naturally noted

- robert allen writes new words about front-seat philosophy and florida ecology

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A Strange Sight: A series of broken and battered tree trunks have washed ashore along an otherwise desolate stretch of shoreline between lots 10 and 11 on Playa Linda Beach. Remarkably, the trunks remain firmly rooted to a mat of dense, black, and rubber-like soil that washed ashore with them, seemingly indifferent to the sea’s usual destructive nature.

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a little pineapple emerging into the light

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winter moon, pastel palette: a still from a clip taken while southbound on A1A in Flagler Beach

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On the bank of the Indian River in Cocoa Village, a lone yacht tender waits to convey its owners back to their mooring spot.

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A crooked cedar in Flagler Beach basks under the last waves of warmth that the day's winter light will offer.

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the marina, before the storm

The evening air hung heavy with a strange glow. Even if the hurricane hadn’t appeared all over the news, anyone looking out from the Space Coast that evening could have sensed its imminence. A handful of people still moved quietly around the marina, re-positioning boats and reinforcing lines.

 Each neighboring pair of sailboats needed offset—one pulled forward and other pulled backward to reduce the risk of the masts becoming entangled if the boats rolled in opposite directions at the same time. The marina manager and the boat owners inspected the lines for weak points, too. They replaced the most worn lines first.

 Everyone tied the knots extra tight but left a little more slack than usual in the lines to account for the possible tidal surge. Meteorologists forecasted the potential for four or five feet of water. If that happened, the slack left in the lines would still probably not keep the boats from breaking loose.

 The sun set, and the work continued—the same tight-lipped faces, moving around between the slips.

 The lines tied to the aft of each boat ran to freestanding pylons, pushed into the bottom of the harbor but unattached to any dock. To replace or reinforce these lines, people pushed off from the dock on a tiny makeshift raft and rowed over to the pylons. The raft, not designed for moving through the water, wobbled precariously. And despite the vessel’s small size, holding a stable course proved difficult because its square shape prohibited alternating sides when rowing.  

 By 10 PM, the Marina’s sense of quiet descends to a new level. Most of the people left long ago—but the boats sit, silent and still in the black water, waiting for the storm.  

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lantana & the butterfly, spotted in Titusville, FL

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The old Suzuki finally arrived at a quarter of a million miles.

The summer before last, it reached 200,000. Last summer, it reached 225,000. And right on schedule, it reached 250,000 this summer. Above, the car waits as the day dies, right where A1A passes Beverly Beach in Flagler County. 

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Sunset over the Indian River 

The Indian River, which separates the mainland from Merritt Island, isn’t truly a river. Instead, it’s one part of a brackish lagoon system that begins at Ponce Inlet, miles north of Brevard County. To the north and east, the system includes Mosquito Lagoon, which connects to the Indian River through Haulover Canal. And to the south and east, the system includes the Banana River, which separates Merritt Island from Cape Canaveral and connects with the Indian River at the southern apex of the former land mass.

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- looking southeast from the top of the lighthouse at Ponce Inlet, the channel between South Daytona Beach and New Smyrna Beach that connects the Atlantic Ocean to the Intracoastal Waterway and the Indian River Lagoon system 

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from the Palm Coast farmers’ market: white, purple, and green cauliflower

roasted with red pepper oil and sea salt

topped with radish, arugula, and sunflower sprouts

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a male cardinal along the edge of Lake Tallavana

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The cacti are blooming along A1A. This particular one was in the dunes along Beverly Beach, just north of Flagler Beach. 

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another day

The rain started suddenly. One moment the sky was clear. The next moment the water fell. It fell in mass, hardly separated into drops. Meanwhile, the golden sun continued to shine.

Just beyond the break, a half-dozen surfers continued to rise and fall with the waves, waiting for the right opportunity. They were clustered together, careful not to collide, just south of the pier. A few people on the boardwalk watched the surfers bob up and down.

Then, almost as quickly as the rain arrived, it left. A new haze of humidity rose from the previously baked streets and sidewalks. The intensity of the sun returned, unmitigated by a wall of water.

Then something unexpected happened. From the tangle of stolons between the road and the beach and from the fortress of saw palms filling the vacant lots, a little insect emerged. Then came another and another and another—hundreds of them, small white moths.

They daintily took to the air, following a seemingly whimsical flight plan that was too erratic to anticipate. They fluttered up and around and around—and then were gone, just like the rain.

There was something beautiful about it all: the pineapple rain, the unaffected surfers, and the fluttering white wings. It was a moment to fold up and take away.

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--three shots from a meadow along Highway 12, about 4 miles west of Havana, FL. 

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One from the (recent) archives: These flowers--perhaps miniature daffodil of some variety--bloomed abundantly along one block of Chattahoochee's Main Street.