Florida By Rail
by m.s.wardrip
The smell of the ocean air when you crack the window is worth traveling to Florida for. When you roll into the station for a smoke break, the train sits idle while I go personally inspect the warmth that is radiating from every physical thing. There are little green lizards on the leaves of the bushes growing out of the white sand. While sand is sand, there is a big difference between here and up North. It’s a different climate and it is so inviting, I just might stay. I bought a one way ticket to Coconut Grove. I’m in Holly Hill by the sea on the North East Florida coast for a two days and a night in a beach side hotel. I can see the lighthouse beacon from my room. I love Florida. I am alone, in love with myself and it’s romantic. The night air is rich with enchantment. I light a candle and dance.
The seagull squawks in the morning, waking me up. I dress and walk out onto the beach in the darkness. The waves crash on the shore. It is low tide. There are tiny patches of light afar off in the distance. There is lightening that looks like it’s miles out to sea. I notice a pink and yellow that starts to rapidly grow. The colors change, evolve, spin in slow motion, expanding into the most beautiful seaside painting you ever saw. This is a sunrise on the Atlantic Ocean, just magnificent. The gulls swoop low and suddenly turn and elevate to great heights. Little flocks of little birds scatter quickly to miss the sea foam touching their little birdy feet. Good Morning from Daytona Beach! Fresh air!
Blue skies and walking somewhere I’ve never been before. The plants are different here. The senses pay attention to the change in environment. There is an ice cream cart at the end of this nature trail. I can’t believe it! They have Butter Pecan and it’s only one dollar per scoop. I’ll have a couple of those, thank you very much. How good can life get? I walk on to the boardwalk.
A giant slingshot shoots willing participants high into the clear blue sky for a fee and not so daring tourists ride go-karts next to the Hollywood Bowl shaped amphitheater. The arcade is bustling with excitement, the T-shirt shops are hopping and all the beach themes are present in full force. The Ocean Deck restaurant and bar is buzzing with people all over it, upstairs, downstairs, inside, outside, volleyball on the beach. Cold beer, great steaks, seafood so fresh, wine so smooth, oysters on the half shell lightly steamed with a saltine cracker and a dab of Louisiana hot sauce. Heaven, actually. Chase it with a Budweiser and voila, Valhalla.
The train rolls out of the station. The conductor is efficient in getting everyone on and off in time. The train speeds up and rolls through the swamp near Cape Canaveral. All the way to Flamingo, past the Gumbo Limbo Trail, past Coral Gables, past the Coral Castle, past the saw grass swamps, past the alligator crossing, past the lounge at the park, past the twenty-five cent beer machine maintained for the sole use of park employees… past the shark infested waters of the mangrove swamp… far past the red eyes that glow in the moonlit bayous mysterious morning mist… past the long-legged birds… past the canoe that silently glides in the glades and brackish back waters… for past that… far past where the three sticks join.. far past where the four rocks are balanced… out beyond the jetties in the sea… below the waves in the seaweed… beneath the ocean floor… beside what is left of the inertia… in touch with core center mind.
It was a long walk back to the highway. It took days to get a ride out of the Everglades. Miss Sunshine woke me up in the parking lot of the Anahinga Trail. A raccoon had been going through my pockets and one stole my Zippo lighter. My uncle who was in Vietnam gave me that lighter. If I had it now, I would start a fire and barbecue a raccoon. After many sand flea bites, burned feet, infected sores on the skin, an aching mind and body in the excruciating relentless heat, sudden storms and rude insensitive people roughing me up with their abrasiveness, I made it home to the Casement Grounds. I became the magnet, the world’s richest magnet, the fatherlode, as it were.
The smell of the ocean air is invigorating for the spirit of John D. Rockefeller. The cars were soon to race on Ormond Beach on the white packed sand. They were to dodge fish or dogs on the beach. The train whistles past the persistently pristine finely manicured golf course in the distance, bringing new Florida residents to new developments… far past the wheat fields of Kansas… to the outer banks of excitement and contentment for a few moments before the bills come in and they are forced to eat cat food out of cans because it is cheaper than tuna and they can now pay the rent in the motel room sized condo leased to them by the foreigners who are out on their boat having dinner with the yacht club. Sea shells would surely sell well up north. I’ll have to pack up some and go to the flea market and sell them. Surely, I’ll get rich. Surely my cousin will come to visit. Surely I will die alone on this beach on Christmas day in the rain. Surely this is my destiny to depart for the coast. Surely this is my plight. Surely you like seashells. Surely you want to buy some. Surely, right? If, not, I have some fresh bottled salt water. One dollar per bottle, how many would you like? It’s a real bargain, right? How about a bottle of salt water and a bag of sea shells for only one-fifty? It’s a bargain, right? Then, there’s the channeling. The Medium account. The recommendations and the reads. You can read a story, write a story or leave all the stories alone to live your own story.
Train rolls into the station. People get off and go to the beach. At night they dream. In the morning they go to the beach. Where do they go when they leave Florida? Out beyond the jetties, that’s where. They go because the magnetism beckons them.
They go… by the compass… out… toward the magnet. They arrived in Florida by rail. They left Florida by sail. Repel and attract. Attract and repel.
