This essay appears in the new anthology, UnspOILed: Writers Speak for Florida's Coast, edited by Susan Cerulean, Janisse Ray, and A. James Wholpart. Learn more about the anthology by visiting UnspOILed.
Drought had a choke hold on Tallahassee. The national forest south of town burned out of control most of June. With an evening thunderstorm threatening the festivities at Tom Brown Park, St. George Island seemed a safer bet for fireworks this Fourth of July. God knows my daughter and I needed an outing.
“Nice to breathe some fresh air, huh, honey?” I said, watching Lumin stick her feet out the car window as we cruised the familiar route from Tallahassee to St. George: Panacea, Ochlocknee Bay, St. Teresa, Carrabelle, each town like a native wildflower—hardy, singular, lovely—leading us to the ragged bloom of Eastpoint, fragrant with the briny scent of so many memories spent at the beloved beach across the bridge.
In my mind’s eye I pictured fireworks shot high over the Gulf, but a hand-painted sign directed us to the bayside of the island. We parked at Harry A’s bar and walked back down the road to the growing crowd claiming space with their blankets on the thin strip of flat, scruffy shoreline sprouting marsh grass and sea oats, affording a fine view of the sky above Apalachicola Bay.
A battered pick-up with five “Save Our Seafood” stickers plastered across its bumper slowed next to us, spilling a leathered, middle-aged woman and four young kids who wasted no time running down the shoreline yelling and waving old-fashioned pinwheels. We settled on our quilt at the edge of the crowd, scaring a fiddler crab off into the marsh grass. Four shirtless teenage boys in blue jean cutoffs ambled by, sneaking peeks at Lumin, her arms wrapped around her legs, chin on knees, thick blonde curls rolling down her back. Masquerading as any aloof sixteen year old, she was quietly tending her broken heart, having said her last goodbye to her dad who had died just seven days earlier. Lumin’s dad and I had been apart for a decade, but I was present at his death—an unexpected healing for both of us.
Cars and trucks streamed across the bridge in a steady flow. A ruddy-faced man with tattooed arms shouted, “It’s stormin’ in Tallahassee! They shut down Tom Brown Park!” A couple with a toddler atop the dad’s shoulders walked by just as the little girl dropped her lollipop into her dad’s scraggly long hair, coaxing a chuckle out of Lumin. I took in the crowd with a state of mind sharpened by death’s aftermath, holding all things precious and quivering in their ordinariness, feeling the fragility of our tiny family of two buoyed up among this swelling sea of families.
Sparklers lit up at dusk, then inexplicably stopped too soon. People began packing up their blankets and coolers and walking back to their cars.
Absorbed in watchful moods, we listened as the crowd passed by.
“I dunno, Pumpkin. Fire marshal must of called it off.”
“We’ll see fireworks next year, hon. It’s okay. Hurry up, now.”
“Stop teasing your sister, Matt.”
One of the last to leave, a large man in a florescent orange t-shirt waved to Lumin and me exclaiming, “Nothin’s for sure! Never know what’s comin’ or what ain’t!”
“Not much is for sure, that’s for sure!” I hailed back.
Lumin leaned into me as we watched the ribbon of tail lights recede across the bridge.
“What’s for sure, Mom?” she asked with a heartbreaking mix of challenge and sorrow.
Knowing the enormity of her loss would take years to unravel, I gathered myself to tell her . . . what? That love, the bare bones truth of impermanence, life’s moment to moment richness and the piercing beauty of this world, all that sustained us, was present in that very moment, the two of us awash in the fading pink of summer sky over the bay?
“Want to go to our beach?” I asked instead.
She softened and nodded, and we drove over the body of St. George to the Gulf of Mexico and headed west to the State Park at the end of the island. We parked at the entrance, closed since dusk, and walked the sandy path to the beach in the growing dark. A waxing moon, three quarters full, lit our way.
“Wow, Mama, look!” Lumin stopped in her tracks in front of me as the surf came into view. Phosphorescence twinkled and sparked on the forward crests of wave after gentle wave. We stood there, entranced by the starry seascape, an ocean of fireflies, a jazz riff of liquid light.
“Tiny sea creatures turning their energy into light,” I whispered.
“We get to see fireworks after all,” Lumin responded in wonderment.
We sat on the cool, white sand at the edge of the surf in the deepening dark. A decade of memories anchored us there: birthday parties, kite flying, body surfing, sand sculpting, beach combing, long walks and endless hours swimming in the clear, clean Gulf.
The surf pulsed and spread before us. I lay back, wiggled my hips into the sand, but Lumin was up, pulling my wrist. “C’mon Mama, let’s go in.”
The water was cool against our legs. We waded in together, scooped at the phosphorescence that sifted through our fingers, refusing to be caught. And then she was off. Lumin dove and came up splashing me, teasing me in, her face lit up like I hadn’t seen in months.
We swam out to the calm water and floated on our backs together under the shining moon.
—Crystal Wakoa, contributing writer to UnspOILed
Drought had a choke hold on Tallahassee. The national forest south of town burned out of control most of June. With an evening thunderstorm threatening the festivities at Tom Brown Park, St. George Island seemed a safer bet for fireworks this Fourth of July. God knows my daughter and I needed an outing.
“Nice to breathe some fresh air, huh, honey?” I said, watching Lumin stick her feet out the car window as we cruised the familiar route from Tallahassee to St. George: Panacea, Ochlocknee Bay, St. Teresa, Carrabelle, each town like a native wildflower—hardy, singular, lovely—leading us to the ragged bloom of Eastpoint, fragrant with the briny scent of so many memories spent at the beloved beach across the bridge.
In my mind’s eye I pictured fireworks shot high over the Gulf, but a hand-painted sign directed us to the bayside of the island. We parked at Harry A’s bar and walked back down the road to the growing crowd claiming space with their blankets on the thin strip of flat, scruffy shoreline sprouting marsh grass and sea oats, affording a fine view of the sky above Apalachicola Bay.
A battered pick-up with five “Save Our Seafood” stickers plastered across its bumper slowed next to us, spilling a leathered, middle-aged woman and four young kids who wasted no time running down the shoreline yelling and waving old-fashioned pinwheels. We settled on our quilt at the edge of the crowd, scaring a fiddler crab off into the marsh grass. Four shirtless teenage boys in blue jean cutoffs ambled by, sneaking peeks at Lumin, her arms wrapped around her legs, chin on knees, thick blonde curls rolling down her back. Masquerading as any aloof sixteen year old, she was quietly tending her broken heart, having said her last goodbye to her dad who had died just seven days earlier. Lumin’s dad and I had been apart for a decade, but I was present at his death—an unexpected healing for both of us.
Cars and trucks streamed across the bridge in a steady flow. A ruddy-faced man with tattooed arms shouted, “It’s stormin’ in Tallahassee! They shut down Tom Brown Park!” A couple with a toddler atop the dad’s shoulders walked by just as the little girl dropped her lollipop into her dad’s scraggly long hair, coaxing a chuckle out of Lumin. I took in the crowd with a state of mind sharpened by death’s aftermath, holding all things precious and quivering in their ordinariness, feeling the fragility of our tiny family of two buoyed up among this swelling sea of families.
Sparklers lit up at dusk, then inexplicably stopped too soon. People began packing up their blankets and coolers and walking back to their cars.
Absorbed in watchful moods, we listened as the crowd passed by.
“I dunno, Pumpkin. Fire marshal must of called it off.”
“We’ll see fireworks next year, hon. It’s okay. Hurry up, now.”
“Stop teasing your sister, Matt.”
One of the last to leave, a large man in a florescent orange t-shirt waved to Lumin and me exclaiming, “Nothin’s for sure! Never know what’s comin’ or what ain’t!”
“Not much is for sure, that’s for sure!” I hailed back.
Lumin leaned into me as we watched the ribbon of tail lights recede across the bridge.
“What’s for sure, Mom?” she asked with a heartbreaking mix of challenge and sorrow.
Knowing the enormity of her loss would take years to unravel, I gathered myself to tell her . . . what? That love, the bare bones truth of impermanence, life’s moment to moment richness and the piercing beauty of this world, all that sustained us, was present in that very moment, the two of us awash in the fading pink of summer sky over the bay?
“Want to go to our beach?” I asked instead.
She softened and nodded, and we drove over the body of St. George to the Gulf of Mexico and headed west to the State Park at the end of the island. We parked at the entrance, closed since dusk, and walked the sandy path to the beach in the growing dark. A waxing moon, three quarters full, lit our way.
“Wow, Mama, look!” Lumin stopped in her tracks in front of me as the surf came into view. Phosphorescence twinkled and sparked on the forward crests of wave after gentle wave. We stood there, entranced by the starry seascape, an ocean of fireflies, a jazz riff of liquid light.
“Tiny sea creatures turning their energy into light,” I whispered.
“We get to see fireworks after all,” Lumin responded in wonderment.
We sat on the cool, white sand at the edge of the surf in the deepening dark. A decade of memories anchored us there: birthday parties, kite flying, body surfing, sand sculpting, beach combing, long walks and endless hours swimming in the clear, clean Gulf.
The surf pulsed and spread before us. I lay back, wiggled my hips into the sand, but Lumin was up, pulling my wrist. “C’mon Mama, let’s go in.”
The water was cool against our legs. We waded in together, scooped at the phosphorescence that sifted through our fingers, refusing to be caught. And then she was off. Lumin dove and came up splashing me, teasing me in, her face lit up like I hadn’t seen in months.
We swam out to the calm water and floated on our backs together under the shining moon.
—Crystal Wakoa, contributing writer to UnspOILed
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