The Jubilee approached St. Augustine Inlet
In the calm-watered, first light of the morning.
Unknown to her captain, three leagues east
An exceedingly strong storm was forming.
florida
City Gates
The gates of St Augustine are open, letting everyone in.
They welcome the Kansans, Hawaiians, and Mississippians.
They welcome big bellies, and those who spend time at the gym,
As well as the pious and those who can’t shake some great sin.
But, they all pray for epiphany before they head home once again.
The Red Gate at the End of Marine Street
My walk this morning has led me to Marine Street, which I take north till it ends at Bridge Street. At that intersection, I pause to decide whether to turn east toward the harbor or west toward the Lincolnville district, each direction a pleasant walk with its own distinct merits. As always, while waiting for some sign to make my choice, I am drawn to the concrete wall that faces me and encloses the grounds at Number 15 on the north side of Bridge Street. It is a high wall, six feet or so; ornate and old – blackened-with-moss old; wood-rotting, red-paint-peeling-door old. Flora, no longer tended, tests its boundaries. This side of the door, flowers have escaped the confines of their pots and have breached the straight edges of the red and white bricked entry way. From the other side, a few pink hibiscus flowers on a couple of rogue flag-pole straight branches make their debut, and a lone vine slithers over the wall’s top.
Something influences me to turn left toward the water today and I do. Ahead, I can see oranges and yellows mixing in the eastern sky with the sun just now beginning its rise over Anastasia Island across the bay. The winds are light, so if I am lucky when I reach the sea wall, the sailboats and their masts will be reflected in the still harbor waters, always a delightful sight at the end to a good morning walk.
Still, I wonder – as I wonder each time after turning this way or the other upon reaching Bridge Street – what would have happened had I first crossed to the other side of the road and tried the latch on that old red gate door; and what would have happened had the latch clicked and I pushed on the door and it actually opened; and what would I have seen on the other side of that gate then?
Before Morning Parade at St. Augustine National Cemetery
There is a brief moment, just as the sun rises above the houses across Marine Street and mixes with the last of night’s shadows, that the grave markers in the St. Augustine National Cemetery display their age before donning their regulation white.
Mystery Man at the St. Augustine National Cemetery
How is it that a sub lieutenant of the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve rests for eternity in this national cemetery of ours? And, who is it that still comes here to leave a stone of remembrance and respect? And, why is it that this story I will never know has touched my soul so?
You Can’t Miss It!
The statue of Juan Ponce de León at the eastern end of the Plaza de la Constitución points north. Perhaps it is to indicate the location of the Gulf Stream that he discovered, or perhaps it is to suggest that he first landed in Florida a few miles up the coast in 1513.
A Well Fitted Ship
A single masted square-rigger anchored in the harbor last night. I have never seen such a boat before, but it is unquestionably well-suited for this antiquated harbor of ours.
Advancing Fleet
From where I stand on the south side of the Bridge of Lions, I see five boats moored in a row along the sea wall approaching the Castillo’s ramparts, like so many English ships of the line in battle formation.
Indian Creek
Searching for redfish
In clear, shallow back waters –
Outside time being
ᚠᛁᛢᚴ ᛘᛁᛏ ᛚᚢᚴᛁ *
So listen to this. I’m fishing on the beach yesterday, early morning in front of that house with the collapsed stairs – you know the one I mean, right? – and I’m trying to cast out past the sand bar instead of aiming for the slough because the water’s been warming – close to 70, I read – and I’m trying to reach cooler water. So anyway, I wade in up to the bottom of my trunks and cast – I’m using shrimp – and I walk the line back to the sand spike and slide the rod in. Then I do the same thing with the other rod – I only took two rods yesterday. So I’m waiting – maybe 20 minutes, long time, almost ready to quit – and I get a hard hit. I give it a few seconds for the hook to set and then lift up the rod and start reeling. From the fight, I’m thinking it’s a blue fish – you getting a lot of them lately? Some guys actually eat them. – but it’s not. It’s a pompano. A pompano! They’re supposed to be gone by now, right? Up to the Carolinas, right? Anyway, so I drag him onto the beach, and get the hook out, and hurry back to my mat and backpack cooler where I keep my tape measure.
Well, there’s an egret standing by the mat, and he doesn’t move even when I get right next to him. I’m going fast in case I need to run back to the surf to release the fish, otherwise I’d stop to take this all in. Anyway, I get twelve inches and a little more. I’m good, I figure, but I reach into a backpack pocket for the size limit chart anyway because it’s been over a year since I hooked a pompano, and it says fourteen inches. That can’t be, I think, so I check again. Pal, I’m keeping my finger on the page so I’m sure I have the right minimum lined up with the right fish: fourteen inches. This is crazy, I’m thinking! This is a good-size fish, maybe two pounds. So, now I’m thinking maybe I’ll keep it anyway. I look up and down the beach: no one. I’m actually reaching for the cooler zipper when the egret catches my eye. He’s looking right at me, like right into me with those eerie yellow markings around the eyes, and it comes over me that I’ve got to release the fish. So, I run back down to the water and I do it. Actually, I feel better for it, good even.
That’s when the second rod bends down and starts jerking. So I race over and grab it and reel. It’s a pompano! No kidding! And it’s got to be the same size as the first one, twelve, thirteen inches. Don’t ask me why. but I look toward the mat, and there’s the egret, halfway between me and the mat and he’s looking right at me with that yellow around his eyes. It’s like there’s an invisible beam cutting into me. And he’s still, totally still, like a lawn ornament. So, I bend down into the frothy water and let the fish go.
But wait, I’m not done. So I fish some more without a hard hit until, with the last of my bait, I catch a third pompano, a really big one; fourteen inches at least, I figure. And what’s the first thing I do? I look for the egret! Crazy, right? But he’s not there! I look up and down the beach. He’s gone! So I go to the mat and stick the fish in the backpack ice. And, here’s the reason I’m telling you this: I’m collecting my things to go home, right? And, when I pick up the size limit chart to pack it away – don’t ask me why I do this – I look up pompano again – I can tell from your face you already get it – and it says eleven inches. Eleven! You can check it yourself!
And that’s the story. Crazy, right?
Beer? Oh, let me show you this welk shell I found in the sand yesterday. It’s perfect! It’s over here in the kitchen. Here, look!
*Fiske med Loki
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