We woke to dense fog at 6 am. Not the best conditions to cut across the intracoastal waterway at the entrance to Pensacola Bay but fortunately it burned off as soon as we got on the water and came upon a large barge threading its way through a pinch spot.
A huge flock of gulls, mixed in with pelicans, rose as one and screamed overhead. A small school of porpoise raised their fins, dove, surfaced, dove, as John and I crossed from green buoy to red buoy which marked the outer points of the deep, central channel and worked our way pass fishing boats and around the breakersrolling in from the Gulf.
On the other side of the entrance was the remains of Fort Pickens which once guarded Pensacola Bay. We availed ourselves of the restrooms, drank from a water fountain, stretched our legs and tossed our two days’ worth of garbage in the dumpster.
Two and a half nautical miles done. Only thirteen more to go! But the rest were along the shoreline of Santa Rosa Island; a barrier island made of sand dunes and windswept bushes and trees.
For half of the day we paddled along the relatively undeveloped National Seashore, staying just far enough offshore that the lime-green, shallow waters didn’t cause drag on our speed. Loons. Buffleheads. Pelicans. A wind at our back. And the roar of Pensacola’s military training jets making me jump out of my seat.
Mile after mile. Hot sun reflecting off the shimmering water. And then a line of condos. And sunbathers. And speedboats. And a busy bridge and the jarring noise of traffic. We passed under the bridge, past a fancy Oyster Bar that I had to stretch my head back to peer up at, and alongside a sliver of sand backed up to a headwall, where we pulled up and I laid down to rest and stretch my back. Two-thirds of the way done. One-third left to go!
There were flags at half mast. There were single family homes wedged in between high rise condos. There was the annoying clatter of new construction.
And the seas built. And the wind remained at our back. I threw a brace or two. I surfed. I sang “Do, a deer, a female deer; Ray, a drop of golden sun…” over and over again. It kept my cadence going. Until I had to slow down to let John catch up.
And then finally our campsite got in our sights! 15.7 nautical miles for us old farts!
Benches even. And a trash can. And a great conversation with a triathlete who was running past.
Today I offered up my paddling for the parents and siblings of the massacred high school students in South Florida. And for the hope that gun control reason will trump paranoid stupidity and greed.
Tomorrow I will paddle in selfish celebration of my birthday. I turn 62.
I am alive.
I am healthy.
I am on an adventure.
Cheers!
Susana
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