MaMaLiRZ

As we had witnessed the circle of life, little did we know we were about to become part of it. Floating in my happy place I was startled by the sudden and insistent fog horn blasting from Nico on the boat. I bolted upright questioning the end of the World. My heart was overcome by panic, racing uncontrolled. What was happening? My PTSD firmly implanted in my amygdala, was in control. My limbic system looking for the bullets, running towards the mortar fires, screams, blasts. Nico was frantically waving and calling our names, the blast of the horn continued in three second increments.

Something is wrong. Where are the boys? Where am I and WHAT IS HAPPENING??? And then I saw complete terror in the eyes of my animal loving son, through his masked face. The blood drained and his face having only just returned to its non-snowman sunscreen replication, was whiter than a sheet. His eyes black as coal as his pupil took over the space normally held for his hazel iris. He was frozen and I had to get to him and fast. It didn’t matter the cause of the fear, it mattered that I moved to him, now!

A quick scan placed Benjamin a far distance away, face down in the water snorkeling and humming. He was oblivious to the culmination of this life cycle. My body took flight. Determined its direction of travel.

Each stroke appeared to push Berin further away until I stretched my arms and grabbed ahold of his arm. Like a dance of seahorses, our bodies collided and spun around until I launched him into the direction of the boat. Moving him further away from the danger. Having centered myself between the beast and Berin, it gave him the additional seconds needed to preserve his life-force. My eyes darted back and forth, scanning the water’s concaved surface for additional threats: constantly assessing and inventing counter-scenarios. Time flashed, a minute in an instant. Hyperaware and sensitive, I acknowledged that Berin was safely in the boat.

It was then that I came face to face with an American crocodile. Angelic. Its tail’s methodic movements pushing its massive body along the surface in search of my fear. It’s pea-sized brain with only one thought, eating me. Its tail causing waves of despair as visions passed in front of my eyes but not of my life but of my children’s lives. Berin is safe, where is Benjamin. How fast can I swim, do I punch it in the face or do I play dead? Do I swim towards Benjamin or away in an attempt to distract it? The boat now anchor up, attempted to circle itself between me and the beast. My mind raced on. Do they travel in pairs do they create diversions or kill squads? Where’s Benjamin, where am I?

The tear rolled down my face and into my ear somehow hotter than the water I was floating in. It invaded my ear canal. The irritation caused an uncontrolled spasm and I sat upright on the pool noodle I was previously floating on. The birds were singing, the water lapped against and then over my legs. Where is the boat? Where is Benjamin. The bounancy returning as panic was replaced by calm. The shocked knowledge finally seeped through my blood-brain barrier, like a shot of morphine. It was all a nightmare.

As the fog of sleep lifted, the raw beauty of the park returned. The azure blue sky and billowing clouds an image of Zeus sitting atop of them. The whispers of clouds growing in intensity along the horizon until they became walls of water. The kingfishers diving into the water and rebounding for air 25 meters away. The light breeze caused chill bumps on my wet skin.

Though the nightmare was over, same was the outcome of the love affair between the sky and the sea. There is a fine line between love and hate. The clouds rumbled as the grey built inside of them ready to burst as if they were holding their breath waiting for their turn to scream. We all swam to the boat and began our transport back to Coconut Grove, urgently. Nico mentioned that Stiltsville was off in the distance on the other side of the ongoing war. Of little importance at this point. It was only a matter of time before the rain was vomited from the angry clouds. The race was on. The four of us hunkered under the 4×4 roof of the boat considering it our only hope. And then we entered the sweet spot of the Vin diagram knowing that on the other side was the convergence of battles. The rain pelted our bodies. The roof, no respite. We huddled under Nico’s jacket, chivalrously offered up to us as our only remaining protection. And in the blink of an eye, the fight was over and the love affair was reignited. We returned to the dock, now at low tide.

With Biscayne National Park, #2/63 completed, we turned our sights to the ever elusive Dry Tortuga. The drive, another three hours. Tickets in hand for the seaplane. We arrived 45 minutes early. The video played on loop as people continued to check in and choose their drinks for the day. There is no food for sale at Fort Jefferson (Dry Tortuga). ‘Adventure Seaplanes’ graciously, provided a small cooler and a couple drinks per person and snorkeling gear. With the lovely benefits in place, we returned to our seats and continued watching the loop. Our anticipation building. The moon still on the horizon at 11:30 am was the sign needed to solidify the notion that today we would reach Dry Tortuga, there would be success! Success quickly turned to failure in the next second.

“Flights are cancelled” came from the mouth of the fresh faced, handsome thirty year old, presumable pilot. Sorry folks.

Damn moon!

We took our turn at the desk to receive our reimbursement. In a last ditch effort, we accepted the offered seats of the 8 am flight the next day. It wasn’t ideal, but neither was traveling again to Key West for a potentially cancelled flight, so we took it. Following our departure and return to our hotel, the rain quickly came in a torrential downpour. Happy to be snug in our rooms, by then, the boys dueled on “Grow a Garden” praying to have their fruit electrified and be gifted an “Elder Strawberry”.

The morning came, the sea was calm as if asking for our forgiveness. We turned to the sky again the moon shined brightly. It’s a great day. Third time’s a charm. Ever the optimist.

Immediately upon arrival, the flights were again cancelled. The third time will turn to a fourth. Dry Tortuga, in our own home state may even become the last trip we take, #63.

**The dream couldn’t be further from the reality of the American crocodile. Though there are American crocodiles in the Biscayne National Park, they are generally more afraid of you and hide in the mangroves, never to be seen by snorkelers during day visits.

Lori Renwick