William J Mullen

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Conversations With the Dead in the Lowcoutry

Originally published by Monadnock Underground – monadnockunderground.com

“We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch – we are going back from whence we came.” – John Fitzgerald Kennedy

July 28, 2019

Edisto Island, South Carolina

1:45 A.M.

We turned onto SC 174 in Adams Run. The road runs straight south, a direct line to the coast, over the salt marshes of the Ace Basin, through the Lowcountry, over the Dawhoo Bridge, onto the island of Edisto. Adams Run isn’t much to see. Blink and you’ll be past it, just a small post office, and a couple other buildings. But like so many things in life, it’s not the places as much as the journey — all the waypoints that make up the ride. The real joy here is the road itself.

As we pass under the cool shade of the trees, I remember the first time I drove this road back in the nineties: the road lined with broad live oaks, and cabbage palms, the oaks covered in weeping Spanish moss hanging from every limb. Today, we pass under the same trees draped with the same moss. We have looked forward to these last few miles for weeks. Somehow, turning that corner onto 174 is like seeing an old friend.

As the trees became salt marsh we rose up onto the great Dawhoo Bridge, which looks over the vast estuaries of The Ace Basin. The Ace Basin is in fact one of the largest undeveloped estuaries along the east coast, a river of grass and brackish waters. A great conduit for life on the southeast coast. A great refuge.

We push the BMW fast across the flatlands of Edisto Island. The wind blows Kathy’s hair around like a chaotic ballet dance.

The South Carolina sun and humidity were pressing down hard on the island, and we were hot, tired, and well-kissed by the sun. We had driven for two days and over one thousand miles with the top down, country air in our lungs. We talked and talked — and over those two days we got our shit square, our shit dealt with, hatched a plan for the next part of our lives, and really found something maybe we didn’t know was even lost or missing.

Best fucking ride ever.

Skeletons on Boneyard Beach

The BMW threw large plumes of dust into the air, coating the loblolly pine and cabbage palm of the island’s sub-jungle as we drove down the arrow-straight dirt road that cut across Edisto to the East. The day was hot, tipping into the lower nineties. The road cut through working fields upon entering The Botany Bay Plantation, formed in the 1930’s from the colonial-era Sea Cloud and Bleak Hall plantations. As Kath and I drove through its long roads lined with large old pines, I thought about the past. I thought about the skeletons that are buried here. This whole area is permeated with skeletons of the past. Shipwrecks, slave trade, war, my mother-in-law’s ashes — all here on Edisto Island. Then there are the trees, great giants succumbed to the sea. Root balls turned on end, cleaned bare by the ocean and wind. Like bones. Like giant skeletons.

I have a deep memory about bones. Several years ago my dad passed away. He had a wish to have his ashes scattered in several locations, which I facilitated. The first time I encountered the plastic bag full of ashes,I didn’t expect the bone fragments. Things you don’t expect.

Boneyard Beach, accessed through Botany Bay Plantation, is as wild a section of beach as you can get on many parts of the east coast. Its moods are determined only by the tides, the wind, the sun. A short walk on a cart path across tidal marsh — small crabs moving everywhere, seabirds wheeling over the Island — yields the textures of the subtropics: spikey and pinnate leaves, course sand, and fishbone clouds. I can smell the salt in the air, I can taste it. It tastes like oysters.

Years ago on another beach, Siesta Key, the universe spoke to me loudly. It was profound and life altering, and has led to my questioning of what our shared “reality” actually is. Kathy and I were enjoying the warm late April Gulf Coast of Florida, relaxing, drinking, swimming, blowing smoke rings. I was watching the columns of seabirds spiralling upwards into the sun like Icarus. I don’t remember what I was thinking about, but a voice kind of came to me, unlike a normal thought. It was imperative: “Your father will die this year.” Understandably, I was taken aback by this sudden communique. I was also immediately very emotional. My wife looked at me with a “what the fuck” look on her face as I explained myself. She also, understandably, was a bit skeptical, reminding me that, though my father had a host of chronic ailments, he was, in reality, in pretty damn good health. So we let it go.

Less than 5 months later he was gone. I had no way to know, yet I had. I’ll always have that connection to the Gulf Coast and my dad, but Kathy has a deeper connection to her mother, Janet, here on Edisto Island.

Kath’s family has been travelling from all corners of creation since the mid-eighties to spend a week in the balmy low country of South Carolina. This is no small affair — with four siblings and a dozen aunts and uncles, all with their own children and grandchildren, we literally take over the island. Condo units are filled, and beach houses too. It’s not just family either: a large posse of close friends come down for the madness also. For years Janet was the chief cat herder, planning beach outings, family dinners, and birthday parties. In many ways, her life revolved around that yearly trip. When Janet died of cancer a decade ago, it was no surprise that she would want her ashes here, at the place she loved more than any other.

I am so glad Kathy has a place like this to feel a proximity to her mother. A place away from real life, a special place, a remote place, a strip of empty beaches strewn with the waste and wreckage of a thousand storms rolling in off the Atlantic. There are few places like this, and fewer times to feel as connected.

Conversations with the dead

When I was a small child, more or less an infant, my folks were looking to buy a home. If I recall the story correctly, they were being asked to leave the house they had been renting in Newtown, Connecticut. They had looked at a few homes, and my mother went to view an older home on Main St. Most of these homes on Main were quite old, some being there since the Revolutionary War.

As the story goes, when my mother and I went inside the house, I immediately started wailing.

I had been fine outside, but was troubled by something inside the house. The realtor asked if she wanted to leave, but my mother declined, saying I’d likely be fine, but as they went further into the house my anxiety became more pronounced. My mother took me back outside, and once out of the door I stopped crying. Thinking things were better, she brought me back into the house, only to have the same thing occur. Something about that house had touched me deeply, and my mother took it to heart, bailing out of the viewing and consideration for the house at all.

The realtor later divulged that the home was known to be haunted.

Later, as a young child laying in bed at night before sleep, I would talk with my grandfather. This sounds normal, but he had died years before. I can remember having whole conversations with him. I never really knew him. Though he had been present after my birth, he passed away before my second birthday. Occasionally my mom or dad would poke their heads into my bedroom asking who I was talking to. “Grandpa,” I’d say. This went on for years, stopping around the time I went to school.

I often feel like I communicate with “something else” when I play music as well. I’ve been known to call it “dipping your ladle into the magic pool”. This is the birthplace of many songs, and much musical inspiration. When I play music, usually when improvising, I can sort of feel myself becoming quiet, a meditation of sorts. The deeper I go into this, and the quieter my mind becomes, the more easily the notes flow out of my fingers with no thought, no conception of where I’m going. I like music best like that, born of spirit and heart from the great connection between within and without.

The hypnotic effect of beaches can do this same thing to me. I’ve had plenty of other conversations with the universe on other wild beaches, but in those cases I didn’t speak with the dead, nor did the dead speak through me.

It was a rare moment during a week of madness that I found myself alone with Kathy on the main stretch of Edisto Beach. We brought our beach chairs down to the shoreline so our feet would be in the water. The sun bore down its early August weight on us. Sweat made its way to the sea. Cocktails went down easily. Soon another revelor joined us. Jenny was a close friend of Janet’s, more of an adopted child in many ways. The whole family considers her family, and she joins us in Edisto each year.

Kathy and Jenny have a unique connection: they were both with Janet as she passed away. Kathy had spent the whole summer in Pittsburgh at Mercy Hospital, by her mom’s side. She went through it all with Janet, and watched as the last breath of life left her body. Jenny was there too, very shortly after Janet passed. Jenny and Janet had known each other for years. The two had worked together at Mercy, and Jenny was a nurse in Janet’s unit while she was in the hospital. Jenny was there each day for Janet, making certain everything was done right. She was a light for Janet. Though there was a large gap in age between Janet and Jenny, the two were as close as any friends — or family — could be.

So there we were all together on Janet’s Beach. Jenny kept her chair up the beach a bit, I think realizing that Kath and I don’t often get any alone time. Or maybe she just somehow knew that we were in a process of reconnecting, rekindling. The universe does have a way of getting its point across if you can hear it.

So can the dead.

Now, I have my own sense of spirituality, my own “how shit works” philosophies. I am just a small insignificant part of the whole. That’s enough for me. I don’t practice religion, I don’t follow any great texts, I don’t twist voodoo dolls nor drip blood on chicken altars.

But I can talk to the dead.

The sun was hot, but small cells of rain showers were dancing up and down Edisto Beach, adding to the humidity. Our chairs slowly sank into the beach sand as the waves rolled lazily under us, occasionally crashing into our laps. Bliss, sheer bliss. Hypnotic. I suddenly felt a different . . . sensation . . . presence . . . I am not sure what to call it. But I immediately knew that I needed to do a favor for an old friend. I had to tell the girls each something — from Janet.

I turned to Kathy and told her I thought Janet just spoke to me, telling her “Your mom wants you to know that she is always around you, and that she knows what you did, what you went through.”

She just looked at me, and her lips got a little pursed as she struggled with her emotions. She was there, after all, when I suddenly knew my dad would pass. But that was not all she was thinking about. A few years earlier, a close friend of Kathy’s whose son had died at 21 went to a medium to try to communicate with him. What ended up happening was that Janet spoke to her. I’ll skip all the details — suffice to say it was truly odd, and happened in a way that the medium could not have guessed at. I had forgotten entirely about this, until Kath reminded me that those words that I said were that very same that Janet had “spoken” at the seance.

But it wasn’t done there — I had a message for Jenny, too. Those words I can’t recall at all, except that I said more to Jenny than Kath.

I also told her how hard it is for me to rationalize what happened, as I don’t really believe in talking to the dead — or do I? I, for one, won’t ever say for sure.

WJM

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William J Mullen is a writer of social commentary, travel literature, historical fiction. He lives with his wife — high in the hills of New Hampshire.

Follow the content links and archives for previous blogs, commentary, articles, and short stories.

Archived Blog Posts

Calamari in the Orange Grove – re-posted from Monadnock Underground

View at Medium.com

Lake Worth Street Painting Festival

Hutchinson Island, and the Hunt for Wild Sand

The Climate of Change

09/03/2017: Walking the Low Tide Line: A Sunset Journey on Edisto Beach, South Carolina

Captain Rob and the Sleepy Alligator: A Riverine Journey on Florida’s Gulf Coast

Also:

From Gonzo Today:

11/28/2015: From Gonzo Today: A Night of Wild American Hatred

10/10/2015: From Gonzo Today: Letting Sleeping Dogs Lie

From Daily Kos:

The 1980’s, Reagan, and the Great Shell Game

From Daily Kos :

The Climate of Change

Thanksgiving from the Seventies, Football, and Banking Gold

I can remember those Thanksgiving days, back in the seventies and early eighties in our neighborhood in Sandy Hook, CT. Yes, that Sandy Hook. in fact, Sandy Hook Elementary was my school. But, that is another tale. It was a time of big cars, hot rods, and rock and roll. It was the time of my youth. It was the time of a smaller seeming world; no internet, no cable tv — only two or three channels if you were lucky — we had rotary antennas. We played football.

We all looked forward to the holiday of course. The family coming in from all over, the food, the crackling fire in the fireplace, the eggnog and cookies and pies, the quiet in the neighborhood.

Each year that quiet would be shattered by about a dozen young voices echoing off the small hills around the community called Shady Rest. We neighborhood kids would gather first in the morning while our moms were getting the afternoon supper together.

I would quickly eat some eggs and toast, savoring the smell already consuming the house. Mom was busy. Uncle Bob was due around noon with my grandparents. I ate, and hopped on my Huffy, sailed down our unsafely steep driveway, down Walnut Tree Hill, and turned the corner into the neighborhood at full speed

The Morris’ property was a large flat yard. Mostly all grass and dog shit with a few large spruce trees to one side, road on the other. It was nearly the exact size of a football field.

So, around ten we’d meet there. Our parents allowed us out before the afternoon meal as long as we were home by whatever time we were told. If we dallied we’d get the call: Old school, screamed at top volume by dad, across the neighborhood, or a piercing whistle. You knew it was time to get home, or else.

Our games were violent and ruthless. Bones were broken, blood spilled, feelings hurt, and egos squashed. But, that’s the way it was then. We lived like little animals when outside of the boundaries of our parents. We were thrill seekers risking our young lives regularly on dares and feats of adventure. We roamed around with firearms and knives, we set fires,and threw rocks at girls. Some of the older crowd my brothers age, would strip cars down to just the frame and drivetrain; tear-assing around the neighborhood with five or six guys hanging on with shotguns and M-80’s, beer, and weed. Serious trouble back then. But, we didn’t live in an effective police state then either. Again, that’s another story.

In those years, especially in the seventies, the ground would be frozen rock hard by Thanksgiving, and even the ball seemed as hard as stone. But we didn’t care, we were living out the boyhood fantasies to be like our heroes in the National Football League.

The first fights started right off. Choosing teams.

There were about a dozen of us at that time. Me, Joey, Bobby, Ollie, David, Mickey, Danny and Mike, and several slightly older and younger kids whose names elude me now. First, we choose who-was-on-what team, which basically was a set thing, only changing if someone had played really well in one of our previous and frequent games. This would usually involve a lot of jeering, insults, pushing, and “fistiness”. But that wasn’t the real fight. This would be over who would play the part of . . . The Cowboys. Almost every boy had a poster of the Cowboys at that time. Sure we liked other teams, but The Cowboys. Though, in all fairness, for the few rare times I fought my way to play quarterback, I would play the part of Fran Tarkenton from the Vikings. Mainly though, it was who would get to be Staubach, who would be Dorsett, etc. This could be viscous, and usually it was violence that solved this. Occasionally, we would shed a few players to hurt feelings, or bloody noses at this point.

Eventually it was game time.

Just like our heroes we lined up face to face, breath rising into the frozen morning air, kneeling, waiting, sizing each other up, sizing the play up.

Then, the WORD.

HIKE!

The neighborhood would erupt into sudden screaming as bodies moved and postured, legs ran and pushed; the ball leaving fingertips, is airborne again. Things would seem to instantly slow amidst the din. The ball in the air, eyes upward, arms outstretched, lungs emptying and filling, running. Then like a firecracker, wham, it was caught. The receiver would turn, and the flight to the end zone between the telephone pole and end of the fence on the Trudeau’s land would ensue, one foot down, second foot, third, then an immediate pummeling into that frozen turf. We would play the morning away. Only stopping for disputes, or injury. Several fingers were broken there, and at least one wrist.

I myself walked away from some of those games bleeding from my arms, or face, or ears. I would be coated in green from head to toe from the grass, and typically also covered in dog shit as that yard was a favored open pooping range for several neighborhood dogs. It was like a minefield of merde. Some were old and frozen, some were from that morning. Either pain or stink — it was a shitty landing.

But those are all beautiful moments. Moments that escape the pace of youth. But moments you remember and cherish with age.

I hadn’t thought about those times, those football games in years till today; Thanksgiving Day, watching the afternoon game, here in COVIDtime. Those sorts of life memories are like no others. I could smell the neighborhood, see the way the November light fell through the towering oaks of Walnut Tree Hill and Shady Rest, hear the hot rods racing up the road. I could almost smell snow in the air.

So on this day I challenge you to this:

Take a moment to stop and *observe* . . . you. Where you are, what you are doing, how it feels and smells, who is with you.

You just never know when you’re banking gold.

Set one, set two, set . . . HIKE!

Happiest of the whole holiday season to you all.

WJM

Calamari in the Orange Grove

Originally run in Monadnock Underground – here

April 1, 2019
Somewhere on a side road in Central Florida

It had been raining in Florida. The glades were full, overflowing, green and flowering. It was a hot day for the beginning of April, pushing into the upper eighties. Clouds were rising to great heights making a truly tropical scene. Large columns of birds too, rose high into the skies over the Everglades.

Great expanses of the Everglades flashed by, as I, in typical fashion drove at high speed, pushing the rental car (this time a woefully underpowered Nissan) to the far end of it’s capabilities — around 100 mph. It was a smooth ride though, windows down, cannabis burning. Neil Young was up at full volume, “He came dancing across the water, with his galleons and guns . . . “.

Neil was singing about Cortez looking for the New World; I was out there speeding across Florida looking for my own new world — though I wasn’t going to conquer, kill, lay waste. No, I was out here to find my own new world, to build my own house of many stones.

I thought about the process of change and personal evolution. Like Cortez, we all sail our own seas to unknown adventures and landscapes. The problem I find, however, is that so often we are bombarded by and submit to distraction — we never realize that we are either in the process of change and personal evolution, or we are stagnant and in personal entropy.

This was the challenge of my last year: realization, conquering distraction.

Long rows of orange grove slip past me. Tall stands of Australian Pine dominate periodic sections of the horizon. The road runs arrow-straight. My foot nears the floor again, engine straining, windows open. Neil Young’s guitar cries out twisted and dark, twisted and dark like the legacy of Cortez.

This is the report from central Florida, along the way to the Gulf Coast. But the Gulf of Mexico isn’t the goal. No, this is an ongoing journey over hill and glade, across waterways, and through the friendly skies at 35,000 ft. And every bit is the journey: it’s now, it’s real; I can touch it. It’s real life — realized life.

I arrived in Northport, on Florida’s Gulf Coast, at 5 something Monday afternoon, after a meandering run across orange country. Well, orange and cow country, there’s lots of cattle out here. Miles of soggy cow pasture. With all of the recent rains the famed south Florida psychedelic mushrooms, psilocybe cubensis, were growing all over those fields, all over the fresh cow dung. Their tawny caps gleaming with moisture in the sun. Cow pie high! (Note: Don’t try picking them; farmers have shotguns.)

I was planning on spending five days with friends, Rob and Yianni, at their beautiful Northport home. Rob, being an experienced landscape designer from back up north on Cape Cod, has extensively planted their lot. His gardens are an explosion of color and texture, scent and sound, contour and height. Clump forming bamboos tower well over their single story home rising up to 20 feet, with canes of green, golden, and black. Bromeliads and orchids have free run of the property. Vining jasmine perfumes the night with its intoxicating aroma.

Rob is also a master tie dye maker. Not your old school sixties style dyes though. This stuff has to be seen to be believed.

Yianni is one of these guys who seems to have been everywhere and done a bit of everything. He’s got a tale to tell in any situation. He is a humble guy and so hospitable, serving wonderful meals each night: he’s one of these folks who can take virtually any 5 ingredients out of the fridge and make a four course meal.

Great people.

Over the last five years I’ve really grown to love those two. They are part of a group of very few people whom I know, who actually seem to understand themselves and each other. And in this understanding of self they have been able to carve out a niche for themselves; creating a life in which they seem to do what they want, any given day.

But for me, it comes down to this: no one else is going to live the life you want for yourself. No one — you’re it. No one can show you what it looks like. No one can spell it out for you, or give you the vision of what the rest of your life looks like. Only you can do that, and that’s where it begins — the vision, you need the vision — from inside you. Inside your heart and mind.

It has taken me most of the last five years to absorb that — do what you want.

A foreign concept at best for many, a non-reality at worst for far too many. Oh, I’ve heard the laughs, the arguments, the built up defensive mechanisms people have to keep themselves from considering something as criminal as doing what you want.

But for me, it comes down to this: no one else is going to live the life you want for yourself. No one — you’re it. No one can show you what it looks like. No one can spell it out for you, or give you the vision of what the rest of your life looks like. Only you can do that, and that’s where it begins — the vision, you need the vision — from inside you. Inside your heart and mind.

This is not selfishness, but the opposite; to be in touch and in control of your vision, your path, means you are more likely to easily interface with those around you, loved ones and strangers alike.

Without that we sit, and wait, without realization — realization that you get nowhere without vision and a small bit of effort, that we are already on our journey.

Later in the week in Boynton Beach, I was dining at an Italian restaurant with dear friends James and Pam with whom I stay when I have occasion to be in Boynton. We settle into bar seating, ordering food and libations. I am seated next to an older, very Italian man named John. We started up a conversation. We started talking about life, and chances. He said, “You know, I’ve always just kind of Forrest Gump’ed my way through life,” pausing and reflecting he continues, “In fact, I think that’s how life happens best — when it just happens.” I agree and tell him a bit about my journey. We talk about our wives. John tells me he’s been married for fifty seven years, and I congratulate him, and tell him that I’ve been married for nearly thirty years.

He looks at me and asks, “What? How old are you?”

I laugh and tell him I’m close to fifty. “Jesus, you’re a kid.”

John smiles at me as I continue telling him about the complete chance meeting of my wife on a street bustling with a couple thousand people, in a busy city, with no intent of meeting anyone.

“But it just happened, didn’t it?” He laughs.

It did just happen, out of nowhere, fell right out of the sky and into my lap. He continues to say that all of the good things in life have happened to him, all of his major life events . . . have just happened for him. He says he’s lucky. I guess he is, though I think he’s just got his eyes on the right prize.

Great things can happen to anyone, but not everyone is ready to receive; accept; live those gifts.

I really couldn’t agree with John more as I feel the same. My life seems to, with regularity, just happen around me; to me, often providing just what I was searching for — falling into my lap.

But it does happen the otherway,too. It’s far too easy to fall victim to complacency, anxiety, and despair during life’s changes — shit, just during regular life. It’s easy to get stuck in ruts, and not see the way out, easy to lose the vision of what you want your life to look like. This is when the magic stops.

What do you want your life to look like?

We all need this vision, a roadmap within ourselves to keep us in check with who we are, where we are going, or want to go, and more importantly for me, why we are going there. Like when we were all kids for instance, up to graduating college, we all had a fair vision of where we were headed. And even thereafter when we settle into jobs, relationships, marriages — we have a pretty good vision, but then the distractions set in, our vision becomes old, tired. When we lose sight of our vision we just hunker down, like hibernation, only lifting the shadow off of our eyes to peer at the outside world of distraction. Without our own vision, without our guideposts, the entire world becomes distraction — and distraction becomes your reality.

Think about that: without that guiding vision, our distractions become our reality.

We may be a painter, or a writer, or an athlete. But without thatrealization of “I am” or “I will be” you become your distractions: be that an alcoholic, a depressive, a lost soul, an internet junkie, a compulsive cleaner, a dick. I know this as fact, I’ve lived various aspects to the aforementioned many times over.

Recently I went through one of those periods. I was stuck in a bad place, which I presumed by all outward indications to be a manifestation of the obstacles I was facing. It took me a calendar year to understand that it was not life holding me back, no, it was myself. I had simply lost the vision: writer, entrepreneur, adventurer, creator, miscreant, general maniac.

Two years ago I decided to make a sea change in my life, casting aside job, security, all known paradigm. I decided I needed to close the door behind me, and just walk away . . . from most of the old life. Fuck it. I received the obvious dissent from friends and family; the misunderstanding, the misgivings, the uncertainty. But, I saw the vision of what I could do and what I could go after. It was a simple enough, though hard fought for decision. I made it while laying on a beach in South Carolina, on an earlier trip to the sun and sand. I had no idea how things wouldbegin to change for me.

It was kind of like playing football with the old kids in my neighborhood growing up: the play starts and everyone is running down field yelling, “I’m open, I’m open!” And you better be ready to catch that ball when it comes dropping out of the sky at you. This is what it was like for me. I asked the universe, or perhaps stated to it, that I wanted change, I needed change. Nearly immediately things started falling out of the sky at me. New business deals, new acquaintances, new opportunity — that never would have been realized without my vision; my open accepting of forthcoming change.

My eyes were wide.

I was still talking with John back at the restaurant bar in Boynton. He was finishing up his Calamari Caprese, and I a blackened shrimp and scallop dinner with garlic asparagus, and plenty of beer. An amazing moment was about to happen. A moment that makes me confused by life and it’s permutations; its coincidences.

I’ve been working on a multimedia project comprised, primarily, of interviews with older folks regarding their lives; how they have found happiness, overcome life’s obstacles, and found inner peace. My idea is that inside each one of us is an incredible tale to tell, which to ourselves may seem ordinary and unimpressive, while to another, it may be fascinating, or even life changing.

Now, I’ve often found coincidence can be a sort of pat on the back to your personal journey; a confirmation of your path. Coincidence is perhaps the universe reaching out and showing you approval. One of those indicators that you’re already on your journey — you just need to realize it.

John turns to me as our conversation was winding down and says this, looking directly into my eyes, “ You know Bill, I think that inside each of us is an incredible story,” pausing looking at me, watching my wheels slipping into wonder, “You know what I mean? We all have this story in us, all of us.”He continues, “Bill, sometimes people are put in front of us for reasons, even if it’s just for a few moments, a few words.”

Yes . . . yes he’s right, isn’t he? Wow.

Fucking coincidence.

April 6, 2019
Fort Lauderdale Int’l Airport, Terminal 4 lounge

Isit here in the Fort Lauderdale International Airport at the Casa Noble bar sipping on a cold Goose IPA; absorbing a large glob of cannabis oil after a full week of reflecting and thought, after beach, after glorious food. I sit here writing these words and I fight back being just a bit choked up, thinking about John, and what he had said.

I also think about Captain Rob, Yianni, James and Pam; I think about coincidence. I think about distractions. I think about realization.

She has no way of knowing what I’m thinking, nor that I’ve got a pocket full of whiskey nips, nor that I ate a large glob of cannabis oil pre-flight (traditional flight deck prep). No, she sees that smile, and the shine in my eye, and knows that for me it is real, I have the vision, I can touch it, it is my life . . . now . . . realized.

What a trip to South Florida, what a trip indeed. What a journey. I’m glad I’ve realized, again, that I’m on it.

They are calling last boarding for my flight, time to finish this beer and slip onto that hot metal tube full of sweaty people heading somewhere, or back to somewhere. I hope they have their eyes open; on the prize.

Cruising again up at 35,000 ft. The plane has leveled off, and I made quick friends with a stewardess who has let me take the last full row of open seats on the flight — benefits of a good attitude. This allows me to stretch out a bit, write without bumping shoulders with my neighbor each time I hit the shift key, drink my nips, and well, just be. All good things.

The stewardess sees me smiling to myself as I’m banging out these last few words, she smiles and shakes her head at me kind of laughing. She has no way of knowing what I’m thinking, nor that I’ve got a pocket full of whiskey nips, nor that I ate a large glob of cannabis oil pre-flight (traditional flight deck prep). No, she sees that smile, and the shine in my eye, and knows that for me it is real, I have the vision, I can touch it, it is my life . . . now . . . realized.

-WJM

Hutchinson Island, and the Hunt for Wild Sand

Hutchinson Island, and the Hunt for Wild Sand

By William J Mullen

March 03, 2018

Somewhere over the Atlantic at 35,000 feet.

My wife Kathy and I were staying on the Atlantic coast of south Florida. A nice community called Boynton Beach. We were hosted by family with a lovely villa a couple miles in off the shore. It’s kind of a quintessential south Florida setting: large lanai; pool; cactus and palms; bromeliads; lots of sun.

Despite the obviously near perfect surroundings, we set off on an early weds morning to do one of the things in life we love most to do; are best at — hunting for some wild sand.

Over the past 5 years we have become quite familiar with the beaches of the Gulf Coast: Siesta; Manasota; Boca Grande; Cayo Costa; Sanibel.

Not so much for the Atlantic coast.

We have visited a few Atlantic beaches over these last 5 years as well, but primarily municipal beaches — beaches of convenience. We find ourselves here, on Florida’s east coast periodically for family gatherings, so often times, a beach that is closest is the most viable option.

We’ve been to some great little beaches here locally though: Macarthur Beach State Park, nice beach, and has an interactive learning center, and walking trails; Gulfstream park, a small but nice stretch of sand; Lake Worth Beach Park, a very nice easy public access beach, which also is home to Benny’s on the Beach — a fishing pier and restaurant serving breakfast, lunch, dinner, and sports a full bar.

But that’s not what we were looking for. No, we were following our hearts, searching for the wild sand; open beach; the path less travelled.

We were bound for Hutchinson Island.

~ ~ ~

February 28, 2018

Hutchinson Island, Florida

Hutchinson Island is a barrier island approximately 40 minutes north of West Palm, and about 2 hours from Orlando.

It rests just outside of Port St. Lucie and the Jupiter Inlet Aquatic preserve. The island is 23 miles long, and the entire Atlantic Coast is 100% beach. The Inland Waterway side of the island has several water access points as well. The Atmosphere is low key, far removed from the bustling crowds of a Daytona, or Siesta, or St. Pete. There was no traffic jam to cross the two bridges to Hutchinson, no problem finding parking (anywhere) and lot’s . . . lots of empty beach.

We spoke with a few locals on the way in, and a very nice county Sheriff. They all said how “busy” it was and we may not be pleasantly surprised. Huh. Well we had come this far . . .

As we turned north out of the Cumberland Farms (a quick beer stop) we noted, laughing, the lack of traffic. Busy we thought, hell we’d really like to see it when it’s slack season! We drove past the few well tended hotels and condominiums at the southern end of Hutchinson — gorgeous, but again, very few people.

We had set our sights on the northern end of the barrier island looking for a spot even less travelled.

Upon leaving the “business district” we soon realized, this was not really what we were expecting from the megalopolis coast — barrier forest, intact dunes, and a long straight near empty road pointing dead north. We passed several beach access points, including Blind Creek. This is the running joke among the locals, with everyone sort of giggling as they told us that we should really visit this section — a nude beach. Well, they all like a good laugh, and we laughed with them already knowing about Blind Creek. But we weren’t looking for that kind of action: a couple dozen naked old men. Nope. Thanks anyway.

We passed by Blind Creek in a fast car, only taking note where it was.

For us one of the few detractions of Hutchinson is smack in the middle of things. A two reactor nuke plant. Always we are confronted with ourselves. Mankind and it’s trappings. We gawked in passing.

We drove about 18 miles up island to a beach access called Middle Cove. We decided to stop briefly, just to have a little look at things, get a feel for the whole place, hell we hadn’t been out of the car aside from the Cumberlands. So we parked, and navigated the sandy path through the barrier dunes to the beach.

We were broadsided by what we saw.

We stood at the foot of the dunes where our path dumped out onto the beach, and looked across perhaps a 300 foot deep beach to the surf. The beach was flat, and near perfect granular sand. We looked south, down the arching beach, to see four people. A couple surf casting and one couple sitting quietly in beach chairs. To the north three people: another couple casting, and one walker maybe a mile away. That was it. Eventually a couple of older gals shell hunting for their small craft enterprise arrived on the scene. Hard to handle those kinds of crowds. To that, I say in the vernacular of our social media world: LOL.

Our time was limited this day however, and we had commitments later in the afternoon back down in West Palm, so we had to make the best of our time. We immediately raced back to the car, grabbed our things, set up an intro to our video travel project “Beach Movies with Bill and Kath” and bolted back out onto the beach.

It was clearly not hard to find a spot to drop our belongings and ourselves, and we quickly set up camp, and opened a couple of beers. Now of course, I should footnote that drinking on Florida’s beaches is not necessarily welcomed by the authorities, however in times such as these, under the clear blue sky, beside the aqua-marine Atlantic, at 87 degrees on February 28 — I highly recommend it. But that’s me, I’m not a sucker for convention.

Adjusting ourselves for the best view of the length of the beach, we watch the surf casters: casting, drinking, enjoying the day. We see some horses and riders a bit farther up the beach. The surf is impressive and wild today. Hutchinson is sought out by surfers and I can see why, some of the waves rolling in for quite a ways before expelling their energy onto the land.

As I am finishing a beer I see one of our fishing neighbors has something on the line. I decide to investigate.

I meet Jim and his wife (her name fails me now), they are down in the area from north Jersey from January to June each year now for eight years. They have three lines in the ocean. Jim hauls in his line only to lose the fish a few feet from shore.

“What are you hoping for?” I ask.

“Nothing.” is his reply.

“Fair enough, just being out here is good enough . . . ?”

“Yes.” He smiles a broad toothy smile and I can tell I have met a good soul.

We talk about our hometowns, and upon learning of mine — Sandy Hook, Ct — he offers his sincerest hope that we won’t experience . . . well we’ll leave that for another kind of story. He tells me about the rat race, and how they held out hope for years they would find a way to move near to this place they loved so much. I did not inquire as to how they did it, but I let him talk.

He had obviously made a good living back north.

“When we decided we would actually start the process, I was looking at buying a Ferrari, but felt that this was really that we wanted,” so he continues, “So we bought a 2001 Nissan Sentra instead,” pausing to smile at me, he continues, “ and I’ll tell you, best car I ever bought.”

We laugh together.

He says, “Seriously, the thing just keeps going, and it’s baby blue with chipping paint, I just get the oil changed, and you know, the once and a while stuff,” looking up with that broad smile again, “I never, ever have to worry about it being broken into, nothing. It’s perfect for this sort of thing.” He turns to check his lines, “But, we do have a travel car though, Lexus SUV . . . I like the Nissan better.”

Jim and I talk for a bit more, and I offer to give him back to his lady, she laughs without care, an honest laugh, and waves.

I bid them farewell and best wishes.

Kathy watches me walk back up the beach, and I am greeted with a big smile.

That’s the thing about beaches, well, wild beaches: the folks you find there are all there for the same thing, the same reasons, with the same mentality. We all have chosen a path less travelled. We went off of the beaten path, to find that bit extra: in life.

I take the time to speak with the other surf casters, folks from Portland Maine. Also snowbirds: January to June. Also, very nice folks. Ken was a bit more interested in his fishing, but June was thrilled that I stopped to talk. And honestly, we really just bullshitted and laughed with each other. Ken kept looking back and laughing at us.

I was presented, by both couples, a distinct distaste for the fact I planned on writing a piece about Hutchinson.

“We like it this way and want to keep it this way.”

I said, “I know, but only folks like us will come anyway — the few, the hardy, the slightly not right; the beach hunters.” They thought that was just fine.

I sat back down with Kath and we discussed filming for this piece, and the various other projects I am currently involved with. Recently I have decided to focus my whole being on “beach hunting”: searching for the good sand, the open spaces, the real rewards — of my life.

Beers are finished, and the clock tells us we’re already running late for our engagements in West Palm. We pack up, take one final look at the Atlantic, and walk back to the path through the sand dunes.

That’s when we met our two loves.

If I had any semblance of memory left, or a pad of note paper at the time, I would know their names. Shame on me.

They were meandering back to the parking lot as well, shell hunting all along the way. They were both smiling (It’s like the secret handshake isn’t it: smiling.)

I shout out, “Any good finds?”

They both look up and smile from ear to ear, “No, it’s not so good today.” one says.

“It’s better after storms when it all . . .” she pauses looking for a word, hands making circular upward gestures.

“The cream rises to the surface?” I quip.

They look bewildered and joyous, “Yes, that’s right.”

We chatted and greatly enjoy our mutual company. They are locals, but not. Each moved down some years before. They are out on Hutchinson today, for the obvious, but also looking for the right shells to make craft boxes that their church sells for charity. Fantastic. They speak at length about the Island and local communities, we talked about the Lake Worth Street Painting Festival which had already covered earlier in our trip, we talked a bit about ourselves, and our country.

They were great, great people. Beach hunters.

More importantly, like everyone else we met: the surf casters; a county Sheriff; several folks in the Cumberland Farms; a man in a Patriots hat (c’mon I’m from New England) and his dad — they were all happy.

But this is a common trait among folks who have made that decision: to look for the wild sand. It is a symptom of the rest of their lives really. It is a symptom of people who stopped caring about the trappings of the world that tell you be this or be that. These folks, we, have made the leap to live our lives as such: our lives. It’s like the Lake Worth Street Painting Festival, 600 artists coming together to adorn the streets with chalk art which quickly washes away, blows away, and gets trodden off by feet and car tires — it’s art for art. As we are living life for life.

There is a peace in this: the wild sand. A quiet place that we know is there, away from the rest of the world, away from the trappings of life: Ferraris; trophy homes; bills; bullshit. Yes, a few of us have learned that peace can be found, with a bit of extra effort, off the beaten path — just like the beaches of Hutchinson Island. Peace

~ ~ ~

Writing this piece at 35,000 feet somewhere over the Atlantic ocean, flying back north, back to the cold and grey; in a tube full a people, with crying babies and sweaty adults I think if I could only get them all to understand what I’m really getting at here: that to get to the good stuff, you need to go those extra few miles, keep your eyes wide, and your smile — even wider. These are the things that all pay dividends.

Because ultimately we all search for the same thing.

We all are searching for the perfect piece of sand; the perfect peace.

It’s out there people, it’s out there . . . just go that extra mile.

WJM

Captain Rob and the Sleepy Alligator: A Riverine Journey on Florida’s Gulf Coast

September 4, 2017 9:45 AM

High in the hills of New Hampshire

Delving back into this story about Captain Rob, The Myakka River, gators, friends. I can smell the small outboard engine again, thick blue smoke engulfing us as Rob worked the choke. I can smell the river – dank, humid, black water. I can smell the kitchen at Snook Haven – fried fish and barbecue drifting through the cabbage palm and live oak forest.

But now, sitting here at 2000 ft. – high in the hills of New Hampshire – I am far from that reality.

A large cup of morning coffee is steaming away beside me, jazz playing in the background. A gentle breeze is making its way through our home, as I gaze out to the rolling hills west of us – The Green Mountains of Vermont.

Far removed from the Gulf Coast of Florida – and from Captain Rob too.

We try to see each other once a year at least. We try for more – or aspire to more – but life always has its curves . . . like the Myakka River, winding its way through the West Florida landscape.

~ ~ ~

“Sleepy alligator in the noonday sun, sleepin’ by the river just like he usually done”

– Grateful Dead “Alligator”

April 26, 2016

East Venice, Florida: on the Myakka River

My wife Kath, and I, had really let the “Key life” seep into us this time visiting Florida’s Gulf Coast. We relaxed, slowed down, took it as it comes, enjoying the whole journey.

We had not made any big plans for this trip – simply content to let it happen – as we were both recovering from recent physical hardships, and uncertain about our ability to physically do anything at all. We were however, soaking up the West Florida sun, and loving it. We watched osprey fishing 50 feet in front of us – occasionally wheeling right over our heads, maybe just by 10 feet or so. I have always loved watching big birds. To see large birds – predatory birds – that close, that unfettered by you, carrying on with their lives – fishing, diving, catching, and casually shaking the salty ocean water off – like a dog – emerging from the surf with a 25 inch Amberjack or King Mackerel on the talon is beyond words. And that is everyday all throughout the Keys and Glades of Florida’s West Coast.

We had seen a pod of dolphins earlier in the week in the Inland Waterway – a family group – both adults and youths. The young ones were quite small, only 4 or 5 feet long. The whole family was swimming together, dorsal fins arching out of the water as they surfaced. The young ones splashed around in the shallows like our own children do. So different . . . so much the same. Our friend Rob had been the one to point out the young ones.

Rob is an old hippie friend. A lover of Florida’s Gulf Keys; the plants, the fish, the rivers, the salt water . . . the salt life.

He is one of the truest people I know. We met Rob through a Facebook group involving the Grateful Dead – those of us who followed and toured with the Dead throughout the eighties. When we learned a few years ago he lived very near our travels in the Gulf Keys, we decided we should meet up. We were soon taken by the friendliness and generosity of Rob, and his partner Yianni.

We had already “adventured” with Rob back when we first met a few years earlier – a magical trip by a small Boston Whaler across Port Charlotte harbor and through its little keys and islands: Matlacha, Cabbage, Black, Coon, North Captiva and Cayo Costa to name a few. Cayo Costa being the site of the near sinking of the aforementioned Boston Whaler (and Captain Rob) and stranding of myself, Kathy, and Yianni on the remote island. . . but that’s another story.

This trip, he offered to take us on calmer waters, up the Myakka River, looking for amongst other things – the South Florida gator.

We met Rob just off I-75 – exit 191, River Rd – at a place called Snook Haven.

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Snook Haven is like something out of a time warp, or alternate reality. Off the beaten path, down a dusty Florida dirt road, through a dense jungle like understory of cabbage palms, palmetto, and live oak, with philodendron vine climbing high into the canopy. Snook Haven is part encampment, part boat launch, part restaurant, part backwoods juke joint. Though we did not sample . . . Snook Haven has an extensive menu of smokehouse pork, chicken, ribs, and fish and a large – really surprisingly large micro brew menu for a place in the woods, 30 offerings. Lots of local Florida micros too. We’ll be back to check that one out in the future.

But today was for the river.

We all climbed into the infamous Boston Whaler, and after some “choking and smoking”, the engine achieved a consistent cadence. The hot Florida sun hit us as soon as we motored out onto the black muddy Myakka river. As we turned heading upstream, the tannic water, the heat, the palms hanging out over the river, the massive ferns, the smell of the 2 cycle engine – everything hit me at once.

It was like something out of Apocalypse Now or Heart of Darkness – the little boat heading up the dark river, surrounded by dense jungle like forest, slowly moving closer, engine puffing smoke, farther up river.

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But we weren’t after Kurtz.

No, our quarry was a simpler one, but equally elusive – The South Florida Gator.

The American Alligator, Alligator Mississippiensis, is a large, primarily riverine reptile. Adult males can reach upwards of 15 ft. and 500 lbs. The gators range from Texas to North Carolina in the US, though, Florida has the lion’s share. Florida also has a small community of American Crocodiles, sometimes mistakenly referred to as Caiman. Florida’s gators are famous for their antics; sauntering across highways, lounging beside waterways; both thrilling and scaring tourists.

As we moved farther up stream, we cracked open a few beers and settled into the boat. Captain Rob – I was instructed to refer to him as this – guided us through many small backwaters of the river proper, through branches of live oak, and leaves of cabbage palms – brushing the sides of the boat. Flowers were blooming en masse in the heat and humidity of the Myakka River Basin – wild hibiscus, ascepelis, and more. Swamp fern and giant leather fern grew in masses on the shore and in the forest.

Then there were the bromeliads. A variety of bromeliads grow in the Myakka River Basin that grow in few other parts of the state, due to its unique micro-climate. We saw whole live oaks – magnificent broad trees, branches completely adorned with different species of bromeliads: large, small, differing colors. One bromeliad species we encountered had a flower stalk that had to have reached five feet tall, looking more like a yucca. Amazing.

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I believe I saw the first gator.

We were in a backwater, heading back to the main river when I saw the eyes of a gator just breaking the surface of the water, for a brief moment, the gator disappeared ‘neath the black water. Elusive and often shy creatures. We kept our eyes to the sunny shores, as gators enjoy a good bit of sunbathing and soon saw several on a sandy bank – though they were quick to the shelter of the river, and to submerge.

We pushed up stream, past old Florida. Old homes, and camps from another era. Old groves of bamboo gone feral, standing at least 40 or 50 feet tall – and wider still. We passed more ancient variegated philodendron covering live oaks with their large, broad, shiny leaves.

There were gator signs everywhere. You could see their prized sunning and hunting spots worn free of vegetation on the river’s edges. We were able to spy a few more gators before returning to shallower waters and back to Snook Haven, as time was running thin. Kath and I had other plans for the day as well – a little bit of beach hunting. Searching for some quiet, lonely sand.

It was on the way back to Snook Haven we saw the big one.

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It was 10, maybe 12 ft. long. There were a couple relaxing together. The smaller of the two – half the size of the other – quickly disappeared into the tan and muddy water. The big guy, chose to swim just ahead of the Boston Whaler slowly – tail casually whipping back and forth in the water, till we got close enough for his liking – and like a ghost – just disappeared into the shadowy Myakka.

We returned; Captain Rob, the Boston Whaler, Kathy, myself – back to the world of Snook Haven, said our farewells and thank you’s, drove back out under the palmetto canopy, and pointed ourselves towards the Gulf of Mexico and Manasota Key.

What a day. A real “red letter” day.

Yes, a “red letter” day: the days you want to mark on your calendar, carve into your mind and never forget.

The wilds of Florida will do that for you, and have yet to cease to amaze me.

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We have to search to find these days, these places – the off the beaten track places. But it pays off when you hit the gold. Having a good captain can pay off too.Yes, sometimes putting your journey – even if only for a too quickly fleeting time – in the hands of a fellow traveller, friend, artist, captain . . . sometimes that – is absolute magic.

Here’s to Captain Rob, and the magic of the Myakka River.

– William J Mullen