Tales of the St. Johns River from an Orangedalean Childhood
by Carli Cooper

"You can have a terrible, just a bad, bad day and just happen to be crossing the river on a bridge or go out and take a walk on a pier and get swept up with the really breath-taking beauty of the river. Clear your mind and let the river occupy that space in your head, and that bad day is gone. It's that transcendental. It's just a beautiful, beautiful river."-Jim Maher, St. Johns River Government Scientist.

Splashing and playing on your banks
Gazing at your life.
Watching the waves ripple from the center of your vastness,
The happy memories.
Days spent on your sandbars.
Cans and cans of tuna consumed
While gliding on your waves.
Jumping into your deep waters,
Digging my toes amongst your muck.

Even though I may leave you far behind
I'll always be with you in my mind.
These sweet memories I'll always keep.
                              - Insight at 13

The St. Johns River is a lazy but powerful river, 310 miles in length. Its height alters less than 30 feet from the headwaters to the mouth, so it flows very slowly to the north, an unusual direction for our hemisphere. It begins in the flat steamy marshes of East Central Florida in Broward County and Seminole County . Then, it winds its way through Sanford in Seminole County creating a few large lakes, goes up the length of Volusia County enjoying a rural life, spilling into Lake George, slowly widening during its stay in Putnam county, passing through Palatka, into Clay County and St. Johns County, meandering through my country, Bayard Conservation and Green Cove on the west bank and Orangedale on the east bank, continuing to widen as it enters Duval county. Finally it reaches Jacksonville and dumps into the Atlantic Ocean at its mouth in Mayport.

Apparently, I wasn't born into the St. Johns River , but if I had to find my birth place without my mother's guidance, I would have most certainly decided that I was born on the muddy edge of that tannic river among the cattails and knobby cypress knees on a sticky September morning. The simple majesty of the expansive body of water captures a divine spiritual image, while retaining private intimacy. If I were a little less logical, I am certain that I would be devoting my life to worshipping the River. As it stands, I crave reason, so I'm content to save all my worship for my father.

As a little girl, I can remember counting down the moments until Daddy got home and racing to the door, I would cry "Daddy Daddy, Daddy's home" just as soon as I heard the powerful motor of his work truck rumble in the neighborhood. Often I was mistaken and what I thought was his truck was only one of the neighbors' cars. I learned to respond to my dog's reaction, because she sometimes was able to distinguish between the two. If we both thought Dad was home, we were probably right.

Daddy would sometimes not come in for half an hour or so because he had to unload his work materials. If that were the case, we'd go out to him. Either way, he'd give me a big hug, and sometimes he'd take me into his arms and swing me high. My sisters would receive similar greetings: there was the daily battle to see who would get the first hug. Then Daddy would give my mom a kiss.

Though I worship Daddy, Mom's the real glue in the family. She partially made Dad into the father he is. My mom left my dad three times when we were young because he just wouldn't settle down and be a father. I remember how he used to make my mother cry. Her face would squash together, crisscrossing with one hundred different facial lines. Mom and Dad would leave the room for their bedroom and lock the door, emerging much later, Mom with puffy red eyes and Dad visibly angry. One time Mom left Dad for what she thought was for good. She packed us up into his white Chevy truck without telling anyone where we were going and booked it to Bradenton , Florida where her mother and father lived.

I remember on the return trip, the entire front windshield was covered with love bugs. They mate in the springtime and apparently just cover South Florida . Lots of people think they're annoying and will squash one without hesitation, but I like them. They don't bite, tickle our skin, or buzz around our ears. We just kill them with our windshields. I like that they accompanied us on our journey back home, though I wish they hadn't splattered their innocent souls on our window. Callie, my youngest sister, was the result of our return.

We arrive at the locals' swim hole at the end of the Alexander Spring canoe run about mid-morning. The sun shines brightly making us a little hot, so my sisters and I are excited to run and jump in after the hour long car trip. We sisters scramble out of Dad's pickup truck and race down to the water's edge, scattering the rocks on the gravel road. We pull up sharply when we see the color of the water. It's not the usual translucent caramel brown, that typically allows light to penetrate to the bottom. Instead, the water is a murky brown, and the bottom creeps out of sight once the water levels reach higher than ankle deep. Mom comes up behind us her steps crunching on the path. She too has seen the odd coloration of the water,

"Girls, I don't want you getting in today."

"But Mommy!" We protest.

"I don't want you to swim in that dark water, not when I can't see what's in it.

"Maybe later?" I ask

"No, Carli."

"If the water gets clearer?"

"It's not going to get clearer."

"Why not?"

"Last night's rain must have washed dirt into the stream and its not going to settle for awhile."

"Oh."

Dad strolls up with a stick and Chelsea , our beautiful yellow lab. Her fur is pure snow white except for her golden yellow ears and a streak on her back of the same golden color. Her nose is a rich brown and her eyes are a subtle auburn. She dances around Dad with short little steps, begging him to throw the gnarled stick out into the water. Finally Dad tosses the stick out for her. We watch Chelsea play for awhile, envious of our dog splashing and swimming about the creek. Shortly Courtney begins to whine that she's hungry, so we all walk back to our truck for lunch.

On the way, we pass a man with his ginger golden retriever. Callie and I pause and bend down to pet its soft, damp coat. Each piece of fur is long and smooth. The fur is less coarse than Chelsea 's. I would hug it, but it smells of wet dog. Chelsea comes over to sniff noses with it.

The owner begins to speak with my parents.

"How ya'll doin' today"

"Fine, and you?"

"I'm fine, but were ya'll swimming down in that there swim hole?"

"The dog was, but not us. The water's too dark."

"You're sure right. Well, if I were you I wouldn't let your dog swim there anymore. I saw a six or seven foot gator out there and you know how a gator's favorite meal is a nice plump dog"

"Huh, well thanks for the caution."

"Ya'll have a good day now."

"You too."

We race the short distance to the truck and arrive panting. Courtney and I argue over who won, but Mom tells us to hush. She drops the tailgate open, and pulls the cooler to the front. Dad comes up with Chelsea and leashes her to the truck.

"Dear, what do you want on your sandwich?"

"Um, the turkey from Salt Springs groceries, lettuce and tomato, mayonnaise, and mustard. And can you pass me the potato wedges?"

"Sure honey. What about you girls?"

"Peanut butter and jelly please," I request

"Me too," chimes Courtney.

"And me," Callie adds.

Mom begins assembling the sandwiches by pulling the sandwich stuff out of a brown paper Publix bag, and the dingy blue cooler. Dad asks Mom for a chilled seltzer water, so I immediately request for one as well. Mom finishes making our sandwiches and hands one to each of us.

Dad finishes his way before the rest of us, and decides to take Chelsea back down to the water. I want to go too, but haven't finished my sandwich.

"Daddy can I come with you?" I ask.

"No Carli, not until you've finished your lunch."

"Alright."

I watch him walk away with Chelsea , till the road takes a turn and he disappears behind the damp foliage. I pick up my eating speed and try to hastily wolf down my sandwich. Mom chastises me.

"Carli, slow down, or you're going to choke." I grudgingly oblige.

Not two minutes later, the air reverberates with the worst sound I have ever heard in my entire life. The high-pitched cry channels pain, fear, and betrayal. Pain: emanating from the needle-like teeth and 600 pounds of pressure sinking into Chelsea 's beautiful crystalline chest. Fear: shooting off her head from a direct death hit. Betrayal: rising into her innocent heart from the watery depths that she so loves. At the truck we all freeze with fright.

Then mom speeds to the waters edge and is met with a bloody dog and husband. Dad races up with Chelsea , mom sprinting in front of him, commanding all of us to get in the vehicle as fast as we could. I skirt into the cab as quick as a rabbit and help my sisters buckle. Mom hops into the bed of the truck and Dad hands Chelsea to her. Dad comes around to the drivers seat and starts up the engine roaring out of that swimming hole. I look back at the great billowing cloud of dust, and then I see my beloved dog at the same time as my sisters. We all begin to blubber watching Mom trying to stop the bleeding.

After what seems like years, we turn off the dirt road and onto the paved road to town. Dad is flying. My sisters and I continue to cry. All we can think about is how Chelsea 's dying. We pull up at the first gas station we see, and Dad runs in leaving the engine running to ask for directions to the nearest vet.

He retrieves the necessary information, and tears out. We finally pull up at the vet, though I only know we reached it because I felt the motion of the car end. I don't know what the vet looks like: I can't see out of my tear filled eyes.

I know Dad runs into the vet with Chelsea , and I imagine my parents rinse off once she's in the good hands of the Veterinarian. Normally buildings have exterior water spigots. Next thing my sisters and I know, Chelsea is back in the truck with seven or eight staples in her chest along with numerous interior stitches, and the fur around the wound is shaven.

Dad tells us later that Chelsea was only ankle deep when the monster alligator propelled itself out of the murky water and struck Chelsea barely missing her jugular vein. Dad, still with the large stick in his hand that he was going to throw for Chelsea beats the alligator and tries to tear Chelsea out of its powerful jaws. The gator was intimidated by Dad's large form and aggressive demeanor so it let go of Chelsea .

My young parents not yet completely familiar with Florida , learned the hard way that Florida 's great fresh water beast is not an animal to take chances with. Since then, we do all that we can to avoid swimming in the same waters with them, ending our river swims as well as those in that swim hole, and we and our dogs will only get into the ocean or clear bodies of water.

I wake at six in the morning and I spring open and out of my sleeping bag, shaking my two sleeping sisters awake, jumping into my parents bed, despite their quietly slumbering forms. "Merry Christmas Mommy! Merry Christmas Daddy! Wake up, wake up. It's Christmas." Then I jump back down to talk to my excited little sisters.

"Merry Christmas Courtney and Callie."

"Merry Christmas Carli." they chorus back.

"What do you think Santa brought us?" Courtney asks.

"I don't know Courtney." I can barely say it with a straight face and I see Callie snigger. Callie and I both know full well that we'd atleast be getting stick horses since we'd gone searching in mom's closet together and in guilty eagerness, found the three horses behind mom's closet door. Courtney doesn't notice Callie's snigger.

The three of us bound into our parents bed, jumping on them, forcing them to awake. Callie pleads "Mommy, lets go open our stockings. Come on Mommy. Go get them."

"Okay, okay. Merry Christmas girls." Mom responds in a groggy voice.

She struggles out of bed to go get the stockings. We can barely hold still.

"Daddy, what did Santa bring us. Tell us. Tell us."

"A box of rocks"

"Daddy, be nice."

"A lump of coal."

Mom comes in with oversized, overstuffed stockings for each of us as well as the three riding horses. "Oh Mommy!" we cry.

We each tear into our individual oddly-shaped packages of fun, enjoying our little gifts. After pulling out several wonderful items, I pull out a little silk wire outlined thing. Tears fill my eyes and spill over down my face.

"Mommy, I don't want this. Why did you give this to me?"

"Carli, I thought it'd be nice to have, and Santa brought it. Aren't your friends wearing bras yet?

"No, and besides I don't want it."

"Honey, I'm sorry. You're going to have to start wearing them someday"

"No I won't. I refuse."

I try to push the bra from my mind as to avoid tainting my otherwise wonderful stocking and Christmas Day. Gradually we finished enjoying our stockings and moved onto Christmas breakfast. Mom has made sweet breads and has salmon locs and bagels as well as a lot of citrus.

After breakfast, we leave with Chelsea to go to Bayard Conservation area for our traditional Christmas Day hike. We drive the five minutes crossing the Shand's Bridge to the otherside of the river, pulling up at the beautiful pine forest preserve. Bayard was once an old homestead and a tree farm owned by J.P. Hall. Hall donated the land to the county for a hunting and nature preserve. The St. Johns River Management District owns it. It serves as a haven for wildlife and is a little known recreational park featuring equestrian, hiking, and biking trails. Most of the trails are pre-existing because they were formerly logging roads and fire breaks.

We all get out and start at the main trail, a wide grassy road cut by two wheel ruts. Hiking with my family is so much fun. Last year was the first year we all hiked six miles. We were on the beach on Cumberland Island with the wild horses, exotic armadillos, and feral pigs. We were so tired at the end of that hike, but we still had enough energy to climb the twisted scrub oaks at the end of the trail.

Songbirds fill the air with their melodic harmonies. I see them flitting about the trees. I imagine I can even hear the beat of their wings. What would it be like to be one of them? I think it'd be so much fun to fly all over the place. The air smells of fresh pine and crisp air. I take my mother's hand. Her hands are always so warm and soft. I feel so safe when she and Daddy are around, if only she hadn't given me that stupid training bra.

The breeze flutters controllably punctuated by excited spasms. The smooth fiberglass of the Blue Dragonfly is slightly cool under my youthful fingertips despite the broilingly humid temperatures. I look across the length of the canoe at my curly, blonde-haired friend.

"Ready Amy?" I ask.

"Yepsers" is her response.

"Lift." I command.

Our muscles strain against the unwieldiness and weight of our piece of equipment. The sides bang against my shins when I fail to satisfactorily control the sway. Little fleshy red marks that will soon turn to soft black bruises leave a trail down my legs in the wake of the motion. Shimmery sheened light green grasshoppers flee from our chosen path leaping through the air with their powerful, long legs and delicate but effective wings. Their grassy habitat boasts of attentive care displaying fine blades of crisp grass.

At long last, we reach our destination, the Camel. It glistens throwing metallic sparkles of light into the air. I cautiously lower the tailgate and together, Amy and I hoist the Blue Dragonfly into the Camel. Amy clumsily pulls herself into the bed of the truck and perches herself on top of the canoe at my request. Meanwhile, I race inside to locate the driver.

"Mommy we're ready!" I shout.

"Hold on Carli I'll be out in a second."

I shuffle out down the driveway, drag myself up into the truck's bed, and delicately, I place myself astride the canoe close to Amy.

"She's not ready yet" I say to Amy

"Okay."

"We're going to have a lot of fun. I can't believe our parents are finally letting us do this."

"Yep, and this is good practice for you."

"Huh?"

"Since you don't ever want to drive a car."

"Oh right, I didn't know what you were talking about."

"That's okay."

The sun is dropping lower into the sky, and I worry that our mothers will change their minds and not let us go after all. Getting my mother to consent required some magic, but getting Amy's to consent was clearly caused by divine intervention. Finally my beautiful mother appears on the front stoop with jangling keys in her hands.

"Are you girls ready?" she calls.

"Ya, ya, ya, of course" are our eager replies.

Mom walks down our dirty white driveway with her usual odd walk. Her butt moves and her feet turn out with every step, creating an overall V shape to her gait. One might think she waddles a little, but not in the same manner as an overweight person. She's actually quite slender and recently competed in a local triathlon.

Once she's situated in the car, she cautiously maneuvers the Camel down out of the driveway and down the street. I see her eyes staring at us from the reflection in the rearview mirror. They stay glued to the mirror for most of the one tenth of a mile trip. Amy and I watch houses go by-all five of them that is. Our neighborhood is rather small. Mom stops the truck at the end of cul-de-sac, on the left side in the "island," or median as mother says. It's a street island if you ask Amy and I. We camp on it sometimes, though never at night, taking out our backpacks filled with essentials including blankets, water, a compass, Kraft cheddar cheese, whole wheat bread, chocolate chips, and apples, or whatever we could snitch from the kitchen without being caught.

We wait for as long as we could to get out of the truck which was definitely before it came to a full stop. We scramble down out of the truck and begin to vigorously tug the canoe out of the Camel, before Mom has even turned off the engine. Mom jumps down from her creamy brown leather seat and takes over Amy's position on the canoe while scolding us for failing to wait for the truck to come a complete stop before we got down. She easily lowers the canoe to the ground with my steady help. I see her well formed muscles ripple under the slight strain. Amy scampers to the other side to help me with my load. We walk awkwardly down the neighborhood easement to the creek, stumbling on the doubly slanted path. Once we reach the water, we lower the front of the canoe to meet the creek.

"Now girls, remember, you're not to go beyond the third dock, and if you hear me call for you, you're to speed home as quickly as you can paddle. And I don't want you getting out of the boat until you get back. No sandbars, islands, nothing. Do we have an agreement?"

"Yes ma'm" we reply in unison.

"Now put on your life vests."

"Aww, Mom."

"Carli!" Her sharp tone forces me to comply.

Amy climbs to the front canoe seat. I hand her one of the paddles and place the other at the foot of the back seat. Once Amy is well situated I hop in trying not to wobble the boat, then Mom gives us a giant shove. With a few strong strokes, we're out on the river. I watch Mom begin to walk the length of the dock to her "lifeguard perch" in a chair at the end of the dock.

I can't believe we're finally out here. Just the two of us as if we were lucky enough to be Susan, John, Betsy, Roger, or Margaret. I wish Amy knew about them. We could properly play Swallows and Amazons if she'd read just one of the novels about their amazing adventures sailing on an English lake near their home. If Courtney, Kathleen, Callie, or even Connor were here, we could have a grand game of make believe. I'm glad my sisters aren't here though because it wouldn't be fair if Mom let them go out since she wouldn't let me canoe without an adult when I was their age. And Connor's mean and I don't think he even likes to play. Kathleen's not my real sister, but we are normally sisters when we play Swallows and Amazons. She's usually Margaret and I'm normally Betsy. I wouldn't mind having her here with me instead of Amy.

Oh well, we'll just have to make our own adventure, which can be much more exciting than pretend. One time I was with Dad, and I had to go to the bathroom so bad that he let me stop on a real island to go pee. I didn't see any of the snakes, but dad did and boy did he yell. I didn't even get to finish peeing. Daddy said that he was renaming that island "Moccasin Island."

I run my hand slowly through the coffee-colored water of the St. Johns which makes my hand tingle. I gaze around, taking in the beauty. The shoreline is curved and heavily wooded. I see a Great Blue Heron a little ways off.

"Amy," I whisper animatedly loud. "Let's go see how close we can get to that blue heron."

"Okay," she whispers back.

We softly paddle in the direction of the enormous heron, taking care to remain perfectly silent. Despite our efforts, Amy accidentally splashes a little water with her paddle and instantly, the bird takes flight, laboring under dusty blue wings.

We let the boat drift for a little, both enjoying the simple feeling of a rocking boat with the lazy afternoon sun enveloping our bodies with warmth. Amy's eyes begin to close. I worry that she might fall asleep. She never stopped taking naps, and even as a ten year old, she still likes afternoon snoozes.

"Amy, don't go to sleep," I beg in an elevated voice.

"I'm not," she murmurs.

"Let's paddle down to that last dock."

We both pick up our glossy wooden paddles. Amy's stroke is jerky and cuts the water at weird angles. I can tell that she's never been canoeing before. My strokes are pretty and clean, cutting the water with concise precision that breaks the water with small straight lines. Shortly, we come to the third rickety dock. Some of its boards are missing and the pilings intended for support have been worn so thin by the steady waves that they threaten to collapse.

"I guess we have to turn around now" I tell Amy.

"Alright."

I dig the paddle in deep and move it toward the boat a couples of times like Mom and Dad taught me, and gradually the boat turns. We venture toward the shoreline and go as far as we can without running a ground. I think the water level is at the middle of the tide cycle, so the water is neither high nor low. I look down into the water when we get close to the shore. I believe I see a river crab through the diluted brown haze.

Mom's faint call breaks our reverie. "Girls it's time to come home."

"Aww. Darn. I'm not ready to go home yet," I complain to Amy.

"Me neither. I guess it doesn't matter though."

"Nope," I say. "We better go home."

We pick up our paddling speed and go back to the creek. Mom meets us and helps pull the Blue Dragonfly from the water, once we made it safely onto land.

The summer of fourth grade, Phil's parents ask my mom and I if I'd like to go to sailing camp with Phil. Mom thought it would be a terrific idea, and I agree to go. Every morning for a week, we get up at 5:30 and either Phil's dad or one of my parents take us to the Jacksonville Rudder Club for a full day of sailing from 7am to 5 pm. We start out learning the basics of sailing including terminology, but that very first afternoon we're out sailing in prams.

Prams are very sturdy, small, slow moving, heavy, two man vessels. The ones the Rudder Club have look ancient. The paint is peeling off in some places showing rough weathered wood. Some of the campers get splinters in their hands that first day, and by the time I've completed the week, I have my fair share of splinters. It's near impossible to flip these vessels and their name was derived from the word "perambulator," which is why they're the boat of choice for us beginners.

After receiving our first classroom lesson, we go down to the river and unload the prams from the shelves. It takes six to eight campers to safely transport the beasts to the water. Each of the prams is a different weathered color so that the instructors can recognize the campers. Once we have all the boats down, we pair up and embark on our first voyage.

I love this new feeling of excitement and adventure. That first day the wind was blowing strongly, and it ruffled my clothes and blew through my bleached out hair. I almost can make myself believe that I'm flying.

The rest of the week goes well, and we learn all sorts of sailor lore and knots-the figure eight, the Bowlin, the square knot, the cleat technique, and even a noose. I'm sad when the end of the week arrives, and I decide I definitely want to do it the next year.

The next summer I eagerly anticipate the start of sailing camp, longing for that wondrous feeling of delight derived only from soaring across the river. I loved the newly discovered power of floating and flying on my adored river. This year I'm to go for two weeks instead of just one.

I arrive like normal at the break of dawn, only this year not only Phil, but my sister Courtney, and Kathleen, are accompanying me along with my friend Joyce Conway who lives on Steamboat Road. I anticipate ten days of fun and sun filled sailing. I start out in the prams again along with all my friends, but by the end of the week, the director decides to move me up to the next level in a group of all boys sailing a type of boat called the Optimus.

At first, I'm excited, but then I feel really awkward in the group. They're called the "Fungis' meaning "fun guys," and they're all older than me. Then, on the first day out with them, I have a very frightening experience. Unaccustomed to the boat on a gusty day, I catch way too much wind in my sail and start flying across the river at a speed that scares me to death. I tried to slow down by sharply turning the rudder, but all I achieve is flipping my small craft. I end up floating underneath my boat in the air pocket the upside-down hull provides with my water jug bobbing beside me. For a second, I fear I'm going to drown. Quickly reason grips me, and I swim from underneath the boat to find an instructor on a motor boat speeding over to rescue me.

I'm mortally embarrassed and fear ridicule when I reach shore. I'm also disappointed that I cut my day of sailing short. Rather than ridicule, I meet jealousy. My friend Joyce is mad that I was bumped up to the next level, and when I try to justify my placement so that she won't feel bad, she only gets angrier. Phil is bummed that he didn't flip and get to ride in the motor boat. I go home feeling quite sad that day. A hurricane rolls through the next day canceling our camp for the day.

The following week is much better but the Rudder Club's property is really flooded. Cloudy puddles engulf the dirt road leading to the club. A few pines trees are down, but the edifices received little damage. We continue camp like normal.

Manatees come into the harbor one day when we are sailing in for the afternoon. The instructors let us get out and we swim with the gentle creatures. It is so exciting. I don't actually touch them, but some of my peers do. The manatees are really inquisitive, trying to come up and check out the campers. I watch them breach the surface, their gray skin parting the water in oval-like patterns. Part of me fears that one of the creatures will try to surface from the water underneath me. The next day I let myself burn in the sun to the point where I am forced to stay inside cooling my face. The rest of the week is problem free though, and I have so much fun that I decide to join the Rudder Club's year round youth sailing club.

"Sarah, let's paddle over to that sandbar."

"Okay."

The afternoon sun streams down on Sarah and I as we take my banana-yellow sea kayak out for a day's adventure on the river. We'd spent much of the day exploring the southern end of my domain, and we spot the sandbar very near our pseudo-boat ramp on our return. It seems odd that there's a sandbar so far from the shore, but that makes it all the more worth exploring. Gently, we cut the water making our way to the unusual mass of sand. Sarah's end of the kayak hits first. Mine never hits. The front end of the kayak is propelled into the air by a hidden force. Sticky river mud and water shower over us. My thoughts immediately run. I shriek hysterically crying "Alligator, it's an alligator." When our boat was once again floating on water rather than air, Sarah begins to laugh uncontrollably.

"Sarah, what was that... was was, was that an alligator?" I ask in a shaky, frightened voice, irritated by her unchecked mirth.

Sarah, still giggling, says "No Carli, it was a manatee. We must have frightened him"

"Whoa! But... we... he... uh.... the air. We were in the air. The manatee lifted us into the air. And the sandbar. The manatee was the sandbar?"

"I guess he must have a powerful rudder for a tail and yes he was our sandbar."

"Oh. I was so scared."

"I noticed."

Hmmm....Should we go try to find him?"

"Sure."

"So, do you think we will be able to find him?"

"Maybe."

We paddle on in vain searching for our great beast. The immense power we just witnessed makes it so strange to think of these creatures' vulnerability. Water pollution, speeding motor boats, degradation of habitat and loss of river grass, the manatees food, all pose great danger. The number of manatee sightings I have seen has reassuringly increased with the years, corresponding with the findings produced by river biologists. Every sighting still fills me with a rush of excitement.

The manatees arrive in Orangedale every summer and leave with the first hint of cool weather, gradually migrating to Florida's natural springs where the water temperature is forever constant. Sometimes they migrate to the waters around paper factories attracted to the discharged heat pollution. Often these arrangements pose no immediate threat, but other times this is a catastrophe, and the manatees must be evacuated. I wish I could preserve them, keep them safe, shield them from pain, suffering, and loss. They can't be lost in this wave of extinction.

Every year on the second weekend of March, there is a massive St. Johns River cleanup. An astonishing number of people get together and clean the roads, the river banks and any other dirty spot in the river's watershed. Dumpsters are moved in at various locations near the river and loads and loads of trash are removed from the river's shore and properly disposed. Our family tries to take part every year.

This year, as the Vice President of the Environmental Club of my high school, Bartram Trail, I've coordinated our part in the massive cleanup. Under the guidance of the school's Advanced Placement Environmental Science and Biology teacher Mr. Dunham, we're cleaning up a section of the road down in Colee Cove, ten minutes from my home in Orangedale. Both my sisters are with me as well as a three or four other club members. We scour the road picking it clean of all rubbish. We pull out all sorts of garbage-everything from old worn out tires to fast food bags, to used condoms. The condoms are especially disgusting to the younger girls. I'm not sure my littlest sister, Callie, had even seen a condom until she sees the one we collect from the side of the road.

After working in the morning from 8-12, we return to the base at Trout Creek Park for free River Cleanup T-Shirts and barbeque. Once we finish our succulent meal, we discuss going out again, but we're all pretty hot, tired, and dirty, and one of the girls had already made other plans. So we head home feeling satisfied by our hard morning of manual labor benefiting our scenic river.

I pull up to my good friend Jonathan Eason's well forested river home nestled into Colee Cove accompanied by my friend Jane, a Slovakian exchange student. I love this home, the simple beauty about it, the trees, and the river. It was probably built twenty-five years ago, and the exterior is covered with aged oak colored wood siding.

I walk up to the house with Jane, carrying a large birthday cake, and ring the glowing doorbell. Jonathan's sweet mother, Annette, answers the door.

"Hi, come on in. "

"Thanks. How're you doing?"

"I'm doing well. How about you?"

"I'm good, thanks for letting us give Gen a birthday party at your house."

"Sure, have fun."

"Oh, this is Jane. I don't think you've met her before."

"No, but it's nice to meet you Jane."

'Nice to meet you too."

Annette's voice is like the sweet chirps of woodland birds. She has such a kind and compassionate demeanor. It's clear that she's a perfect nurse. Jane's voice is a pleasant contrast. She speaks with a melodic lilt, and I've enjoyed watching her grasp English over the year. I've come to love her so much, and really wish that she didn't have to leave soon. I'm going to miss her a lot.

The inside of the Eason's house is small but cozy with three bedrooms, three bathrooms, an open kitchen, and an entirely glass fronted living room. They have wood and tile floors, and two talkative African gray parrots that occupy a corner in the living room. Jonathan saunters in.

"Hey Carli!"

"Hey. So what should we start doing?"

"Well, you have the cake, there's probably not too much to do. When's Gen coming?"

"5:45, I think."

Shortly, the rest of the invited people show up including my boyfriend. I like him a lot but something keeps nagging me at the back of my mind. I wish I could figure out what it is that bothers me about him, but I just can't put my finger on it despite having dated him for three months.

We hear the sound of Gen's car puttering up the driveway, so we all disperse to scamper and hide. Jonathan answers the door greeting her with customary greetings, and then we all jump out yelling "SURPRISE!" Gen starts and then laughs saying "You guys. You didn't have to do this." We ignore her response. We eat pizza and have cake enjoying one another's companionship. After awhile, we all decide to go out on Jonathan's dock. The moon is beginning to rise and I can see it through a gap in the trees. I skip ahead to peer down into the river water at the end of the dock. I hope to see a crab or maybe a stingray, but am unlucky today and I don't even see the bottom.

Soon the others join me. I sit down on the new boards of the dock. Jonathan makes to push me in. I giggle and catch myself. My boyfriend becomes obnoxiously protective and moves to sit next to be. I rise and promptly shove Jonathan into the water. I teeter on the edge and then jump in after him. We soon convince the rest of the group to join us. I haven't ever been in the river at night. I feel safe enough. My boyfriend is swimming toward a shallower spot apparently disgusted with the whole affair. He lifts his feet picking his way among the mud. It hits me with a jolt. That's exactly what I can't understand about him. How can he not wholly embrace the pleasantness of the river bathing the skin, the muck nurturing the toes. Soon after, we break off the relationship.

I wake early this morning anticipating an early run to welcome the new summer day. I step out of bed glancing over at the second, now empty bed across from mine. I still feel a hollow spot in my heart once occupied by my exchange sister's bright existence. Life here seems so sad without her, though I too will be gone soon. Then I'll have five aching holes in my heart, but I think the holes will fill with scar tissue in due time.

After changing and using the bathroom, I quietly walk into the kitchen to make myself a piece of whole-wheat toast with a little bit of homemade strawberry preserves made from the berries we picked in Lawtey during April. I cut off half of a banana and pour myself a glass of water, quickly consuming the three items. I find my keys and leave the house to make the two minute drive to Bayard Conservation Area. I cross the St. Johns this morning witnessing the glint of the early morning sun bouncing off the water. I see the dock to left in front of Bayard land where a researcher tried using glass prisms to refract sunlight underneath the dock to grow river grass. Unfortunately, his experiment was unsuccessful.

The bridge ends and with one quick curve, the entrance to Bayard appears. I turn in and see Rob waiting for me as planned. He's a tall, limber, gorgeous guy with subdued hazel eyes and mop of short untamed curls that dust his pretty eyes. I've known of him for the past six years but only met him six months ago. He's best friends with Amy, so I've heard many stories of his adventures with his family, of his heartbreaks, life problems, and running dilemmas, but he doesn't know that Amy's told me all about his life. This is the first time I've ever seen him outside of a group. I look forward to showing him my running domain and connection to the real world.

Hopping out of my little dirty silver Civic, I grab my hot pink Nalgene and go over to Rob to greet him. We chat of small trivial things while stretching our muscles so that we'll be limber for our expedition. He shows me his blackened purple fingernail that was slammed in a car trunk two weeks ago. The image of his pain makes me grit my teeth. I take of swig of water and pull off my cotton T-shirt covering my clean white sport top and we take off at an even pace. I ask him how far he wants to go and if the pace is all right. I imagine its pretty slow for him. I'm a really fast runner for a girl, but he's a pretty fast runner himself, so there's a three minute gap between our 5K race times. He says the pace is fine, though I imagine he'll go home and run a better workout. I plan to take him out the four mile trail to the river camp site totaling to an eight mile trek.

We talk about our summer adventures. He just returned from the British Virgin Islands and I have not yet been in the states a full forty-eight hours, as Courtney and I have just come back from visiting Moni in her home in Spain. He tells me of the pretty runs he took in the gentle sloping lush green hills and I tell him of my runs in the jagged mountains of the Spanish-French Pyrennees as we both travel along the flat pineland of this old turpentine tree farm.

Orange Ball of Fire in the west,
I see you, yet you blind me.
I feel your warmth, yet I'm shivering under layers of wool.

Your colors shine through the shifting branches of the trees.
Once a day I watch you through those trees, hover above the river
Then fall beneath the waters in a great splash of colors.

The stream you leave behind still lingers.
The pinks, the blues, the oranges, and the reds.
If I were an artist, I would paint you.
But not even Monet could capture your splendor.

For millions of years after I'm gone,
You'll display your beauty.
You will always be everlasting.

Around here, wherever there's a body of water, there's some sort of access to it. The St. Johns River has several public piers and multiple parks for use. Daddy loves taking us "pier hopping," and even now at 19, he makes me go to the local piers every time I come home.

The pier nearest to me is the Weedman's pier at the heart of Orangedale. We frequent this pier the most. Today, Daddy and I drive down to Weedman's pier using the normal and only vehicular route. We pass by the Reel Man fishing store, decorated with its used (and probably stolen) fishing reels the owner, Jim, hopes to sell, then past Weedman's general store with its rustic, rundown front framed by the bamboo forest Irene, the neighbor living next door has grown as a privacy screen, the Little' Champ, and George's Bar. The ladder three comprise downtown Orangedale. We pull up under the canopy of live oaks and walk out on the new boards. One year, rough seas from a heavy storm, either a hurricane or a rare nor'easter', blew the original pier away, so the county refurbished the dock a couple years back.

Ordinarily Weedman's Pier would have several cane pole fishermen out catching the family dinner, but today on this brutally cold December evening, no fishermen venture to coax the fish to their poles. Their fishing poles are purchased at Weedman's General Store and are made from stripped bamboo sticks painted crimson, the same color as the store's trim.

At one time, the old Weedman's pier was a part of the original Shand's bridge that connected to the other side at the spot where the Shand's pier is now. Some of the original bridge is still showing on the Shand's pier, course asphalt over ancient, worn out bleached boards, but it too suffered calamity, two or three years ago in the form of fire from one of the fishermen's dock trashcan bonfires. I can't imagine driving over a narrow wooden bridge almost a mile in length. The new Shand's bridge built in the sixties has been killing two or three people a year, so I can only imagine the danger associated with the former bridge.

My next-door- neighbors Danny and Jeffry as well as my other next-door neighbor, Regina were all in the area when the Shand's bridge was still the original wooden one, and their descriptions of traversing the bridge are frightful. The bridge was built first because the town across the river, Green Cove, was a navy base at one time and the military needed access to the other side of the river. Green Cove is in Clay County while Orangedale is in St. John's County and during the forties, Clay County was a dry county. The sailors would come over the bridge and drink at Orangedalean bars. The decrepit remnants of those bars are still across from Weedman's General Store, and what is now George's Bar was once part of those sailor bars as well. I can just imagine the drunken disasters that perhaps once plagued the Shand's Bridge.

Tonight Daddy and I are out on the Weedman's pier to watch the setting sun and to welcome the moon. The frigid wind licks through my hair sending chills down my spine. It's probably about 50 degrees when accounting for the wind. We quietly stroll to the end of the pier together. I glow under my Dad's rare undivided attention, though the weather makes me chatter. The sun still has a good fifteen minutes before it will set. When we reach the end of the dock, Dad spots a yellow piece of dirty twine. He walks over to it and starts to pull it up.

He jokingly tells me "I'm gonna tie you up and throw you into the river to catch some crabs for dinner."

I reply, "Ohh, that'd be so cold. And I don't think that I'd taste that good."

I point out a single sailboat with billowing sails in the middle of the river tacking with the wind. It'd be glorious to be in that sailboat sailing up the river. I wonder if its my crazy Biology teacher Mr. Dunham. He lives a little ways down the river in Colee Cove, and I could easily see him being out on a day like today. Its cold but the wind is perfect.

The sun's dropping now and it's halfway below the trees. The metropolitan pollution shows up in the sunset tonight, quite characteristic of the clear-skied winter sunsets. There are five visible jets streaking the sky witnessing our same sunset as the pinks come to met the blue sky. The sun drops behind the trees and our natural light slowly disappears.

I'm commuting back to school this afternoon after a long winter holiday. I love the first two hours of my drive before I get to I-75. The rural landscape gives me such a settled feeling. I star out at endless cow pastures, craning my ears for the low of a cow, and wishing for the comforting ring of a cow bell like the ones I heard in Europe. Driving through the small towns is also a reassuring feeling. In a town where everyone knows everyone and looks after one another, it seems absurd to think that wrong doing and crime ever take place . In this day and age, people seem so distant from where they live. I saw that in high school with my friends from transient families and see it in New College too. I can't seem to fully relate to the people I've come encounter with and have met very few people in life that were raised in a little rural town like me. At least I like some of the people I've met at New College. My mom and I had an interesting conversation over break about finding people more like myself.

Upon returning home, I began to spend a large portion of time in the kitchen seeking a multitude of ways to eat the food I once enjoyed regularly. One day around dinner time, I found myself in the kitchen talking to my mother. The spicy smells of gourmet home cooking waft about my nose, tantalize my taste buds, and make my mouth water. I sit down taking a break from my "kitchen grazing" as I like to call it. My mother says I'm just snitching and my grandmother says I'm taking the angels share, like her own mother once told her. Talk turns to college and shortly I reveal a new finding with my mother, my confidant.

"Mim, it's the weirdest thing."

"What Carli?"

"I feel like some of the people I've met at New College geniunely like me, and I like them too, much more than other people my age that I've come in contact with. But, so many of their friendships were dependent on a tiny event that if I hadn't decided to do whatever it was, I wouldn't have even met them. Like Persephone, she's my best friend down there but she's my roommate, and its doubtful that we would have ever been friends if we weren't roommates. And if she weren't my roommate I would be incredibly lonely."

My mother pauses from stirring the kettle of soup on the stove to look at me and reply "That's the sort of thing that makes me believe in fate."

"But wait, I still have problems relating to people, it's just that I like people there more than I liked the people here."

"Hmm, I'm sorry, I guess we raised you wrong."

I laugh. That's what she always says when I tell her about social woes. My parents are incredible people. That's what she really means when she said she raised us wrong. They both went to school out west at University of Colorado, in Boulder, so we were raised with a bit of Boulder ideology.

I'm not sure I agree with her belief in fate, that's too much like fool-hearty blind faith to me, but I think I'd like to believe in fate and destiny. There's a difference between faith and blind faith. Faith is believing in the future and doing what one can do to be a part of making that future. Blind faith is thinking that no matter what human ingenuity will help us out of any hole that humanity works itself into and will continue to flourish.

I first met blatant blind faith head on during an Advanced Placement Economics course at my high school. I'd been skirting run-ins with blind faith for years. When one is living in the Bible Belt in Northeast Florida, it's impossible to avoid the religious zealots of the region.

My track and cross country coach is also my Economics teacher. He's a decent person, and I like him a lot but he can be so stubborn and unreceptive, so sometimes he drives me crazy. This past year between class, practices, meets, traveling to meets, and being one of the top runners on the team, I felt like I saw more of him than I did my own parents. He's about average height with strawberry-blonde hair that he usually keeps cut pretty short. He's loves coaching and I think he enjoys teaching, but he's a better coach than teacher. He also has a family at home with three cute little kids.

This particular day, I enter class as normal. The classroom is the same bleak room with dreary gray walls and Coach Frank still has the lights off. I like day lighting, but when the light from the windows is near negligible, it seems silly to leave off the artificial lights, even if the lighting is dreadfully harsh.

Five or ten minutes after the class is scheduled to begin, Coach Frank finishes taking role and ends his personal conversations with the students. I can't recall what the lecture was supposed to be about, but as it sometimes did, the lecture turned to environmentalism and the aspects of it that are detrimental to the economy. Coach Frank is quite aware of my admiration of the natural world and sometimes chooses to exploit my love during classes. The discussion apexes when Coach Frank says something like "Technological growth will always develop when required. Human civilization will never end."

I'm not quite sure how to describe the feeling his statement invoked in me. I'd describe it as rage, but that doesn't accurately capture the sentiment. It was definitely an intense emotion. I'm certain that my opinion of my coach changed irreversibly in that moment. I don't understand worship of the human race and belief in invincibility. We are living flesh just as much as the Great Blue Heron, or the American Alligator. We are invincible, and even if we weren't, the earth can't continue to provide for us at the rate it is forever. We will run out of oil at some point in time and hopefully we'll find a viable alternative before we destroy all of our last natural places digging for oil.

The closure of my childhood approaches rapidly, yet I wonder if I'll ever lose that sense of wonder associated with being a child. For me, life has remained a continuum of surprises, but I'm afraid that I will soon lose this sense of curiosity and innocence.

This evening following my daily workout, I decide to walk out to the river on the dock and am rewarded with a magnificent scene full of pure natural splendor. First, I spot a pair of manatees surfacing, maybe fifty feet from me, playing with a crab trap. The curiosity of these gentle beasts will always humor me, and the death of one will forever fill me with sorrow. I wish I could protect these innocent creatures, but how does one shield life from the recklessness of the world?

Accompanying the manatees are a variety of birds-a Great Blue Heron, a white egret, some common songbirds, and a few coots. One coot flies very near my still head. Mullet jump occasionally splashing the calm waters. I watch the last of today's sun drop beneath the trees, leaving behind a vibrant trail of colors. The wind blows, slightly stirring ripples on the tannic river.

I remain watching a storm bellow on the horizon. A few bolts of lighting strike the sky far from where I stand. I doubt the storm will ever reach my little alcove on earth, so for now I feel safe watching the grandeur of mother nature.

I still keep my vigil over the peaceful river. In a little while moon beams catch the sky. The frogs and the crickets instantaneously begin their serenades, acting as buglers, vocally proclaiming the arrival of the royal summer moon. Eventually, the moon rises above the trees opposite of the side where the sun just set.

I take one more look at the aesthetic scene around me, gazing at the remains of the sunset, the puffy white storm clouds, and the beginnings of the moon. I say goodbye to the manatees and the birds and slowly walk back down to the dock and return to my cozy wooded home.

Perhaps this will be the last time I will ever be able to so sensually enjoy such a sight. I don't think that life will alter me entirely but maybe my life will become bitterly tainted by the realities of the world. I have much to learn, yet it is hard to leave this niche of bliss. I know I must take my steps out into the world and make my own alterations in effort to better the earth and its inhabitants.

I fear my town and my river will crumble in my absence. The construction of a massive section of an interstate 95 southern bypass threatens to destroy Orangedale and Bayard Conservation forever. Its difficult to imagine that I will not have the option of raising my own children on Orangedale's sacred grounds. Grease and road runoff will add to the agricultural runoff already wrecking the river. The horrid noise of massive amounts of transportation will fill the once tranquil evening air. Animals will leave and some will die with the loss of more of their habitat. The people of Orangedale will leave too, joining the masses of displaced people losing their connections and ties to their lands. The land will change. Wal-Mart's and Home Depots will appear and a new set of people programmed by the American media and pop culture will re-inhabit my special place. Another peaceful Floridian rural town will be a part of the unchecked growth ripping through Florida and other parts of America.

I have hope that eventually we people will see the error in our lifestyles and cease our destructiveness. Mother earth will force us in the end to heed her needs. We can't keep ignoring her warning signs without repercussion. These Floridian hurricanes are coming in protest of destroying Florida's gentle forests and polluting her serene waters. Other parts of the world are receiving similar warning cries. Giant tsunamis and massive earthquakes don't just happen by random chance. Our earth is crying all over. One day, the world will be a better place, but we collectively must stop stabbing the earth with three billion knives.

Carli Cooper is a student at New College of Florida. She wrote this Autobiographical Environmental Memoir for a class with Professor Susan Cerulean.

back to top