Two Takes on a Foggy Morning on the Tolomato River

I

Distant docks emerge mysteriously
 Through a gap in the fog’s heavy curtain,
 Briefly causing ethereal feelings of wonder
 Till the docks dissolve within swirling mists,
 And we return to our business once again.

II

Isolated among the tall grasses which frame Poncho Creek and engrossed in my effort to catch a sea trout for dinner tonight, I failed to see the fog come rolling in over the eastern dunes of Vilano this morning. It’s most heavy now along the river to my south where both banks and even the bridge to the mainland are no longer visible, but it will thicken here as well soon enough, and though I’ll be sailing north and then east toward the Fourth Street beach near my home, I’ll not out race it if I don’t make haste.

I reel in my lines and secure my rods; I lift my anchor and push off from a muddy shore with an oar; then I raise my sail and steer my slow pram toward the channel. Clearing the mouth of the creek, I check north and south for oncoming boats, but there are none, and I suspect there won’t be many out this morning, if there are any at all.

Just as I look to the south, the docks by Boating Club Road emerge, revealed to me by a passing gap in the fog’s heavy curtain. And though I know these docks well—I have fished their pilings on occasion‑‑I am struck by the ethereal nature of their appearance, nonetheless. They float in the mists there, out of focus in a light that is neither bright nor somber, neither of the day nor of the night; as if they exist somewhat in this world and somewhat in some mysterious other. Perhaps they are a bridge between consciousness and dream, I ponder idly as I slowly make my way toward the channel, or how about a link between the present and the future or the present and the past, or even a link between life and death. What would that look like? I continue lightheartedly. And what would one learn from such connections? Would I be better or worse off?

No matter the original intent of my musings, these mythical and mystical notions now intrigue me and, Odysseus unbound, I am drawn to investigate. I pull on my tiller accordingly and come about south.

The wind‑‑now off the port bow‑‑no longer fills my sail, and a strong incoming tide pulls me back to the north. I tack to starboard to keep the sail full and am experiencing some success when, to my dismay, the docks fade away, swallowed by a dense swirling wall, which is now gaining speed and will soon envelope me in turn, robbing me of any sense of direction. Practically, there is nothing left to do now but to hurriedly come about once again and resume my original course north; yet, I make no move to do so.

Touching Base

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From time to time, I succumb to some visceral need to walk across the Vilano Bridge to the mainland and then back again. When that occurs, I park my car in the Publix parking lot some minutes before sunrise—good lighting and only joggers up and about‑‑walk across A1a, and head westward along the pedestrian lane on the north side of the bridge. Once I reach the mainland, I re-cross A1a and walk east along the south side of the bridge back to the island. Depending on how fast I walk, how many times I pause and for how long, the trip takes between 45 minutes and one hour.

My goal is always to consider the early morning comings and goings along this stretch of the Tolomato River and to record those things that interest me visually: a visiting sailboat newly moored, dredging operations, fishermen in waist-deep water casting for sea trout, and so on. Accordingly, I carry my best camera with my most powerful telephoto lens strapped around my neck and cradled in my arm both, as it is a heavy combination.

From the north side of the bridge, I can see the Camachee Cove Marina ahead of me on the mainland and a few visible houses and docks at water’s edge to my rear, but my eyes tend to fix on the river itself and the vastness of the untouched marshland along its western bank and the canopy of live oaks stretching north to its east. Looking through my camera’s viewfinder, I enjoy seeking out in turn the three creeks I have fished, just to see if anyone is there now: Robinson’s Creek, the southernmost and across from where I used to live in a beachside condo on Ocean Hollow Road, then Poncho Creek, and finally Indian Creek, which is right across the water from my house on Third Street, where the island’s width narrows to less than half a mile. Unlike Robinson’s, Poncho and Indian Creeks are shallow, allowing only kayaks and light boats like my own to navigate them, which makes for more peaceful exploring, fishing, and observing. Because I find more comfort in the quiet of rowing and sailing in my current state than in the dependable power of my small but noisy outboard motor, I invariably head toward the more easily reached Indian Creek these days.

Returning along the south side of the bridge, I can make out the Castillo de San Marcos, the Bridge of Lions, and the lighthouse on Salt Run across Matanzas Bay. Closer at hand on the mainland side stands the Great Cross commemorating the spot where Pedro Menéndez first landed in 1565. Up ahead, of course, lies Vilano Beach and my car. As I near the bridge’s summit, my gaze is drawn to the line of houses along the river’s bank. They stretch south from the marina and the fishing pier to the small sand beach at Porpoise Point and the St. Augustine Inlet. From these houses, long wooden docks stretch deep into the river toward the edge of the north-south channel. At this time of day, a handful of boats power by in both directions, all heading to some favorite fishing location most likely. When I’m very lucky, I see one of the boats of our town’s fishing fleet—there are four, I believe‑‑coming home through the inlet after an all-nighter off the coast, its nets held up just above of the water and spread along the length of long spars that reach out from both port and starboard sides like wings extended for flight and swarming like gnats above them, an escort of gleaning seagulls and pelicans.

By the time I reach my car, the combination of all of these things: the river and its creeks, the houses and their docks, the boats, and the long history of this place all work together like ingredients of a therapeutic brew, making my mind a little less battered by troubling matters regarding my own sojourn on earth than it had been before the walk.

From my car, I gather my shopping bags and head toward the Publix doors. My step is light, and I am aware that will be short-lived, but I cherish it none the less.