Secrets of Mother Nature

At water's edge, the stream was no more than a thin, damp sheet ribboning up the beach. Higher up on the sand, it became deeper,  a wet channel leading toward the wall of red mangroves, before disappearing into them. How could we not follow it? 

My mom and I ducked into the dark archway. The beach vanished behind us; the stream snaked ahead. Now ankle deep in warm tannic water, we picked our way upstream. Inside the shadowy tunnel, a greeny gold luminosity played over the water, dappling our faces and rippling over the leafy walls that closed above us.

On either side, the mangroves’ roots—slender flying buttresses—were spangled with barnacles. Then the mangroves thinned, the landscape opened, and we found ourselves in a sunny clearing.

Here, hundreds of horseshoe crab shells littered the pale sand. The dun-colored husks lay everywhere. It was hard to take three steps without crunching them like leathery eggs. Had we discovered a horseshoe crab graveyard?

I turned one over and a squad of tiny crabs swarmed out, then scattered. My mom and I examined some of the empty horseshoe shells. Their odd profusion was just the sort of Florida phenomenon that fascinates her.

A surgeon’s daughter, she inherited her father’s love of learning about the inner workings of things. That, coupled with her taste for art and adventure, created for me a childhood filled with science and sensory surprise.

Come pomegranate time, she’d peel so many, it looked as if she were wearing violet gloves. I remember her smile as we gorged on the sweetly exotic capsules within. A fruit’s season is short, we learned. Stains disappear soon enough; enjoy while you can.

She was by my side that first kaleidoscopic afternoon at the Jungle Gardens, as a keeper approached with a bird that to my seven-year-old eyes looked as big as a peacock—a hyacinth macaw with an inky scimitar bill and lizardy, talon-tipped feet. It was as beautiful as it was frightening. Whispering encouragement, my mother gently touched the bird’s head. It ruffled its lapis feathers and half-closed its eyes. The keeper looked at her; she nodded, holding out a cardigan-clad arm. Calmly, carefully, the bird stepped on; then my mom looked at me. Would I like to try? Well, it hadn’t attacked her, so I slowly reached out. The macaw eased itself onto me.

The claws prickled. It was heavier than it looked. I remember my arm trembling, but it may have been from the thrill: eye-to-yellow-ringed-eye with a creature that looked like it had just fluttered in from a faraway jungle. The world felt as if it held just the bird, my mother, and me. But someone was there to snap a picture; I still have it in my top desk drawer.