egret

What springs to mind: open ocean, waves, surfers, sand, waving sea oats. Yeah, me too, but I live on the other side, tucked in a creek off the San Pablo River, an integral part of the Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway. That's where I paddle every day.

A Saturday or so ago, the river beckoned early; Kirk and I loaded the kayaks with camping gear and our two schipperkes heading north with the current (current is king here on the waterway, unless you're interested in a marine corps bootcamp experience).
Early morning, the marsh grasses tremble and dance in the swift run, stoop-shouldered pelicans adorn the markers, dagger-winged oyster catchers swoop and duck working the shore.
As the sun rises, so do the waterway runners; powerboats lend a touch of mayhem to the scene ploughing up the river. Spray sparkles a fine mist. Bold Tazi, our younger dog, abandoned her perch up on the bow after a particularly wet rolling wake found us as we skirted the shore. Popo, older and wiser, lay quietly below.
Ditch straight, the river runs narrow through the roiling race of the Atlantic Avenue Bridge. Exciting paddling through standing waves watching for traffic. Scudding with the current, we blew down San Pablo exiting into the broad sweep of the St. Johns River. paddling
Exchange of tannic-colored tea for cobalt chop. Chop with an attitude to borrow a phrase. A pulling, falling tide. We keep close watch on a lumbering freighter and the returning tugs that dance among the recreational boaters.

A break, we angle toward Sister's Creek paddling hard aiming high of the mark. Kirk, in the lead, heads straight for the creek after passing the commercial dock facility to be swept away from the entrance nearly to the pier where a tug wash fought with the tide. How deceptive appearances can be. Breathing heavily from the sustained sprint in kayaks laden with food, water and well-fed dogs, we glide into the creek under the low bridge entering the quiet of a world apart.

Tree-lined shores higher than the marshy San Pablo. Home to fishing osprey and a lone eagle sentinel. Tazi emerged from her hidey hole below and prances back out to the bow; Popo climbs onto Kirk's lap. The falling tide reveals oyster beds rank with mud and odor, a perfect wading ground for a clutch of posing roseate spoonbills. Black ibis fly silent overhead, their sharp black and white markings unmistakable. A stone's throw from the hubbub of an active commercial port.

Sister's Creek winds and turns, the land sinks again to marsh. We paddle through a slalom course of crab trap floats. Life is primary color, water, sky and marsh. The creek narrows then branches. We head east, new territory: ivory sand beaches flank rolling dunes. We break for a snack at the Kingsley Plantation, affording the dogs romp time. Then continue east closer to Little Talbot Island alert for a camp site.

There she lay: a bit higher bluff sloping down to a thumbnail beach. Perfect for dragging the boats up out of the tide's reach. Tent up, boats safe, we indulge ourselves in some serious frolicking.
Sherrie
2/14/99
All this and a good pinot noir, too? This could be paradise...
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