Grassy Key by Elizabeth Buelow

Where: Grassy Key

Wender: Elizabeth Buelow

Grassy Key.  In the morning, the sky is as blue as the water, creating a seamless meeting of earth and sky.  The clouds are the only contrasting factor, and today they are white and billowy, with a small storm brewing on the horizon ““ normal for this time of year.  I am on the Gulf side of Grassy Key; if I swim out about 50 feet, I can see under the bridge that connects the islands and is a sort of a stomping ground for the meeting of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean.  The meeting of the seas is signified by fierce currents and an abundance of fish, evident from the number of simple boats, fishing lines cast about, dotting the shade under U.S. Highway 1.  The Florida Keys culture is dominated by ocean; residents are aptly called Conchs.  Tan and happy, their livelihood depends on what the ocean brings them, and they’re all smiling lately because of the storms.

Hurricane Ike rolled through here just two weeks ago, skirting past the towns in the Keys on its way to Texas, but raining hell upon its waters.  When a hurricane blows through, I am told, it affects the ocean for miles.  The scientists will tell you it’s because of surface water mixing with deeper water, freshwater runoff, and the suspension of bottom sediments.  The Conchs will tell a different story, though, one recounting how fields of sea grass are uprooted, old pipes filled with hunkering lobsters are displaced, and nothing is as it was.  The ocean churns for weeks after, gathering its bearings, remembering where it left off.  And this is when I arrive; when the water has finally calmed, and it is as glassy as it was after the last hurricane, as if storms have a way of settling things down.  The process reminds me of other ways that nature tends to right itself ““ wildfire, rain, winter.  Hurricanes never occurred to me until now, until I consider the shallow and deep water colliding, so different in the things they’ve seen and the creatures they’ve lodged; and the ocean re-tooling to be still.

It is early morning.  I am fishing and photographing off a jetty from which I can see all the ocean life that tends to hang around shallow waters and rocks:  lobster, wee fish, conchs, bottom feeders, jellyfish, and ““ today ““ a 3-foot long nurse shark makes an appearance.  I don’t cast a line for awhile because I like to watch the way these creatures communicate with each other; the symbiosis that takes place.  Today, the rocks are crawling with lobsters, all waving at an oblivious purple jellyfish drifting across the surface.  The lobsters are the reason my family is here; they come every year to catch them with nets and sticks.  We have been unlucky so far this season; the hurricane made all of my Uncle Joe’s GPS guarantees come up empty, and I smile because somehow that makes sense, like nature one-upping the technology, throwing a curve ball, reacting.  The lobsters we have caught so far have been too small.  The ones in the water now look big enough, but it seems unfair to catch them in these shallow waters.

A bird lands on the water and ripples make it easier to separate the sky from the sea.  It seems content to stay there for a bit, but as I reach for my camera, its wings are already flapping, it is already flying, and for a moment, the lobsters and the sharks and the fish and I all look up to see it off.

Elizabeth Buelow is an adventure superhero. She drinks beer, slings zingers, and drives stick with the best of vibes. She currently lives in Portland, OR.