look east over Bush Key. Low masses of clouds obscure the horizon. In the pre-dawn, they're gray, and purple, and shades of lavender and amethyst, and the sea is dark blue green. There's a moment when it feels like the world is holding its breath, then the clouds lighten, with shades of warm apricot, and peach, and the sky turns palest turquoise. The frigate birds nesting on Long Key rise like a cloud of smoke in the updraft. I try to get the flag up just as the sun rises; we tell our visitors the fort is open any time the flag is flying. There's a momentary feeling of "Welcome to my home, I hope you'll love it as much as I do", and then I'm lost in the beauty of the morning. This was one of the sunrise mornings. The sun was a hot tangerine orb rising out of a turquoise sea into a sky filled with charcoal clouds. Storm on the way!

Sunken treasure

Paradise in July... Hmmm... its hot, and sticky, and while there's a breeze on the second tier, its a warm, humid breeze that wraps round me like a blanket. Remaining upright and breathing requires enough effort that turning my head makes me break a sweat.(Yeh, I know ladies "glow")The water near shore is bathwater temperature, and its so flat calm that the rafts of sea grass encroaching onshore look like invading armies. The water in the moat is so still and clear all the Cassiopea are visible in their somewhat innocuous glory. Those suckers look innocent, and kind of cool, and will sting the daylights out of you. The day I arrived, as I was crossing the bridge, I felt my favorite anklet let go and slither through the boards. There was a gentle splash as it hit the water. I marched on into the ranger's office, and announced I had a problem. Ranger Trep courteously informed me I'd get stung if I went in the moat after it, and was an anklet really worth that? I'd have been inclined to agree with Trep, but I'm stubborn, and it is my favorite. We agreed that I could make the attempt in a kayak, and that I'd do it later in the day, after our visitors left. I decided since I was going to all that effort, I'd also make the circuit and fish out any trash that had collected in the moat. I'd put a lot of thought into how not to actually end up in the moat. So I went in search of the dip net, and the "grabber", and couldn't find either. The only net available had rusted off its support pole, and the grabber was AWOL....Kind of typical round here. Despite one's best efforts, distractions can happen, and things get temporarily misplaced. In the case of the net, rust happens. Its a given. Everything will rust eventually. Its one of the reasons our fort looks so picturesque. The metal shutters placed in the window embrasures have rusted over time, and the metal expansion is pushing the brick sheathing into the moat. I actually like looking at the areas where the sheathing has fallen away. There are concealed arches within the walls which simply aren't visible when the place is in pristine shape. Its like looking at a beautiful staircase from the back side, and seeing all the structural details that make it "float" so beautifully. Back to the moat. I managed to get the kayak in the water, and set off with my supply of gloves, and trash bags, paddling against a light wind which sprang up as I rounded the bastion which houses Dr Mudd's "dungeon" cell. It was an easy trip to the bridge, then a exercise in agility. I'd decided I might have been imagining hearing a splash, and that with any luck the anklet had actually landed on one of the slate topped supports. Standing up in a kayak, while clinging to the masonry support was challenging. I disturbed a number of small crabs, who scrambled to avoid my fingers,...and the anklet wasn't there. Meanwhile my paddle had slipped off the kayak, and was being carried away by the gentle breeze. After a dicey maneuver, during which I narrowly avoided falling in the moat, I was reseated in the kayak, once more in posession of my paddle. I maneuvered round the other bridge support, marveling about how clear the water was, and how clearly I could see all those Cassiopea... Finally, I saw it! My anklet was resting on a sandy patch just under the bridge, and those lovely Venetian glass beads were sparkling. Keeping a weather eye out for moat life, I reached in the water and grabbed it. Circumspection had unexpected benefits. Because I'd waited till our visitors left, it was low tide, and the bottom was within reach from the kayak. No need for a personal encounter with the jellyfish. Primary mission accomplished, I paddled round fishing wrappers and other detritus out of the moat. Another small adventure in Paradise...