You can never forget old Daytona Beach. Despite endless development, it still feels like a warm embrace. The wide sandy shores stretch into the teal waves of the Atlantic, where dark blue waters churn into greenish surf beneath the Florida sun, shifting sand and small sea creatures, sending sandpipers scurrying.
The beach is always alive, not only with the pull of the tides but with the steady presence of life - algae, seaweed, crabs, fish, birds, people. And on dark, moonless nights, you might catch sight of the gloomy, translucent shadows of drowned sailors, risen from Davy Jones' locker for a brief stroll along the shore.
It"s one of those places where you can still drive right onto the beach, where the old blends seamlessly with the new, creating a luring, ever-elusive Florida dream that never quite fades. Among the sand, littered with dying seaweed, are scattered the delicate, bluish skeletons of man-o-war - testaments to the ocean"s generosity and fickleness. Rough-handed fishermen, sunburned from long days under the sun, set up their gear along the shore, caught in the timeless dance of hope and patience.
When the season is in full swing, the boardwalk - a timeless expanse - beckons visitors with its familiar charm. Anchored by the iconic pier, where fishermen cast their nets, families gather to watch the horizon. The atmosphere pulses with the rhythm of the ocean. Food tents line the path, offering the enticing scents of fried shrimp and burgers, while the laughter of children and teens fills the air as they chase after bright carnival lights. At night, live music from the stages blends into the buzz and murmur of boardwalk life.
Joyland Amusement Park once stood as a beacon of excitement, its Ferris wheel towering against the sky, a symbol of carefree days and shared moments. That is, until the accident nearly killed a dozen people. The Ferris wheel was removed for repairs and never restored, vanishing with time like many of the treasures that once made old Daytona Beach what it was. Now, that wheel spins only in people"s memories.
As the sun dips low, the old ice cream shop becomes a sanctuary amidst the bustle, its rainbow of flavors flowing and swirling perpetually in a cascading machine, glowing in the shop window. Couples find solace on weathered benches, while the grand clock near the Hilton stands vigil, marking the passage of time in a place that feels both fleeting and eternal.
As the day wanes, Daytona Beach gradually begins to glow in golden light, full of stories and life - an ever-changing tapestry woven from the threads of a disparate crowd of wanderers and dreamers who make their way to the shore, seeking both solace and adventure. When deep night casts its velvet shroud over the beach and the boardwalk grows deserted, only the flicker of bugs in fluorescent light remains, and the homeless sleep beneath the benches, wrapped in their withered blankets like cabbages.
There was one particular place in Daytona Beach that Tony loved the most: Seabreeze Bridge park. Seabreeze Boulevard was where the river and the road met in quiet acceptance, as if they"d always belonged together. The bridge, a giant arch of steel and concrete, stretched across the Halifax River, seeming eternal, as if it had always been there, waiting for the water and wind to pass beneath it. Tony loved leaning against the railing, feeling the salt wind sting his face, gazing down at the boats. They rose and fell with the tide, tethered to the vast, shifting sea yet never quite still.
Most days, Tony stood next to an old Black man as weathered as the pilings under the bridge. His gray hair rippled in the breeze, and he held a cheap fishing rod-the kind you could pick up for a few bucks at the bait shop down the road. In his bucket, a couple of mullets flopped, gasping through their last moments. The man watched them with the patience of someone who"d seen it all before. Tony waved; the man waved back. But they never talked-until the fisherman reeled in a big catfish.
The fish flailed on the concrete, thrashing, putting up a fight. Tony remembered a couple from Palm Coast, two years back-a hillbilly pair on a pier. A catfish had sliced the man"s foot clean open, blood spilling everywhere. His careless wife had laughed while he grew pale, losing blood fast. Tony had almost called 911 but thought better of it. In America, you"d better not invade people"s privacy, especially a married couple"s.
But here was different. This man was alone.
"Careful with that guy," Tony said. "Those fins are sharper than a razor."
""Preciate it," the man nodded, gruff but polite. "I know "bout them fins." He pulled a thick, worn towel from his bag, wrapped the fish in one smooth move, and worked the hook free with a twist of his pliers. Then he leaned over the railing and dropped the fish back. It hit the water with a splash, vanished in the murk.
"Nah, I don"t eat no catfish," he said, seeing Tony"s look. "Junk fish, that"s all they are. I"m out here for snook, sheepshead, maybe a trout... redfish if I"m lucky."
Tony nodded. "I see. Pays off to be a junk fish. Nobody wants you."
The man let out a low chuckle. "Yeah, well, ain"t that the life? No rules, no taxes, no court chasin" you down, no tickets or fines... Just the one law out here: eat or be eaten."
"You can be eaten only once, man." Tony muttered philosophically. "But you have to pay taxes every year, and in California you pay in installments."
The man laughed, casting his line out wide over the dark water. "Ain't no shark in the sea could eat you in installments," he said with a grin. "You want freedom? It"s right here, in these waters..."
Below the bridge, the boat ramps told their own story, always busy with the comings and goings of eager boaters. The ridged surface, designed to grip the wheels of trucks and trailers, had become a trap, slick with algae. Anyone who"d been around long enough knew better, but when, a year later, Tony launched his kayak there for the first time in his life, he slipped and landed hard on his butt. Luckily, the commotion didn"t trigger an a-fib, as it had in the past.
"I was gonna tell ya you were cruisin" for a bruisin", young fella, but I was too late!" The old fisherman chuckled, viewing Tony - at fifty-two - as still a young man.
"Thanks for your help, anyway! I"m Tony."
"Mitchell. Nice meeting you, my friend!"
"The pleasure's all mine!"
"Remember, the sea doesn"t care when you're in trouble," Mitchell said, gently patting Tony's shoulder.
The meager patches of mangroves along the shore, spared from the bite of civilization, didn"t seem to care much, either. Their twisted roots, like gnarled hands, clung to the muddy earth, sheltering whatever wildlife could find a place beneath their limbs. They'd seen it all - the pelicans diving for fish, the crabs scuttling across the mud, the fishermen who came and went. And there, above it all, stood the bridge. Not grand or polished, but so colossal it seemed built by extraterrestrials. The kind of place where a fisherman could spend an entire day, rod in hand, lost in the steady flow of the water.
Tony couldn"t remember when the thought of a kayak first hit him. But once it did, it stuck-looping back and forth between wanting it and brushing it off. "You want freedom? It"s right here, in these waters," a voice in him dared. Another, cautious, shot back, "Remember, the sea doesn"t care if you"re in trouble."
The only trouble Tony couldn"t prevent - or prepare for - was the a-fib. You never knew when it would strike, like a fish leaping out of the water without warning.
It wasn"t the first time he"d felt the weight of his curse. But this wasn"t a weight others could help him carry, like in the song:
Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free;
Take a load off Fanny, and... you can put the load right on me.
Unlike Fanny, no one could take the load off his heart.
He watched others live loose, unrestrained, while he measured every step. The waters of Florida stretched out before him, open and uncertain. But he knew that if he backed out now, he"d lose a part of himself he hadn"t built yet.
One day, he saw a movie where a man hesitated to buy a boat. His friend pointed to his heart and said, "Listen to what this is telling you. It"s telling you that you"re homesick for a place you"ve never been."
Tony realized he was ready when he found himself combing Craigslist ads, searching for a kayak to carry him into the wild reach of the Halifax River. There was no more debate about needing a vessel to cross into this new chapter - only about choosing the right one. Some kayaks gleamed with sleek promise, but their price tags made his heart sink. Others, battered and faded, seemed on the verge of collapse, their worn exteriors whispering of years spent adrift.
Before diving into Craigslist, Tony had already done his research, scouring countless articles on buying kayaks. He learned about stability, length, weight, speed, drag, and hull design. But as he scrolled through listing after listing, nothing stood out - until he spotted it. A Wilderness Systems sit-on-top ten-footer with a solid backrest, sturdy enough for the intracoastal chop yet small enough to handle alone, going for just three hundred bucks. It was well below market value, and the pictures showed a kayak in good shape.
The kayak boasted a bright yellow hull, but a suspicious red spot on its bottom caught his attention. Still, the price was right, and the size was perfect to fit into the back of the Yukon XL that Tony felt was an extension of his natural body. He imagined that this kayak might become the same extension on the water as his Yukon was on dry land. His heart picked up pace - not from the a-fib this time - but from the sudden realization that this little plastic boat might just be his key to something bigger. Without a second thought, he made the call.
The next morning, Tony climbed into his Yukon and entered the kayak seller"s address into the GPS. It was a quiet Saturday, and with the roads mostly clear, the drive from Daytona Beach to New Smyrna went smoothly. The neighborhood was easy to find, and there in the front yard sat the bright yellow kayak, just as promised. In the fenced backyard, a dozen more kayaks were scattered about like discarded toys.
It didn"t take long for Tony to figure out why the price was so low. The red spot on the bottom? It was a patch. Randall, the seller - a man who introduced himself as "the postal guy" - explained that he made a side business of buying damaged kayaks. "People hit metal rods, oyster bars, you name it," he said, patting the patched area with a grin. "I weld 'em up good as new."
He chuckled, a bit too easily. "This hobby keeps me from actually going postal," he added. "You wouldn"t believe the stress working at the post office puts on you."
Tony started to ask something, but Randall waved him off with a grin. "No, nobody"s drowned, and not a single kayak"s sunk because of my patches."
Before Tony could respond, Randall motioned him inside. The house was sparse, lacking any sign of a feminine touch. It was clear this guy was a bachelor through and through. Furniture was minimal, but what filled the space was baffling - loudspeakers, some taller than Tony, cluttered the living room. Paper plates and wrappers littered the floor, perched on top of the speakers, giving off a faint whiff of old food, though Randall seemed immune to the smell.
He switched on the sound system, and Led Zeppelin burst from the speakers, filling the house with a sound so crisp, it could"ve been a live concert. Tony was awestruck.
"My Behringer speakers don"t come close to this," Tony admitted.
Randall snorted. "Behringer? Behringer"s garbage. Their speakers, amps - all junk."
Tony, still impressed, half-joked, "Can I buy a pair of these?"
Randall shot him a sideways look. "Sure, if you"ve got five grand lying around. That"s the cheapest pair I make."
"five grand?" Tony gasped.
"Yep, for real musicians. Kayaks? They"re just my hobby - my spiritual break. The real money"s in the speakers."
Tony glanced around. "So you"ve got cash, but you live like this? What about your missus? She doesn't mind?"
Randall shrugged, entirely unconcerned. "Don"t need a missus. Got my loudspeakers, my guitar, and my kayaks. That"s all I need."
With that, Randall counted the cash, helped Tony load the kayak into the back of the Yukon, and sent him off with a wave, heading toward new adventures with his patched-up vessel.
Tony's whole life savings amounted to ten grand - not much when spread thin. His mother back in Ukraine relied on him for support, and his aunt Vera needed help, too. On top of that, he needed a cushion in case he wound up in the hospital if his a-fib hit again. Realistically, he could only spare three hundred this month. It came down to a choice - buy a used couch or get the kayak. He didn"t hesitate. The kayak won out.
The back seat from his totaled Plymouth Voyager, dragged up to the apartment and propped against the wall, had served as his makeshift couch for over a year. It wasn"t fancy, but it worked. "Nobody cares what it is," Tony thought. His ex-wife Daniella might have raised a stink, but she"d left twelve years back to take care of her parents. Sheri didn"t give a rat"s ass. It was enough to watch TV from, and that"s all that mattered. But the kayak-that was different. That little plastic vessel meant freedom.
Daniella had spent her life fighting for freedom from her possessive mother. They were never close. Her father left when she was fifteen, worn down by the same stifling control. Daniella had to keep her relationships secret, and if her suspicious mother ever picked up a call from a boyfriend on the landline-back before cell phones-she"d demand, "What does he want from you?"
Daniella hadn"t been close to Tony, either. She likely married him hoping that, with his steady character, he could shield her from her mother"s relentless intrusion. But even under the full force of Tony's protection, Daniella remained self-absorbed, constantly grappling with issues of self-esteem and self-realization. So when she left Tony and flew back to Ukraine to take care of her mother, he quickly forgot her and never missed her. "She wasn"t a bad companion, and honestly, she was a good fuck, but no more than that," he thought, a bit cynically. "She never really tried to be a part of my life - always clinging to her old girlfriends, whom she adored."
Sheri, his long-time American girlfriend, was his steady companion. She was loyal, she was loving, but something was missing. Watching Cool Hand Luke, Tony heard the words, "What we"ve got here is a failure to communicate." The line stayed with him. He thought about Sheri. He thought about his ex. He felt the gap between them.
One afternoon, they visited the Alligator Farm in Saint Augustine. A young trainer, sharp-eyed and sure, offered to let visitors pose beside a pair of massive gators, their jaws spread wide in a reptilian grin that looked like a Leviathan"s own smirk. It was a perfect setup for a dramatic picture.
Tony, intrigued by the idea, was about to step forward when Sheri grabbed his hand. "Before you feed yourself to that dinosaur," she quipped with a wry smile, "you"d better give me the key to your truck. Oh, and maybe write up a quick will - make me the heir to your condo and all that money of yours." Tony chuckled, but there was no picture with the gators that day. The only adventure left for him was holding a small python, which he enthusiastically agreed to.
The massive snake, cold and smooth like a leather sleeve filled with heavy rubber, coiled lazily around Tony"s forearm, its unblinking eyes fixed on him. "Be gentle with my girl," said the snake handler, a young woman with a playful smile. "Suzie loves handsome men!"
As the python slithered across his skin, Tony couldn"t shake the feeling that Suzie, unlike Sheri, had a more genuine interest in him. When he"d been in the hospital with his a-fib the last time, Sheri hadn"t visited, telling him she was busy with family.
"Hell, Suzie would"ve probably shown up at the hospital," he thought with a hint of a smile. "She may be a snake, but at least she doesn"t have a family to keep her away."
The last time a-fib struck, it hit him while driving home from work. He"d turned the car around and gone straight to the hospital. Wouldn"t be so easy if it hit while he was paddling out in the Intracoastal. Yet he was set on going to the water, no matter what.
Tony watched a ton of videos on paddling technique before finally setting the precious vessel down on the floor of his living room. Grabbing the paddle, he began practicing strokes, determined to perfect his technique. However, he soon found himself shifting uncomfortably in the firm, narrow seat as his butt began protesting. After waiting for the discomfort to subside, he dove back into his practice. The anticipation of the weekend was almost unbearable; he kept checking the weather forecast, hoping for clear skies and no rain.
After making a grand entrance on the slick ramp - with a Humpty-Dumpty fall that introduced him to Mitchell - Tony focused on getting himself into the kayak without tipping over. To his surprise, the boat proved remarkably stable and resistant to rocking - indeed, a true beginner's kayak built for safety. However, Tony would later discover that its stability came at the cost of speed and drag. It wasn't until months later, after watching countless instructional videos and paddling regularly, that he began to understand the nuances seasoned paddlers often discussed.
Hardly having been in a boat before, Tony felt a strange stillness as he sat in his kayak. The shoreline, the imposing bridge, and the scattered boats and docks drifted slowly past him. The world around was moving slowly while he remained perfectly motionless at the center. Buildings slid by, their outlines blurring as they approached and receded. When he turned the kayak, everything shifted. The scenery gradually pivoted, swirling around him, as if the world itself were spinning lazily while he held steady, anchored in the midst of a lively panorama.
Unlike most novice kayakers, Tony quickly realized that he shouldn"t be splashing water with his paddle. The river water was not light and liquid like the water in a glass; instead, it felt heavy and sticky, imposing its own pace, speed, and rhythm. When he followed the water's rules, it helped him glide smoothly; when he didn"t, the water punished him immediately. Just as he could sense the road through the wheels of his Yukon, he could now feel the river beneath him through the bottom of his kayak and the blades of his paddle.
It was a whole new world. For the first time, Tony felt that his curse - the a-fib - might not keep him from living fully, from embracing life with all its risks and uncertainties.
To be fair, Tony didn"t paddle like a virtuoso on his first day, or even in his first month - or his first year. His maiden strokes - after a brief talk with Mitchell - were short and chaotic. Yet he kept the kayak on course, slowly but steadily making his way along the river. As he approached a wooden dock hut at the end of a long pier, a young couple called out from inside their flimsy shelter. "Do you paddle just for exercise or for the joy of it?" they asked. "Of course, I paddle for the joy!" Tony shouted melodramatically. "Yay!" the young woman cheered. "We made a bet on your intentions. I just won fifteen bucks thanks to you!"
Sheri never placed bets with Tony on anything. She had her own efficient ways around him, often nagging for cash and gifts. They had established a little tradition of barbecuing every Friday night, with Tony always taking charge of the meat and charcoal. One day, when work had him tied up and running late, he called her, hoping she could pick up the usual supplies.
"It"s your responsibility to buy everything!" she snapped, her voice crackling through the phone, sharp and unyielding.
Tony felt a surge of offense, bordering on fury. "It"s my goodwill and benevolence, not my responsibility! Responsibility should be shared!"
"I guess I might need a new boyfriend who brings more goodwill," Sheri retorted, her tone cutting.
"Well, good luck with that!" Tony shot back. "You can easily find the perfect man in your neighborhood - one with no job and maxed-out credit cards!"
"Are you pulling the race card now?" Sheri"s voice turned threatening. "You think they"re all trash because they"re Black?"
"Did I ever say "Black"?" Tony replied with a grain of sarcasm.
"You didn"t, but you implied it! Go ahead, call me a nigger so I can break up with you right away!" she challenged.
"I might as well, but you"d have to call me a kike first," he countered. Their words came sharp and fast, like arrows flying between them, each one hitting close to home.
"Ukrainian women aren"t greedy! They don"t use their men; they help!" Tony said, a sigh of regret escaping him as he reminisced about days long gone.
"Then get a ticket and fly back to Ukraine! You"re in the United States now!" Sheri shot back angrily before hanging up.
Tony grew up in a poor country where most people lived hand to mouth. Families scraped by, struggling to put food on the table, and love was shown in ways that didn"t cost anything. Back in Ukraine, he could barely afford a bicycle, let alone a car, a boat, or his own place to live. He lived first with his parents, then with Daniella and her mother. It was only in America that he finally had his own place for the first time.
But life in America ran differently. People, women especially, expected love to come wrapped in dollars and gifts.
He had made his peace with it. Almost everything here had a price - even religion, friendship, and love. He didn"t mind showing Sheri he cared in the ways people expected. But this argument wasn"t about love.
Thinking it over, he remembered Sheri telling him about her father, a drunk who had left everything to her mother to keep together. That was it. Sheri didn"t care about money itself; she wanted to feel protected by her man.
On his way home, Tony picked up a barbecued chicken and a bottle of white Zinfandel. They ate the chicken, drank the wine, made love, and watched a movie, but their conversation was sparse, as if the remnants of their argument still lingered like a dark bird flying around, brushing against them with its wings.
Tony hated arguing with women. It was like arguing with a snake: you"d try to be logical, to prove your point, while she slithered around it, changing the argument relentlessly, waiting for the perfect moment to strike with venom. Logic couldn"t overpower venom - Tony had learned that early on, from years of arguing with his toxic mother.
His parents had a piece of land where they grew potatoes, tomatoes, and strawberries. They ate some and sold the rest at the local market for extra money. His mother would constantly nudge teenage Tony to dig vegetable rows or move the manure they used as fertilizer. Tony never refused, but after a while, he started experiencing palpitations and shortness of breath. He"d stop working, stick his spade into the soil, and stand there breathing heavily, trying to regain his strength. Neither he nor his mother knew he had a-fib.
Instead, she would start swearing at him, calling him a lazy idiot and worthless fool - until the day he turned pale and passed out, scaring her half to death. She called an ambulance, and Tony spent three days lingering between life and death in the ICU before they finally converted him with an electric shock. That"s how he learned he had paroxysmal atrial fibrillation.
"Lord, why did you chose me to give birth to such a cripple?" his mother would cry out each time the medics loaded Tony onto a gurney and rushed him to the hospital - four or five times a year, like clockwork. Over the years, Tony learned what his unreliable heart could handle and what it couldn"t. His trips to the hospital eventually dwindled to once or twice a year, when his a-fib would strike without warning, no longer triggered by physical or emotional stress, but seemingly out of the blue.
Tony worked on his body relentlessly. Every day brought pull-ups, push-ups, crunches, and weights, all while he meticulously monitored his pulse. He stopped whenever the palpitations kicked in. His persistence paid off-he grew strong, his body tough and sturdy. Everything about him hardened, except for his heart.
But now, with endless hours of paddling ahead, he had to train his heart, too. It might not keep perfect rhythm, but it needed perfect strength. Gradually, Tony increased his paddling workload, and after a couple of months, he began to feel the fruits of his labor.
The very first thing Tony figured out about paddling was that the stroke needed to be as long as possible. It wasn"t a kick but rather, a pull. He quickly realized that paddling wasn"t just about arms and shoulders; it involved his entire body. Bit by bit, he learned to engage his torso, abs, buttocks, and thighs with each stroke. He discovered how to hold the paddle so his biceps worked on one side and pushed with his triceps on the other, alternating between pulling and pushing.
One day, as Tony paddled to the Seabreeze ramp, he noticed a group of young boaters watching him with curiosity. A kid in a bright scarf called out, "Ahoy, old pirate! Where"d you go today?"
Tony grinned. "Made it to Coquina Marina, swung by Giraffe"s Walk, then hit the Riverside Johnny"s after passing along the Main Street drawbridge. Then a straight shot back here."
The guy in the vintage Mako shirt, sporting a goatee, laughed, "That"s a lot of water, man! Your arms must be feeling it. How do you deal with the pain?"
"Pain?" Tony raised his brows. "Not from paddling. The last time my arms felt sore was when I was a kid digging earth and laying bricks on my family"s land."
The kid chuckled, "Looks like your kayak"s treating you right, then."
Tony nodded toward their boat. "And that Mako"s a beauty, sleek as a shark."
"Yeah... She"s sharp," the guy said proudly.
Tony glanced out at the open water. "It gets under your skin, doesn"t it? Once you"re out there..."
The guy grinned, "Top of my heart, man. Top of my heart."
Tony couldn"t echo that sentiment. A couple of years back, his cardiologist had walked him through an MRI of his heart, pointing to a spot on the screen.
"See the thickness at the apex?" the doctor asked.
"What"s the apex?" Tony replied.
"The top of your heart. You have apical hypertrophic cardiomyopathy - where the muscle is rigid and doesn"t contract. The septum, the wall between chambers, is thickened too. Those unstable muscles cause your a-fib. Luckily, the rest of your heart compensates well, allowing you to endure those episodes."
"Why, doctor?"
"It's a genetic mutation. You were just born that way; it"s a lifetime condition."
In that moment, Tony understood he wasn"t a lazy idiot or a freeloader; he simply hadn"t been made to dig the soil like the other boys in his village. During their weekly phone call, he shared this insight with his mother.
"Mom, I wanted you to know I wasn't dodging the row garden work. I have a heart condition, and I"ll have it for life."
"Bollocks!" she scoffed. "Lazy people will invent any disease just to avoid hard work." Frustration bubbled inside him, hardening his expression.
Sheri noticed the change. Once the call ended, she exclaimed, "Tony! You've got a toxic mother. Stop calling her; she's killing you!"
"I can't," he replied calmly. "After all, she"s my mother."
His mother never approved of his kayaking in the Intracoastal, and soon he stopped sharing those moments with her altogether.
Meanwhile, Tony"s paddling skills sharpened with every hour spent on the water. He learned to counter the kayak"s natural wiggle, fine-tuning each stroke with careful adjustments in angle and power. The rhythm of his movements became a dance with the water, a silent conversation between man and sea.
His first kayak, marked by a red patch on its flat bottom, lacked a keel, making it agile but a bit unwieldy in straight lines. Yet, this allowed him to weave between the pylons near the docks. The zigzagging felt like a thrilling workout, an athletic dance through the water that filled him with a deep, exhilarating sense of freedom.
Tony had navigated around the pylons countless times, and his heart had never faltered, no matter how much strain he put it under. But one day, a buzzing, rumbling sound pulled his focus skyward. A small helicopter circled the Halifax River, its blades slicing through the sky. Tony stared up at the bright blue, bottomless abyss overhead, and for a moment, it felt as though he was suspended upside down, clinging to his tiny, flat vessel, about to plummet into an endless descent - like slipping into the Maelström. His heart began to pound fiercely, palpitations taking over. He forced himself to lower his gaze, and almost immediately, the racing stopped.
Though terrifying, Tony fell in love with that abyss and the surreal sensation it brought. It was like a gateway to another dimension. But no matter how much he wanted to, he could never look into that vast, blue chasm without triggering those damn palpitations.
Once paddling became as natural to Tony as breathing, walking, or driving, his attention shifted from his strokes to the world around him. He watched birds dive and tussle for fish, dolphins tumbling and playing in the calm waters, and fish leaping from the surface. Manatees would surface nearby, releasing long, mournful wails as they gasped for air. Baby manatees were popping up beside his kayak, their small, whiskered faces staring at him with curious eyes.
One of those days on the water, Tony spotted a dying pelican struggling on a sandy flat near a tiny mangrove islet. Its wings flapped weakly, a futile attempt at flight. A fishing line with a bright red sinker hung from its mouth, the sharp hook buried deep in the bird's throat, leaving it unable to eat - doomed to die.
Just a week before, Tony had watched a fisherman on a pier pull a mullet from the water. Just as the fisherman was about to grab it, a young pelican swooped down, swallowing the fish mid-air - and got hooked. The bird thrashed, dangling beneath the pier, flapping frantically. The fisherman quickly reeled it in, but as he reached to remove the hook with his pliers, the pelican broke free, escaping with the line still caught tight in its throat.
The man fell hard on the pier, then struggled to stand, bleeding from his knee. "Hail Mary, mother of God!" he gasped, cutting the line with his knife before turning away, unwilling to witness the bird's flight-strong yet fated. As Tony watched the struggling pelican now, he wondered if it was the same one, its life slowly slipping away.
One could say the "writing was on the wall," but there was no wall and no writing, only grisly death ahead. Besides, pelicans can't read.
"Повадился кувшин по воду ходить, значит там ему и голову сложить," ("If a jug keeps going to fetch water, it will end up breaking there.") Tony recalled, the old Russian saying echoing in his mind - his Russian as fluent as his Ukrainian.
"It"ll take quite a bit of salt water trips to break me, though," he mused, a soft smile creeping across his face. He ventured onto the water at every opportunity, basking in stunning sunsets from his kayak, drifting past moored yachts that tugged gently at their lines. In those moments, he floated in a world he might never have known had he not spent the luckiest three hundred dollars of his life.
Tony"s yellow kayak, marked by a red patch, held up for almost three years before it began to leak and the polyethylene warped. By then, he had saved eight hundred bucks for an eleven-foot Hobie. Its keel-like bulge offered speed, drag, and stability in serious waves, though it sacrificed some agility. One day, a skipper aboard a large yacht gunned the engines, sending a massive wake crashing toward Tony in a deliberate attempt to tip him over. But Tony angled his kayak at thirty degrees toward the wave, cutting through it smoothly-his Hobie remained unshaken.
With this new kayak, Tony ventured into the wide Intracoastal near Boynton Inlet, riding the tide by the inlet wall as pelicans and large red iguanas watched from the railing.
Tony quickly learned to navigate through the strong chop and wind, enduring a rough, wet ride that demanded every ounce of his strength. His heart raced, yet it maintained a steady rhythm without a single palpitation. Paddling transformed his arms and shoulders into tougher instruments. Unbeknownst to him, after months of saltwater paddling, he had become a seasoned kayaker. But now, his thoughts drifted toward something more substantial - a real boat to call his own, a vessel that would carry him further into the horizon.
Meanwhile, Tony put his old, cheap Walmart paddle to rest in the storage room, trading up for a professional-grade model from Best Marine and Outdoors. The new paddle, a substantial 250 cm in length, featured a carbon fiber shaft and fiberglass-reinforced polypropylene blades. Despite its impressive size, it felt feather-light in his hands. That paddle transformed his experience, bringing an effortless glide to every stroke and a newfound sense of mastery over the water.
He had picked up a wealth of knowledge about wind, tide, and chop. He could spot the oyster bars and submerged sandbanks by the color and movement of the sea. He learned how the waves organized themselves in packs, almost as if they were living creatures. He learned that waves with shorter periods were called chop, created by local winds, while those with longer periods - much more powerful - reflected conditions from the open ocean, sometimes thousands of miles away, echoing storms whipped up by trade winds, cyclones, and typhoons on the other side of the planet.
When the swell was strong, Tony felt as if his little boat were glued to a giant pool of water that suddenly became a sticky goop, lifting him up and forward, then gradually pulling him down and backward, rendering his paddling nearly useless. Yet, he knew that the swell couldn't stop him from moving ahead; it was merely a sensation, an illusion so potent that he struggled to shake it off no matter how long he rode the swell.
Tony spent his days reading and watching reality shows about the Atlantic Ocean. At night, he dreamed of being at the helm of his own boat, gliding into the open sea, beyond the horizon.
For the first time, Tony tried to get Sheri interested in kayaking, but she showed no signs of enthusiasm, and he eventually gave up. All Sheri wanted was his attention, manifesting as small cash donations, little gifts, and trips to thrift stores and flea markets. As an avid clothes horse, she would often buy yet another skirt or pair of jeans for a couple of bucks, casting Tony a look that signaled it was time for him to pitch in for her little splurges.
In truth, Sheri disliked Tony's deep involvement in paddling and sea life because it demanded time and attention that she wanted all to herself. Though she became jealous of the sea, being a smart woman, she never voiced her disdain for his passion, knowing it would only push him away. Strangely, most Floridians rarely ventured to the ocean or spent time on the beach. Tony learned that the beachgoers were mostly tourists, visiting from every corner of the globe. The locals typically came to the beach to sell ice cream and burgers or to lure the occasional tourist into a timeshare presentation, tempting them with free hors d'oeuvres and cheap wine.
Sheri preferred spending time on the beach with Tony, snacking and sipping beers wrapped in brown paper to avoid the attention of the cops. Occasionally, they would prepare "drunk grapes," submerging them in seventy-five percent grain alcohol for a couple of days. Once processed, the grapes would become a potent threat. A dozen of those grapes, enjoyed under the Florida sun, left both Tony and Sheri abominably drunk and horny, which made them rush to Tony's Yukon and make out in the back seat.
At some point, Tony began to split his time, exploring new places. He quickly fell in love with Delray Beach, always driving there when the sun hung low in the sky. He dropped his kayak into the ramp at Knolls Park, a world apart from the open waters he usually navigated. Here, the Intracoastal was much narrower, flanked by thick development on both sides. Twinkling lights reflected off the water, making night kayaking a breeze.
When the tide flowed north, he headed south toward the Linton Boulevard Bridge, where dim red lights greeted him beneath the dark arch. He often deviated from the canal to the quaint waterfront community, where deep-sea fishing boats and small yachts were docked in front of the condos, home to those lucky enough to dream of catching a blue marlin. On days when the tide ran the opposite direction, he glided north toward the Atlantic Boulevard Bridge. It was a longer route, but it was worth it.
Tony noticed how the buildings along the canal could almost create the wind themselves. Passing the Barrton condominium - a looming thirteen-story structure - a strong, gusty wind would push his kayak, turning it sideways, regardless of the wind in the rest of the area. Tony learned to hug the shore close to the Barrton, which he called the "Parenthesis" due to its shape, to avoid the notorious wind he"d nicknamed the "Thug." The Thug lurked behind the Parenthesis, waiting to strike sharply from the side as though trying to tip him over.
Not far from the Parenthesis, Tony got his baptism of fire. The canal was narrow, a strict no-wake zone, but the yacht"s skipper hit the throttle anyway. A wall of water rolled toward Tony. He turned bow-first, rode the crest, then slid down steady as a rock. The yacht tore off, slowing a thousand feet later, the skipper playing it safe from there. Tony didn"t even notice he hadn"t been scared-he"d moved on instinct alone, and he"d moved right.
Across the canal from the Parenthesis lay a wide basin, crowded with docks and boats - from small Boston Whalers to midsize yachts with tall towers and Furuno radar on top. Tony often drifted into the basin to study the boats and swap a few words with people on shore. A man doesn"t need to be talkative, but now and then, he needs to be around others. Once, Tony found himself surrounded by a school of mullet, the fish leaping from the water in flashes of silver, dense enough to cast shadows. Thousands of them sparkled and thrashed, a steady rustling in the sunlight. Then, as suddenly as they"d come, they vanished.
As Tony neared the Atlantic Boulevard Bridge, the nearby marinas were packed with million-dollar yachts, their polished hulls gleaming softly under the glow of string lights in the deepening night.
On the waterfront, Tony would spot decorations in the front yards - fancy garden gnomes, vibrant flower beds, palm trees entwined with colorful garlands and tiki torches casting flickering shadows. Laughter floated over the water as groups lounged in lawn chairs, drinks in hand, cigars smoldering in the twilight.
"Evening," Tony called to an old man sitting on his porch, a glass of something amber resting on his knee.
"Nice night for a paddle," the man replied, squinting through the fading light. "Catch anything good?"
"Just enjoying the water. You know how it is," Tony said, smiling. The old man nodded knowingly, the lines on his face deepening as he chuckled.
A young woman stood in the front yard of her fancy house, her Labrador busy digging at a bush, probably terrorizing a toad. She waved and walked to the edge of the seawall. "Hey there!" she called, her voice bright and cheerful. Tony glanced up, catching a glimpse of her trim figure without much thought - more reflex than intent.
"Great dog you"ve got," he called back, still paddling gently, craning his neck to see the lab"s eager face as it wagged its tail.
"Thanks! This is Dolly," she replied with a smile.
"Like in Hello, Dolly?"
"Exactly! She loves the water - just like her owner," she added, grinning as Dolly tried to leap into the canal.
"Maybe I should take her kayaking," Tony joked, his eyes twinkling.
"Only if you want to swim," she laughed. A warmth lingered in the air, and for a moment, Tony felt a familiar ease, like talking to a Ukrainian woman from years past.
These moments had become a routine in Tony's life, small things he counted on and looked forward to. The lights on the water, the quiet friendliness from fellow boaters and those ashore - each added to his journey. He found himself dreaming of his own boat, not to replace the kayak but to have both. He wanted another way to be out there, to feel that same tide beneath him, yet with the range to go further when he wanted.
One day, Sheri tossed a glossy travel magazine onto the table, open to a feature on St. Augustine. "Try paddling in that mess," she said with a smirk, tapping a photo of the city"s waters around the old fort, boats clustered like ducklings. "Maybe that"ll teach you."
They"d only ever explored St. Augustine on foot before-wandering the old streets, poking through Castillo de San Marcos, then unwinding over drinks at Tini Martini. But now Tony"s curiosity took hold. He traced the magazine"s map with his finger, noting the intricate lacework of tidal creeks and sandbars spilling toward the ocean. The next morning, he was up early, piecing together his route, already feeling the pull of the water.
Tony spent a good hour studying the map, letting his mind settle on each part of the route as carefully as he"d memorized the sounds of American English, watching Sheri"s lips-years ago. From the Vilano ramp, a narrow tidal creek of the Tolomato River slid into the Matanzas, meeting the chop of the St. Augustine inlet near Vilano Point-too rough for a kayak. He knew he"d need to keep right to hug the shore. A tidal creek split off from the open river and wound south, ending in Hospital Creek, with Castillo de San Marcos just a thousand feet further on. The sandbar that split the Matanzas was part beach, part oyster bed. Here, he could pull the kayak onto a narrow sandy patch and have a bite before moving on, if he could fend off the seagulls. He"d pry open a few oysters with his knife to keep them busy.
Tony launched from Vilano, his bow slicing clean through the slack water until he spotted them-a pair of dolphins, close and circling, with a smaller one between. Mating season. They were absorbed in each other, right in the middle of the boat path, oblivious. Tony held steady, drifting close. When the next boat rumbled toward them, he raised his paddle, shouting for the skippers to steer wide. They swerved and laughed. The dolphins traced a few lazy circles around his kayak, then sank beneath the current, slipping into shadows. Only then did Tony angle his bow southward, toward the sandbar.
He stopped there, pulling the kayak over the sand, feeling the coarse grit under his palms. He ate a sandwich from Publix in Vilano Beach, sipped some water, and watched the sunlight ripple across the marsh grass and river. There were no seagulls around, only a flock of white ibises moving along the shore, their long, curved bills probing the mud for food. The Castillo stood to the south, all stone and shadow, solid against the sky. Further on, he could see the Bridge of Lions-the temporary one, long gone now-a rough stretch of steel with a platform that rose straight up in the middle, like the bare ribs of some massive, river-born beast.
"I"ve paddled there, all over. So what?" he asked Sheri with a grin.
"Every dog has its day," she replied.
"But there are more dogs than days," Tony countered.
"Anthony!" Sheri pretended to frown. "You"re fixin" to get on my nerves, really!"
Sheri was right; every dog has its day. Fresh from his Matanzas tour, Tony set his sights on the marshland and tidal creeks that seemed inviting on the map, their quiet branches appearing like veins of solitude, winding away from the open river.
One early morning, he launched from the Vilano ramp, paddling upriver toward a creek that, on the map, appeared to weave neatly west toward the westernmost branch of the Matanzas, just under the A1A bridge. But as he ventured deeper into the marsh, the creek tightened to a narrow trench, barely wide enough to maneuver, and the water grew so shallow that his paddle scraped mud with each stroke. He pushed on, hoping the next bend would open up, but each turn seemed to wind tighter, like a noose drawing closed. The bridge ahead looked close enough to touch-if he could reach it, he could bring his Yukon over, and hoist the kayak out from there.
He considered hopping out and hauling the kayak by its bow strap, but the bottom was carpeted with oyster shells, sharp as a bed of razors, and he was barefoot. Retreat wasn"t an easy option either; the current pressed steadily against him, nudging him further from the ramp. His only choice was to bite the bullet and paddle in reverse until he found a wider spot to turn around.
For nearly an hour, Tony paddled backward, cursing under his breath in Ukrainian, Russian, and English. As the sun rose higher, burning into his shoulders and neck, he even dredged up an old Arabic curse-"Cus Emek!"-not entirely sure what it meant, but out of other words. Every few minutes, he propped his paddle against the creek bed to keep the current from drifting him off course, then scooped up creek water and poured it over his head to cool off.
When he finally reached a spot wide enough to turn around, another term came to mind-fubar. Fucked up beyond any recognition. And he really was.
Back at the ramp, he guzzled a bottle of water, poured the rest over his head, then headed to Publix in Vilano Beach. He picked up strawberry ice cream, a bottle of Sprite, and a tube of aloe cream to soothe his sunburned skin. Sitting in his car, devouring the ice cream, he laughed to himself, imagining Sheri"s face. "Every dog has its day," indeed.
During the pandemic, Tony"s software company took heavy hits. Some colleagues were lost to the disease, and the company transitioned to remote work to limit exposure. Tony adapted well, earning two promotions-first to senior engineer, then team lead. With the extra income, he could send more money to his mother and aunt in Ukraine. Sheri"s share grew, too, along with his savings. He paid off the mortgage on his Daytona Beach condo and purchased a small place in North Palm Beach, with a new curiosity for the South Florida waters sparking in him. For the first time, owning his own boat felt within reach.
Sheri wasn"t thrilled about the second place. She still had to go into her office daily and brushed off the idea of the commute south. "It"s too much of a drive," she said, frowning. Tony only replied, "Whatever."
Old Gene had his own opinion. "Why don"t you ever kayak at Phil Foster Park?" he asked one evening, with a knowing glint in his eye. "That place is something else. Ocean Reef Park on Singer Island too. You shouldn"t paddle the ocean in that soap box of yours, but you"d catch the vibes out there."
Gene Patterson, 93, was a retired Navy man and Tony"s neighbor in the small North Palm Beach condo. Even at his age, he still went deep-sea fishing with Jim van Nest, a "younger" friend at 68. Gene could sense the ocean-the currents, the chop, the swell - all from his porch, cherry pipe in hand. He"d served on a carrier and knew those waters well. Now he watched the boats on the horizon, quietly urging Tony to dive deeper into the life he was just beginning to glimpse.
Gene was a local mascot in his 55-plus community. He had two daughters who often stayed with him. Neighbors - mostly women -- brought him meals and kept him company, while Jim checked in during his daughters' absences. Despite his age, Gene remained sharp and mentally agile.
"I wish I could live up to their age," Tony mumbled, thinking of Mitchell and Gene. "You can say what you want about America, but you never really get old here. As long as you can live, you can live fully."
One windy afternoon, Tony was packing his kayak into the back of his Yukon when Gene made his way across the parking lot. Seeing Tony"s preparations, he called out, "Have you heard the Indian saying, "Only mad dogs and Englishmen walk in the afternoon sun?""
"What Indian? Dot or feather?" Tony replied, a smirk on his lips.
"Dot, of course," Gene said, his eyes crinkling. "What I mean is, only a madman heads out in weather like this. Those seas"ll tear you apart." He took a slow drag from his pipe, the smoke curling up like a ghost in the wind. No need to check the weather; he could smell the ocean"s temper. Today, it was restless.
Tony patted his bulging bicep, confidence blooming. "I think I can handle it," he said, grinning as the wind caught Gene"s smoke and flung it into the gray sky. The thrill of the sea called to him, promising both danger and freedom, and he felt alive in that moment.
Gene chuckled, shaking his head, a mix of amusement and worry etched on his face. "Just remember, son, Mother Ocean has a way of reminding us who"s in charge."
At the ramp, the breeze didn"t seem too strong, and the chop looked manageable. But as Tony launched his kayak, a wave - quick and strong - caught him off guard, soaking him in the process. He could barely absorb the shock when a second wave angrily pushed him back onto the ramp.
After a moment"s wait, Tony spotted a gap between the waves. Seizing the opportunity, he launched quickly and paddled furiously, eager to put distance between himself and the concrete ramp, determined to save his tiny plastic boat from a potentially deadly crash.
Once in the water, he realized he couldn"t gauge the direction of the chop. The waves were strong and irregular, shaking his little boat from every angle. Suddenly, a fierce gust of wind slammed into him like a street thug in a dark alley. "Damn! I was a pubic hair away from tipping over" Tony muttered, paddling furiously.
He paddled hard toward the ramp, but the wind and chop gripped his kayak, dragging it toward the pillars of the Blue Heron Bridge. He braced for impact, but at the last moment, he slipped between the concrete threats like a torpedo. Tony paddled frantically toward a small beach, usually hosting scuba divers, but not that day. He dragged his kayak ashore and collapsed on the sand, gasping for breath.
"Look at ya! You"re alive, against all odds!" Gene called from his porch, a grin splitting his weathered face. "Did you have a lovely ride?"
"It was... different," Tony replied, avoiding Gene"s eyes, the heat creeping up his neck.
Gene chuckled, deep and rich. "Different, huh? You"ll have to tell me about it over a drink."
Tony nodded, the sea still thrumming in his veins. Alive, yes, but it felt raw and new, like the edge where water met sky.
He decided to take a break, leaving the kayak at his North Palm Beach condo and heading north to spend the next week with Sheri.
"Lord is watching over children and fools," she remarked, after hearing his story. "I"ll walk a wet string in hell before I let you go out to sea in that weather."
The next night, Tony woke to strong palpitations. He checked his pulse and realized it was the damn a-fib - probably a repercussion of yesterday's stress. He reached for his cell phone to call an ambulance, but just then, the chest pain began to fade. He took his pulse again; his heart was still racing, but it was strong and even. The a-fib had resolved itself without conversion, like never before.
On Saturday morning, Tony packed a bottle of Port into his cooler, the same one he"d bought during one of his wine-tasting tours with Sheri at the San Sebastian Winery in Saint Augustine. The staff there had come to recognize their faces, calling them returning customers. They didn"t mind the pair indulging in the free samples, since Tony always made up for it by purchasing three or four bottles of their pricier wines. And with Sheri, those bottles never lasted long, marking the time for their next visit to San Sebastian.
It was a long drive from Sheri"s place, where they had spent the night, to the beach. The weather seemed sunny, but once they had covered about half the distance, the bright sun suddenly became veiled by rain.
"The devil is beating his wife," Sheri remarked.
"Why is that?" Tony asked, curious.
"People in the South believe that when you see a sunshower, it"s because the devil is beating his wife with a walking stick."
"Why?"
"Because he"s angry that God created a beautiful day, so he"s taking it out on her, and that rain is her tears."
"I see," Tony nodded. "And in our country, we call it a mushroom rain."
"Why"s that?"
"Because people believe that sunshowers make mushrooms grow like crazy."
Right when Tony parked his Yukon in a prime spot in the endless beach parking lot, a thick, heavy wall of rain plunged onto the pavement, making everything around them invisible. They waited for five minutes, but the rain only grew thicker, showing no signs of letting up.
"What the hell!" Tony exclaimed, grabbing the bottle of Port from the cooler. He opened it, poured generous glasses, and set them carefully on the console along with slices of provolone, baby Swiss, and crackers. "Cheers!"
"No, not cheers. Skål!" Sheri corrected him, her Nordic exposure surfacing. Before meeting Tony, she had a Swedish boyfriend and didn"t mind sprinkling his Scandinavian words into their conversations.
Being Black, Sheri had always dated white men.
"You"ve lost your blackness, Bernardene," her younger brother Dwayne once reproached, using her full Christian name as if delivering an official family statement. "I aks you to be more selective."
"And I 'aks' you to mah'nd your own bid'ness, br'er Rabbit," Sheri replied with a polite smile. With two master"s degrees behind her belt, she was fluent in Ebonics and didn"t mind using it when the moment called for it, but she usually spoke with the refined cadence of Queen"s English, unlike the rest of her working-class family.
Tony poured the glasses full again, but the rain showed no signs of letting up. They finished the wine and the chasers, then sipped some water as the downpour intensified.
"What the hell!" Sheri exclaimed, unzipping Tony's pants and launching into the most memorable blow job in the history of their long relationship.
"I don"t have that much cash on me!" Tony murmured in agony.
"Fuck you, asshole!" Sheri retorted, quickly returning to her enjoyment of the moment.
After it was over, Tony sighed deeply, thinking, Daniella wasn't nearly capable of such things...
"You just came like a tiger. What was that sigh about?" Sheri asked, giving him a suspicious look.
"It was a sigh of pleasure," he replied.
"Well, if you say so," Sheri growled. "Now, gimme that cash! Leave your wallet alone, you idiot! Just kidding, bless your little heart..."
The cash was spent in the gift shops after the rain finally ended and they had their swim in the ocean. Sheri especially liked a large bronze figurine of a whale that weighed a ton. She played with it until Tony bought her a Kariza that could be worn a hundred different ways. Sheri tossed the whale into the back of the truck and began to play with her new garment like a big child.
"Tony, I think you love me in your own way. But you"re still drawn to the sea much more strongly," Sheri said, her voice soft but steady. "You"re a free spirit, and that"s a problem. I"d love to hold your heart in my hands, but you"ll never let me. Maybe you"ve been burned by love one too many times. Or maybe... you just weren"t born to love a woman."
To his surprise, Tony noticed tears welling up in Sheri"s eyes.
The next week, Tony explored the waters around Phil Foster Park in normal weather. "It's a fucking zoo!" he thought. "Sheri would say, every dog and his brother came here to boat!"
Those ramps were much busier than those at Seabreeze Park in Daytona - a veritable frenzy of trailers and boats. He swiftly pulled his kayak to the water, but instead of taking off immediately, he paused to marvel at a massive tournament boat boasting eight Yamaha engines - each a beastly 1200 horsepower. The next second, he almost found himself flattened under the wheels of a huge trailer backing down to the water.
"Hey! Watch it, buddy!" Tony shouted, jolting back just in time to avoid the trailer.
The driver, a burly man in a baseball cap, squinted down at him, eyes wide with realization. "Somebody, show this motherfucker with a kayak the jet ski ramp where he can launch safely!" he barked, frustration evident in his voice.
Nearby, a group of fishermen laughed as they packed their gear to their beat up fishing boat, one of them calling out, "Better get your paddle on, kayak man! This ain't the Everglades!"
Tony grinned, shaking his head. "Thank you, Cap-n Obvious!" he replied, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through him after the near miss.
Just then, a dark-skinned woman in a brightly colored bikini leaned over the side of her jet ski, her afro whipping in the wind. "You need a bigger boat, brother!" she teased, flashing a wide smile before throttling back and gliding slowly around a big barge with a crane mounted on it. A tugboat attached to the barge was tall and square with black gunwales and white cockpit, reminding a top of a lighthouse.
Tony chuckled, imagining him and the young woman together, as he quickly maneuvered his kayak away from the busy ramp. It was a different world out here, and he was still getting used to it. His heart kept racing like crazy, but - praise the Lord - no a-fib!
The next time Tony stopped his Yukon at the curb near the jet ski pad, he noticed there wasn"t even concrete pavement. He lifted his kayak over the concrete railing and set it on the sand. A massive rainbow-painted Seadoo three-seater caught his eye. For the price of that flashy toy, he thought, he could buy a used Boston Whaler. The Seadoo was brilliant, but he wasn"t a kid anymore.
Tony sighed and drove to the parking area for regular cars, farther from the ramps than the boat trailer spots. He grabbed his backpack, picked up his paddle, and walked back to the ramp. He never left the paddle by the kayak; nobody would easily steal the kayak if left unattended, but with the paddle nearby - well, a daredevil could be tempted to paddle off in a fling.
As he walked, he checked his cell phone and felt the weight of the stainless steel marine knife clipped to his belt. He still remembered the night he paddled back to Knolls Park in Delray and caught a fishline cast absurdly far from shore. The line snagged his kayak. With that appendage, dragging behind, Tony felt, as Sheri used to say, "like a long-tailed cat in a dark room full of rocking chairs".
He"d tried tearing it with his hands, but it felt like it could land a bull shark. Only onshore did he finally manage to untangle the line from his cleat. The next day, he bought the proper knife and a diamond sharpener. Now the blade was sharp enough to shave with.
Back at the water, the ramps were crowded with boats and jet skis. The scene was louder and faster than Seabreeze Park. Tony moved quietly, taking it all in, and readied himself to push off.
The skies were bright blue and clear, the sun determined to burn ribs and giblets right through the skin - typical Florida. It was high tide, and the waters of the Riviera Beach Intracoastal shimmered in breathtaking clarity. Every ripple seemed alive, glowing in all shades of blue and green, with some spots even showing a deep purple tint where the seagrass waved beneath the surface. The constant movement of the little chop, combined with a million sparkling reflections, gave the impression of champagne bubbling over.
Tiny fish darted in and out of the shadows cast by the docks, their silvery bodies catching the sunlight. Tony noticed a dark shadow on the bottom and first took it for a manatee. But he quickly realized that manatees wouldn"t linger near such a noisy installation as the ramps or even the Blue Heron Bridge; they would likely forage on the bottom a mile away. The shadow was probably just a big rock or maybe a concrete slab.
The slight salt breeze carried the scent of the ocean mixed with exhaust fumes from the boats and the faint tang of sunblock in the air. Pelicans soared overhead, occasionally diving for fish, while the cry of a seagull pierced the calm, breaking the hypnotic rhythm of the waves splashing on the boats tied to the docks haphazardly, not even one with a proper cleat knot.
Tony resolutely steered his kayak toward the bridge.
Closer to the bridge, Tony spotted a diver's flag rocking gently in the small waves and pulled to the left to avoid an occasional scuba diver. That section of the bridge was really low - too low even for a small boat to pass under, but just high enough for a kayaker to slip through.
The thick darkness of the short passage beneath the bridge contrasted sharply with the bright splashes of agitated streams and bands of translucent green water. As he paddled back into the sunlight, the current tugged him slightly aside, and he was suddenly accosted by the mass of water next to a pillar - a huge emerald sparkling with a thousand reflections. The brilliance jolted his entire body, evoking a sensation akin to when he and Sheri reached their climax together. "I wish Sheri were here with me right now!" he thought. "If only she really let me love her in my own way..."
The bridge now behind him, Tony snapped back to reality and guided his kayak southward, passing the Phil Foster Snorkel Trail and the small beach on his starboard. The beach, partly nestled under the bridge, gave visitors the perfect spot to control their exposure to sunlight. It had another advantage, too - being on the Intracoastal meant no surf, so swimmers could enjoy the calm water without battling waves. During high tide, the water was even clearer than in the ocean, and the chance of encountering a shark was practically nonexistent, which was why the snorkel trail was created right there. Scuba divers clumsily suited up on the beach, floated their red diving flags with the white diagonal stripe, and slowly submerged, leaving trails of bubbles behind them.
The only drawback was the strong current along the beach, which could easily drag a careless swimmer toward the middle of the Riviera Beach Intracoastal, into the fairway where needlefish frolicked and boats and yachts paraded ceremoniously under the bridge, back and forth.
The Intracoastal span between Phil Foster Park and Peanut Island features a vast, shallow flat - rectangular in shape - located to the left of the fairway. Boat traffic from the Palm Beach Inlet follows a narrow connecting channel that skirts around this flat. Boats travel in single file, first passing marinas filled with million-dollar yachts on their starboard side before making a sharp ninety-degree left turn around the flat. From there, they proceed slowly alongside the snorkel area, where children often cheer them on. Finally, the vessels merge into the fairway, continuing north under the Blue Heron bridge or heading south towards Flagler Memorial Bridge and Royal Palm Bridge.
During high tide, the flat becomes accessible to Florida skiffs and smaller boats. Boaters flock to this shallow area, dragging their vessels onto the sandbars and anchoring them by hand. They set up beach chairs right in the water, beers in hand and snacks within reach, while loud music fills the air. Children and teens chase each other, sending wild splashes everywhere, as the scene soaks in tranquility.
Tony paddled his kayak straight across the flat toward Peanut Island. As he neared the island"s shore, the water deepened, unveiling a charming cluster of shabby boathouses anchored nearby. These quaint structures featured shingle roofs, inviting porches, and small window AC units that used to hum softly in the background in their prime but were now silent. Their light shutters were adorned with playful depictions of celebrities, superheroes, and vibrant Florida landscapes. Among them stood a mysterious tall boat, its gunwales draped in a riot of plants swaying gently in the breeze.
Tony dragged his little boat ashore and rushed into the water to wash off the heat and sweat. He swam back and forth along the shoreline, meditating in the soothing embrace of the water before diving in again. While he floated, he struck up a conversation with a Greek man who lived in Arkansas and had traveled to Florida in his van for vacation.
They quickly discovered that their views on American politics, the economy, food, culture, women, and minorities aligned perfectly. Two Europeans - Tony, a Ukrainian, and Demetrius, his newfound friend - chatted in American English, sharing a common perspective on life in America.
"What can you do?" the Greek man sighed. "Their culture is still very young. They"re like children."
"Quite indeed, brother!" Tony replied. "Quite indeed."
They had been swimming for another ten minutes when a vast shadow flickered in the water, prompting a man from a nearby boat to yell, "Stingray! Get out of the water!"
On the way back to the ramp, the setting sun painted endless bright paths on the light chop of the expansive water. Long shadows from the boats reached out like dark hands toward Tony's kayak. The tinted windows of luxury yachts and the buildings along the shore reflected and refracted the sunlight, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, brighter than any gem.
A large banner reading "SHITSHOW" hung from the deck of a massive yacht, larger than a battleship. By that time, the shitshow was probably over...
"Death should not bother a man who has seen these things," Tony thought, paddling efficiently and methodically, like a well-oiled Swiss clock.
At the condo, old Gene stood on the balcony, puffing his cherry pipe, the smoke vaporing into the dark purple sky.
"You paddled to Peanut Island today," he asserted rather than asked.
"How do you know?" Tony was astounded.
"I just know," Gene replied.
"He just knows," echoed his friend Jim, who stood beside him.
"The water was crystal clear, the sun reflections were unbelievable, and the breeze was nice too," Gene said, placing his thin, withered hand on the railing.