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Southwest Florida Essay
Being a Dive Buddy Essay
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Essay on Southwest Florida
Gulfshore Life Magazine
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In Praise of Southwest Florida
How I Learned to Love What I Thought I Hated
by Linda Lee Rathbun
It is amazing how someone else's conviction about a place can taint your point of view. When I was fifteen, more years ago than I care to admit to, we moved from Switzerland to Miami for a year. My mother hated the place: she said it had no culture, no seasons, no mountains, no soul. Just to feel that she was back in a cold climate, she would turn the air conditioning down as far is it would go and drink hot chocolate in front of a glowing fire. We were a wildly dysfunctional family (we called it eccentric), and at no time were we more dysfunctional than in Miami. Through all our ups and downs, I was fiercely loyal to my mother. If she hated Miami--and every other square inch of Florida too--well then so did I. Even after she died, I did not falter in my resolve.
Over the years I drifted here and there, was married, and ended up in Australia. I never thought about Florida, except to inform friends that it was a horrible place. On a holiday back to the States, my husband wanted to visit Florida, and I reluctantly complied. I wasn't going to like it though, I assured him, of that I had no doubt.
We landed in Orlando and headed to the Gulf coast. We wanted to visit Ding Darling on Sanibel to see the bird life there, and the little island charmed me. My steel-hard dislike for Florida softened; after all, I was on vacation, there was no reason not to enjoy it. I don't remember Naples, but we must have driven through it on our way to Miami. Tamiami Trail was amazing--almost exotic in its isolation. Alligators floated on the surface of the canal banking the road. Indian villages lay tucked into the thick vegetation. There was not a gas station or car in sight and we drifted slowly along the road, stopping frequently to look at the birds that decorated the landscape. We stayed in the Everglades; I remember dining at the hotel there and looking out over the water to a sandbar populated by white pelicans, my animosity toward Florida forgotten as the bay turned scarlet with the setting sun. On the road to Key Largo, a flock of roseate spoonbills was feeding in the marsh by the side of the road, and no bird had ever seemed so beautiful to me. We went scuba diving, and a pair of reef squid followed me through the water the entire time, cautiously approaching my fingers when I held out my hand to them. I had to admit I could not hate a place where so many wonderful creatures existed.
We went home to Australia and continued to live there for many more years. Then, when we started to think about moving back to the States, we wondered where we should go. It had to be a place close to good diving, we certainly agreed on that. It had to have wonderful weather; we were sick of Melbourne and its long, wet winters. It could not be a large city, we could not bear any more traffic and urban sprawl, yet it still had to have some culture. It had to be near the water, preferably with great beaches. There had to be natural areas nearby where we could see lots of wildlife.
My husband's parents had already moved to Naples, they made it sound wonderful, and it met all our criteria. We put our things in storage with a shipper and we came over to see it for ourselves. At the airport in Los Angeles, I was sure we had made a terrible mistake, and I was ready to board the next flight back across the Pacific. Resisting that urge, we flew on, finally landing in Fort Myers. It was the end of November, and about 11PM. As we walked out to the parking lot, a warm wind gently welcomed us, and an owl hooted a soft hello in the distance. Maybe we had not made a mistake after all.
Over the next year, through bouts of heavy-hearted homesickness for Australia,
we settled down. Our things were shipped over, and we found an adorable
(and affordable) little house by a lake. I started writing for a few regional
magazines, and my husband started taking wildlife photos for several slide
agencies. We spent most weekends getting to know the natural areas that
surrounded us. Many, many times we remarked to each other that if we had
moved to any other place, we would probably have fled back to Australia
by now. So why did we stay? Because we--I--had fallen in love with Southwest
Florida.
As with most love affairs, it started with a physical attraction: the place
was so darn pretty. The Gulf of Mexico was like a silken spread of billowing
blues and greens, the ivory beaches were littered with captivating shells,
the sea breezes were as gentle as a lullaby. On my first walk down Naples
Pier, dolphins languished in the water, and a squadron of pelicans flew in perfect formation across the sky. Then, I started to write a few in-depth stories about the ecology of South Florida: places like Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, the reefs off Key Largo, the Everglades, and so on. The more I found out, the more intrigued I became. I began to understand how exquisitely balanced the landscape around me was. Swamps with sloughs and strands, hardwood hammocks with tropical trees and orchids, pinelands, marshes, wet prairies, mangrove estuaries, barrier islands, coral reefs. Then there was the wildlife: Florida panthers, black bears, armadillos, alligators, river otters, bobcats, and countless species of spectacular birds. The history too was intriguing: Spanish galleons lying offshore, their treasures still untouched; a lost tribe of Indians (the Calusa) who had created islands out of shells and left behind beautiful artifacts; runaway slaves who had escaped to Spanish Florida and found refuge with the Seminole Indians, and the Seminoles themselves who have yet to surrender to the United States government...fascinating stuff.
Not a day goes by that I do not see something that reminds me of how lucky I am to be here. Even if I do not leave my house, I can look out at my lake and see a pair of grebes bobbling on the surface of the water like two rubber duckies, or a bald eagle swooping down to snatch a fish. Driving down the road, I delight in spotting a belted kingfisher sitting on a telephone line, a wood stork soaring overhead, a great blue heron poised by the roadside canal. I love the way people just pull off the side of the road for emergency fishing stops on the busiest boulevards, off bridges and overpasses, even along Alligator Alley. They must keep a rod and reel in their trunk at all times, just in case they are overcome by the sudden urge to fish.
Of course everyone loves the winters down here, who wouldn't with the weather and the bird life, but I love the summers most of all. To bask in the warm, still waters of the Gulf, to go out in our little boat and float amongst schools of stingrays, to find turtle hatchlings scampering down the beach on moon-lit nights, is bliss. I love those cerise storm clouds at sunset that pulse with lightening, like a heartbeat that cannot find its rhythm. I love the rain that beats earthy smells from the ground. I love the thunder that cracks like an impatient whip. I love the way Mother Nature is still the master here.
Sometimes, when I look around at how quickly Southwest Florida is growing, with one handsome development after the other, I worry: where will it all end? I am not sure, but as long the osprey and the manatees and the tree frogs and the lizards stay, so will I. I do not know where in the world I’ll end up, but for now, I can't think of any other place where I would rather be than in our charming little corner of the globe.
The End
Scuba Diver Magazine, Bubblings
Essay on Being a Dive Buddy
by Linda Lee Rathbun
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Buddying the Budding Photographer
I do not recall the exact words of my wedding vows, but I suspect they were the same rash promises everyone makes on such an occasion. Somehow I do not believe I said anything concerning particular provisions on being a dive buddy, although my husband assures me I did.
I do recall in my dive course I was told "Always keep your dive buddy in sight". There is one creature that is exempt from the reciprocal arrangement implied in this rule: it is the Aquaticus photograhicumeEccentricus......and I married one. The Aquaticus photograhicumeEccentricus , or the A.P.E. as we shall call it from now on, is an obsessed creature. To function, it requires far more than the average neurotic diver.
My A.P.E. began with a Nikonos and a lens. He needed only a few dives to find out how very limited his equipment was (at least in the photographic department). He explained that he had to have another Nikonos body. (A camera is only there to hold the film, so it makes sense you need a couple of cameras for a couple of rolls of film).
He needed a few more lenses too: a 20, a 28, and an 80. He needed some viewfinders and prism finders. And a close-up outfit. And light meters. And a couple of strobes and their brackets, extension arms, sync cords, auto sensors, and battery holders. And what if he was underwater using the macro setup to take a shot of a nudibranch and we turned around and there was a whale swimming by? He bought a 15mm lens.
By then two rolls of films were no longer enough, he needed at least three rolls, so he bought another Nikonos, and then another.
This was only the beginning. My A. P.E. started to ponder the problem of non-reflex viewing. Since he was also a top-side nature photographer, wasn't there sense in housing his Nikon? In fact, housing both his Nikons? (Remember, a camera only holds the film, so you need one for every roll of film). Then there were the lens ports and port protectors and of course the internal viewfinders, aperture gears, focusing rings, mounting blocks and strobe connectors.
Once all these goodies had been collected, we needed a safe way to store them. My A.P.E. bought several cases, big, bigger, and biggest. Somehow they have all ended up on my side of the closet (my clothes are shorter, you see). Lastly, my A.P.E. needed an underwater model. Elle McPherson was perpetually busy doing the Sports Illustrated bathing suit issues. However, I was available. I soon found myself outfitted from head to toe in pink dive gear.
When we go on a dive holiday, we usually fly. This entails a great deal of concern for an A.P.E. After many trips to the bathroom scales with our gear, he finally resigns himself to being "only" 20 kg overweight. We smuggle our cargo on board, trying to make our hand luggage look light.
Our most recent trip was a week long dive boat venture to the Great Barrier Reef. My A.P.E. quickly selected the cabin with a small sink so he could rinse his gear. I was soon informed that under no circumstances was I to walk on the floor of our cabin. This area was reserved for the already hijacked towels (all of them), upon which lay the equipment. I was permitted to tiptoe in between, being careful not to be clumsy, or I could take a standing leap from the door to my bunk.
My husband was not the only A.P.E. on board our dive vessel. There was one from England, (his wife and I would often roll our eyes at each other in a long suffering sign of mutual sympathy) and an Australian A.P.E. Soon the tables of the deckhouse were littered with camera gear. When the A.P.E.s assembled, they spoke in tongues. The English A.P.E.'s camera flooded, and my A.P.E. searched through our bags for suitable tools: several dental implements, a set of tiny screwdrivers, two Swiss Army knives, and what was soon to become a highly coveted Leatherman's tool. ("Top tool, that" the Aussie A.P.E. said several times). Soon the A.P.E.s had the poor camera in pieces and several hours later it was miraculously reassembled into working order. "See", my A.P.E. said to me triumphantly. "See how lucky we are to have backups for our cameras".
Several dives later, my A.P.E was horrified to find a drop of water in his strobe. The dental implements, knives, screwdrivers, and Leatherman's tool were once again retrieved from our cabin and soon the A.P.E.s had broken the strobe's inaccessible factory seal and had the thing in pieces. This too was miraculously reassembled. (amazing what a little Blu-Tack can do).
Preparing to dive with an A.P.E. can create conflict. He has been greasing his O rings, and straightening out his macro brackets and connecting his connectors and charging his nicads. Once on deck, his primary concern is making sure a pair of swim fins don't accidentally trample or fling his equipment into the deep blue sea. He has no patience for dawdling. He unceremoniously ushers me, his buddy, overboard and then hands me his camera(s), yelling out to be careful of the slender brackets from which wobble a couple of three kilo flashes. Then, he enters into the water and into a state of oblivion where only he and his viewfinder exist.
On one dive my A.P.E. spent 50 minutes lingering over a rock waiting for a forest of Christmas tree worms to spring out from their hiding places. On another he used up a tank of air in 15 minutes chasing a couple of cuttlefish around in circles while they changed colors as quickly as a neon sign, perhaps indicating their alarm or amusement at this extra-aquatrial. Sometimes we become separated. I usually found him with his torso buried deep in a crevice, photographing some little creature, while his legs and fins stuck straight out like some sort of impaled Asian hors d'oeuvre.
By now my A.P.E. had established a sacred religious ritual. Before each dive was 'The Assembling of the Equipment'. After each dive was 'The Dismantling of the Equipment'. In a hushed silence, broken by an occasional four letter word, the gear would be tenderly rinsed, the film would be carefully changed, the O-rings would be thoroughly greased, and the big piece of glass on the 15mm would be nervously inspected. I would be given the camera I was reluctantly entrusted with on the next dive. My A.P.E. would once again remind me there had been several times on the last dive when he could not see me. I would tell him patiently he had been wandering again, and I was not his buddy on a lead. He promised, once again, to be more careful. And he tried. He really did. He was there by my side when a five foot long moray eel wrapped himself around me. My buddy clicked away, moving this way and that to get the best angle. He was there when we dove the Cod Hole, and I was mobbed by a group of 200kg potato cods with mouths the size of rubbish bins. He was there whenever I was doing something interesting, something photogenic.
One afternoon I persuaded my A.P.E. to go on a dive without a camera. I told him he would enjoy diving much more without all that junk. He wandered aimlessly around the coral bommies, trying not to find anything worthy of a photo. Above us the water broke in crystal waves. I pointed to the pretty patterns and he nodded sadly at me, shrugging despondently. I found a wall of anemones with several large clownfish cavorting about in the poisonous tentacles. He looked defeated and depressed at the sight. I felt as though I had deprived a dying man of his last wish. On the dive platform I promised him I would never make him dive without his camera again.
So, here is my advice for buddying the budding A.P.E. Be very firm with this creature. Let them know they must be your buddy too. If you're not married to it, consider becoming an A.P.E. yourself. That's the only way you'll ever get along. If you are married to one, plan on postponing the purchase of a house for along time (maybe forever). Underwater photography is very expensive. The A.P.E. is a clever creature, and because you are in love with it, it will be able to talk you into buying one single lens which is more valuable than your car. Plan on having your greatest arguments underwater, with hand signals which do not bear description.
Last, but not least, take care of your A.P.E. Remember it is only trying to bring the wonders of the deep to the surface so that others can enjoy the beauty of diving.
THE END
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