Adventure to Amelia Island, Florida

Awhile ago, I took a trip to Amelia Island, Florida. It's taken me three months to share the inspiration I captured for you, Floodmarkers. But...better late than never? Yeah, we'll go with that.

That pale speck on the beach? That's me. 

My latest frolic was a welcome escape from the chilly rollercoaster that is March in Chicago. You can't really call March springtime in the Midwest -- it's more like this miserable, slushy, night-is-always-darkest-before-the-dawn time period between Winter and Spring. As you can imagine, being a pale speck on the beach was paradise. First order of business once we settled in? Eat an entire king crab. And at least half a pound of shrimp.

IT WAS VACATION, OKAY? DON'T JUDGE ME.
(source)

It was also the first time I had ever had crab. Yes, I'm basically ruined now. But let me tell you, give me a little sand, a little surf, and a pile of seafood and I'm one happy clam. Naturally, after consuming said seafood, we took our food babies, wiggled into swimsuits, and returned to where it all began: the sea. 

Only, it was freezing. The sea was so chilly we sat on this giant, empty expanse of sand and watched the waves, the birds, and each other. Which was slightly romantic in the sense that suddenly, against all the sand and sunlight, I realized I hadn't looked at the amazing human I've chosen to spend a few years consistently bugging. I was busy looking at my phone, or typing out blog posts, or staring, I now realized, anywhere but directly at this person. In some ways, it's like staring at the sun. Your heart sort of feels like it's going to burst -- you're feeling all the feels. And that's probably pretty alarming to your significant other, but in that moment it was this goofy thing and I was elated and exhausted by it all, sitting on that enormous white beach, next to an ocean that was probably filled with ice cubes, watching the clouds move across the sun and cast different shadows on this person. 

Eventually we went inside. 

Quite the serendipitous find, if I do say so myself. 

Later on in the evening (after consuming even more seafood), I found myself engaged in a charming conversation with a local:

I know what you're thinking. Yes, this did take five minutes and an imaginary conversation to capture.
(Not ashamed.)

Real nice guy. I imagine he had a lot of interesting things to say about poetry. We spent the rest of the evening on the balcony of the condo we were staying in, drinking wine and staring off into the giant stretch of darkness that was the ocean. When the sun went down, it completely disappeared. But somehow, the waves were even louder. It was peaceful in the sense that listening to the waves like that is all-consuming: conversations dwindle off into the distance slowly, you come back to the present suddenly and realize you haven't said a word in five minutes. Something about basking in the presence of an ocean you can't see encourages the brain to strip and run with reckless abandon toward the shoreline, searching for the water it knows, but secretly doubts, exists. 

Even sleeping was like being afloat. 

So many ocean polaroids. Never the right ocean polaroid.  

I snapped a photo from the balcony on my polaroid every morning I was there. Naturally, the first one was my favorite. But enough of dreamy mornings -- it was time for adventure. I had a date with a tandem kayak, a civil war-era fort, and a swampy hiking trail. (What can I say? I'm a busy gal.)

If we look happy, it's because we finally got the hang of kayaking and weren't
 frantically splashing around trying to get out of the way of a boat any longer.

Predictably, kayaking was gorgeous. I wasn't expecting to love it was much as I did, though -- if you've ever been kayaking before, there's a really unique and lovely rhythm that comes with paddling. It was incredibly satisfying -- a lift, contact with the water and a smooth pull back, and repeat. There's such a balance to it. Also, we saw a dolphin family and I nearly fell out of the kayak I was so excited. 

Life. Long. Dream. 

We had this beautiful moment with our guide at the end of it all. Throughout the excursion, we had been chatting about a big life choice that was looming ahead for both of us, among other topics of conversation, and him making sure we didn't die. So at the end, he offered to pray with us, if it wouldn't offend us. I'm not religious, but I am spiritual. We took each other's hands, and he prayed about this choice we were facing. The sun was warm on our drying clothes, my lips tasted like salt water, and there we were, three folks holding hands in a crumbling ocean-side parking lot, having a genuine human moment. Call me sentimental, but it's stuck with me. 

Tiger Island is where we paddled to for our halfway point.
In case you were curious, my arms nearly fell off at Tiger Island.

After we dried out, we headed to Fort Clinch, a Civil War-era fort on Amelia Island that was in use off and on throughout the years before it became a historical landmark and museum. I won't lie: it was eerie even in the sunshine. Maybe even more so. I loved it.

In some ways, it looked like the soldiers of old had shaken themselves awake that morning and walked away from it.

I promise that Fort is haunted. It maintained a feeling of silence, despite the roar of the nearby ocean and people wandering around the buildings, tunnels, and walls. The weight of someone else's memory was heavy in those wanderings. You almost felt like if you closed your eyes, you could summon it all back. 

The perspective of the canon. 

After awhile, we found our way out of the Fort and onto a swamp hiking trail. By this point, it was starting to get quite humid and hot, which was pleasant up until we started getting hungry. And also, I was admittedly rattled by all the signs warning hikers about gators and the lack of people on the trail. Nonetheless, the swamp had so many unique little features here and there that I couldn't resist snapping lots and lots of photos. Here are two: 

Naturally, we found our way onto a beach. Our feet were pretty much toast at this point, so the ice cube water actually felt great. For once. 

The pattern the tide left in the sand. I think it looks like trees.
Even the ocean is a better artist than I am. 

The next day brought the threat of thunderstorms, horseback riding, more hiking, and lots and lots of salt water. 

But about the hiking. The trail started out normal enough. 

Eventually, the trail let out on a sand dune with a great view. But then the rest of the loop was on the beach. And...it was high tide. And the Driftwood Jungle, as I started calling it, took up all the higher ground, forcing us to both wade through the tide and pick our way through tangled branches and roots. 

Not pictured: two pairs of soggy, sandy hiking shoes, multiple scratches, and determined game faces.

Look, this might not have been the smartest move, but there's something slightly charming about doing something stupid with the person you love. It's dumb, but quite frankly we just didn't give a damn. No one else was around, except one elderly man perched amid the driftwood jungle, watching us trudge through the tide, holding onto the odd branch when the tide came rushing back out. We must have hiked two miles like this, alternating between scrambling and wading, hanging on to the worn, smoothed wood and splashing through sand and I'm sure a few sea critters. Finally, the driftwood gave way to clear higher ground and the tide began receding. We finished the last mile under the threat of a late afternoon storm. 

Not 30 minutes after we made it inside the condo, the storm we had been discussing all afternoon with critical eyes cast toward the overcast sky moved in. Thunder, lightning, driving rain -- the works. I don't have any  photos because we opened the sliding glass door on the balcony and fell asleep on the couch listening to the rain. I don't really need photos to remember that moment because I hang onto that feeling whenever I'm feeling particularly worn out at work, or am staring at a blinking cursor waiting for inspiration. 

After all, isn't that the point of vacations? To give you moments in time where you have nothing better to do than to listen to the ocean and the rain and the person you love breathing until all those noises become one and the same? All essential, all rushing toward you, and all gone before you can open your eyes fully to appreciate them. Presence is not a gift I am given often, so those memories become little rooms inside me that I find my way back to when I'm running through the hallways, desperately tearing open doors in search of a peaceful moment. And eventually, those little rooms become stanzas and those stanzas join together to shelter both me and my readers. Inspiration, after all, is an urge to preserve clarity in moments large and small. What moments from your past trips can you claim?

Read more of Alexandria's work on Floodmark.

Psst! Like this article? Perhaps you'd like to read about Alexandria's trip to New Orleans, or her experience at the Morton Arboretum in the Spring. Or maybe you'd like to hear about Vernon's trip to India, and the Tale of Jaspal Sehdave? So many frolics, so little time.