Stop, Look & Listen.
Those words were a common mantra of my youth, taking me very nearly to 8th grade, when I really should have stopped, looked and listened but forgot to. Until then, though, those words were so important that I capitalized them today, even though, technically, only one deserves the upper case.
Such are the decisions we make when things are really, really important.
This past week, I returned to my childhood mantra and did plenty of stopping, looking and listening. That I was doing it while on the beach in Florida made it an easy mantra to follow. Well, that's not exactly true. See, the first few days of our vacation were cloaked in clouds and rain. And not even the voluminous, skyscraper clouds and wicked rains typical of tropical Florida. No, these were flat, slate skies spitting long, wet sneezes across our windshield.
By breakfast the second morning, after again waking to rumbles and rain, it's possible I uttered something so awful that it would have made Snoop Dog choke on his chow. Granted, an aggressive Escalade (is there any other kind?) yanked it from my lips, but those two words clearly marked the low point of the vacation.
We needed some sun and we needed it bad.
Fortunately, by the time I ate the last strip of bacon on my breakfast plate, the sun began peaking through the clouds. So foreign to us now, I wasn't sure it was safe to stare directly into it, but I was willing to risk it just to prove to myself that it still orbited our planet.
Later that morning, while strolling the beach, my childhood mantra returned to me, a life preserver resting atop its youthful waist.
Stop, Look and Listen I did. The rhythmic hum of the gulf filled my ears and turned me away from my darkness. That's when I began noticing the police tape scattered all along the beach, marking not crime scenes but the magical places where sea turtles had trudged from their watery climes to lay their eggs. That's when I saw the swollen v-shaped patterns the heavy mothers had left in the sand as they looked for a place to bury their future hopes.
The nature dweeb had emerged from its broken sleep and I could not wipe the smile off my face. Hunched over, following the last tide line, I hunted for small treasures, former homes of ocean life left scattered among the sea grass. Tiny, imperfect whelks, cat's paws bleached white in the sun, turkey wings, mermaid's toenails, coquinas, conchs and moon eyes, settling in after a long, tumultuous journey.
I had found my rhythm and it felt very good indeed. Even tipping the two-man kayak was okay by me, although I'm grateful it happened by a dock and not in the mangrove forest awaiting us just around the corner. Finally, I had learned, once again, to Stop, Look and Listen and I was rewarded ten-fold for my troubles. I was in the land of manatees and dolphins, blue herons and roseated spoonbills, sea turtles and beach bikes and I was going to soak it all in.
On our last morning, Mark and I awoke at 5 and walked the beach one last time. The day before, we'd missed spying a turtle by ten small minutes. We enjoyed the experience vicariously, as we talked to a couple who spoke rapturously about the experience. They'd been coming to Siesta Key for years in hopes of seeing a sea turtle. I had goosebumps just listening to them. And so, we figured we just might find one if we got out there early enough.
There was no sea turtle on the beach that morning, but Mark and I figured we were the first two people on earth to witness the trails left by two overnight visitors, neither of whom had built a nest.
I left Florida rested and happy, having once again learned that Stop, Look & Listen is an important mantra, no matter how old we are.
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