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Whenever I mention the lighthouse in St. Augustine, Florida, on Anastasia Island, I know immediately if that person has been there. Gasps of “Now that’s a climb�� or some variation usually occur. The 209 steps appear daunting, and it can seem as if the winding spiral staircase is never going to end , but suddenly it does, and the 165-foot climb is all but forgotten. It’s a little bit like giving birth. It’s labor intensive getting to the top, but once there and walking around 360-degree balcony, the climb is all but forgotten.

Its black and white striped spiral column topped by the light itself wrapped in red can be seen from land and water for miles. The chosen spot on the north end of the island near an inlet was originally chosen by the Spanish in the 16th century. They built a watchtower to keep an eye on the native Timucuan population and to help guide vessels into the oldest port in the country. But it also drew the English pirate Sir Francis Drake in 1586. After pillaging, Drake and his men burned the tower down.

The United States commissioned Florida’s first lighthouse in the same spot in 1824. It survived until after the Civil War when erosion began to compromise the foundation. Fortunately, a new lighthouse, 350 yards inland, was completed in 1874. Six years later, the original lighthouse collapsed into the inlet.

Today, the St. Augustine Lighthouse is restored, and its grounds are home to a museum, which chronicles and preserves the maritime history of our country’s oldest European settlement. The two-story keeper’s home offers a look into life during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The Coast Guard Quarters used during WWII provide another aspect of the area’s history.

Of all the historical sites to visit in this tourist destination, I recommend the lighthouse as the best place for its authentic examination of the past and for its stunning views of coastal north Florida.

Hours: From October through February: 9:00 am �� 6:00 pm daily. From March through September: 9:00 am �� 6:30 pm daily. Hours may vary during holiday season.

Cost (includes climb and admission to the grounds): Adult �� $17.95; Children (12 and under) �� $12.95; Seniors (60+) $15.95

Danger lurks in the swamps and wetlands of Florida. The Spanish conquistadors threaten the native people. A greedy conglomerate destroys anything in its path. Innocent and passionate people throughout the centuries engage in a battle simply to survive.

Traverse the years from 1760 to the present day in a constantly changing environment as the political thriller unfolds.

Native Lands also goes back in time to form a historical perspective on Florida’s Native Americans. Join Locka and Mali as they lead their tribe of Timucuans away from the Spanish near St. Augustine in 1760 and settle into a new life in the Everglades alongside the Calusa Indians. Their progeny grow and hide in the swamp, attempting to keep their bloodlines pure.

Hundreds of years later, the exiled native Floridians thought to be extinct, rise up and form their own band of warriors to fight a conglomerate intent on destroying the last vestiges of the natural environment of Florida. With the assistance of nature, they attempt to halt the annihilation of the natural world they treasure.

Mangrove Mike, Joey Cosmos, and Rob Zodiac have lived their entire lives with the secret of their heritage kept hidden until they learn that human connections transcend the fear of extinction. Join them, along with Barbara Evans in the Everglades and Emily Booth in St. Augustine as they form the foundation and prepare to fight forces, which are intent on completing manmade “living zones�� throughout Florida.

It’s a dangerous journey for this mismatched group of fighters as they attempt to halt the destruction of the natural world they treasure. Cultural boundaries established centuries ago are erased as love and nature seek the balance lost during the battle for power and control of the last of the Florida frontier.

The centerpiece of Monticello, Florida, thirty miles east of Tallahassee, can be seen from all directions when approaching the downtown of the small town and county seat of Jefferson County. The two main highways into town converge at the Jefferson County Courthouse, which pays homage to our country’s third president.

The Classical Revival structure with French influences was constructed to loosely resemble Monticello, Virginia, the home of Thomas Jefferson. However, in true Old South tradition, the Florida version is pronounced with an “s�� sound on the “cello�� part. Traffic circles around the courthouse and joins US Highway 90—flowing east and west—with US Highway 19 heading north and south.

Thomas Jefferson died in 1826 one year before the county was formed. Some say the county and town were named to honor his contributions to the founding of the United States. But I found one historical account stating that several of his descendants resided in Jefferson County for many years.

When I first moved to Tallahassee eighteen years ago, Monticello was simply a name on a sign off I-10. But a few years ago, I rediscovered an old friend who lived in Thomasville, Georgia, fifty miles from my home. Monticello sits right smack dab in the middle of both our homes. For the past three years, we’ve been meeting in Monticello for lunch several times a year. We’ve not tired of the restaurants—which are plentiful—nor of the unique shops selling antiques, plants, Tupelo honey, and a multitude of other unique items.

Downtown Monticello

It’s a gem of a small town. Even though the population hovers around 2,500, the traffic around the courthouse circle shows a vibrant population of residents and visitors on any given day of the week.

Thick forests and rich soil drew the first settlers to the area. Cotton, corn, pecans, and watermelon dominated the economy for decades. During the Gilded Age years, 1865-1902, the wealth of the country changed dramatically as did the lives of its people. Immense fortunes brought folks to Florida’s warm climate, and places such as Monticello and Thomasville thrived.

During this boom time, the first passenger train brought tourists to Monticello in 1888. To help provide services for the influx of folks, wealthy businessman John Perkins built the Perkins Block in 1890. The ground floor held a general store and mercantile shop. The second floor became the Monticello Opera House where plays, vaudeville shows, touring opera companies, and even the circus entertained residents and visitors.

In 1909, across the way from the Perkins Block, the courthouse was constructed. The Latin phrase Suum Cuique is inscribed above its entrance doors. It means “To each his own,�� but locals sometimes say it means, “Sue ‘em quick.�� The structure dominates the town’s center.

The Perkins Block on the right with the courthouse right at the center of it all.

As happened with far too many small towns across the United States, several things conspired to end the boom in the first part of the twentieth century. A series of diseases killed much of the agricultural livelihood, which began the decline. The spiral toward the depression began. A fire destroyed the town’s largest hotel in 1917. And the death toll rang on Monticello in 1927 when it was decided to reroute the railroad through Lloyd, a small farming community west of Monticello. By then, the depression gripped the community, and the theater eventually closed its doors as did the other businesses housed there. It remained in disrepair until 1970, when private donations, fundraising efforts, and state grants sponsored a restoration project. Today, the theater provides year-round entertainment, and its courtyard is the site of many events, including weddings. It also draws people from Tallahassee and Thomasville, my friend and I included, to its downtown area with six or seven restaurants scattered within walking distance of one another.

To honor its agricultural past and present, each June the town holds a watermelon festival.

This year, the 74th Annual Monticello Watermelon Festival occurs on June 13 and 14, 2025.

Thank goodness for the resilience of the people of this country who honor the past and charm visitors with its ingenuity.

Ibis and snowy egret in conversation on the Wacissa River, Florida.
Photo by P.C. Zick

Fifty-five years ago on April 22, 1970, the first Earth Day was celebrated. Maybe the word “celebration�� doesn’t quite fit here because its inception came as the result of some horribly tragic events—an oil spill and the discovery by a woman scientist/writer of the harm done to wildlife and humans from pesticides.

All those years ago, organizers saw it as a positive way to respond to the largest oil spill to date in Santa Barbara in 1969. Ironically, on the fortieth anniversary of Earth Day in 2010, news of another oil spill began trickling into the media when an oil rig exploded in the Gulf of Mexico off the coast of Louisiana, killing eleven men working on the rig and doing untold damage to the surrounding area when the gushing oil couldn’t be contained for weeks. Deepwater Horizon isn’t mentioned much these days, but it had a profound impact on me, and I’ve never forgotten.

Many historians credit that first Earth Day in 1970 to the incredible work done by biologist and writer Rachel Carson. I believe the collision of both the Santa Barbara oil spill and the publication of Rachel Carson’s brought an awareness to many folks about the harm caused by our advancements in industry and science despite the positive impacts that have been realized. Advancement without care comes with a cost. And the cost results in the loss of human and wild lives as well as destruction to the environment.

Rachel Carson

You might ask who is Rachel Carson? I had heard of her prior to moving to Pittsburgh in 2010, but I wasn’t completely aware of her impact on the environment. I wondered why one of the bridges over the Allegheny River in downtown Pittsburgh was named the Rachel Carson Bridge. I learned the author of had grown up in Springdale, Pennsylvania, on the banks of the Allegheny River not far from that bridge.

Rachel Carson’s childhood home on the banks of the Allegheny River near Pittsburgh. Photo by P.C. Zick

Born in 1907, she grew up just upriver from the city that was coughing its way to becoming the Steel Capital of the World. Carson played in the hills surrounding the river as it wound its way to meet the Monongahela and Ohio rivers in downtown Pittsburgh. When she found a fossil on the banks of the Allegheny, she became obsessed with the sea and the history of nature.

Ms. Carson was a writer from an early age. But in college at Pittsburgh Women’s College—now Chatham University—the study of biology beckoned. She went on to work for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service where her talents as a writer emerged in the writing of boring fact sheets about wildlife. She eventually left the USFWS to write books about the sea. Soon her research led her to learning about illnesses caused by pesticides. Thus began her four year journey in researching and writing of (1962), which exposed the horrors of wholesale spraying of lethal toxic substances on all living things to kill one pest. Her conclusions led to the banning of DDT use.

The shocking and controversial book set in motion a string of actions that eventually led to the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency and passage of the Clean Air and Endangered Species acts. Unfortunately, she didn’t live long enough to witness the explosive impact of her research and words.

While the book became a bestseller almost immediately, it created a firestorm of vicious attacks on Carson by the pesticide industry and the media. She remarked that her critics represented a small, yet very rich, segment of the population.

An editorial in Newsweek soon after its publication compared Carson to Sen. Joseph McCarthy because the book stirred up the “demons of paranoia.�� But that book, no matter its reception, helped save the bald eagle and peregrine falcon and other birds from extinction.

Bald eagles were once endangered by pesticides, but thanks to Rachel Carson, they are now of low conservation concern.
Photo by P.C. Zick at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge, Florida

Rachel Carson didn’t want to write Silent Spring, but she stated in an interview, “the subject chooses the writer, not the other way around.��

I’m a firm believer in the subject choosing the author. When that happens, it’s best to let go and enjoy the gift. And that’s exactly what happened to me in the months after the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. I began writing Trails in the Sand because the subject chose me, the words came easily, and the characters became an extension of my family.

To start off Earth Day 2025 week, I’m offering my Florida Fiction novel, , for free downloads April 21-25.

What does this novel have to do with Earth Day? Everything.

Book Blurb: When environmental writer Caroline Carlisle sets off to report on endangered sea turtles during the Deepwater BP oil spill in 2010, she also uncovers long-kept secrets that threaten to destroy her family. The situation is complicated further by Caroline’s love for her late sister’s husband, Simon. An uproar ensues as Caroline’s southern family embarks on a collision with its past and future. At the same time, the oil from Deepwater Horizon continues to spew forth into the Gulf of Mexico and onto its beaches, creating an urgency to save Florida’s wildlife. It’s in this atmosphere that Caroline discovers the truth about her family and writes noteworthy articles about wildlife rescues.

Her relationship with both her sister, who died from an eating disorder, and her mother, whose grief and depression over the death of her brother years earlier shatters Caroline’s own secrets. An adventure involving parenthood and children and mental illness, Trails in the Sand uses the real events of 2010 as the backdrop for the psychological love stories unfolding with some humor and satire on the world of Florida environmental politics.

If you enjoy books that combine fiction with real world events, you’ll enjoy how the timeline and facts from Deepwater Horizon’s oil spill serve as the backdrop to Trails in the Sand, the recipient of a Green Book Award.

Earth Day 2010 was marked by the explosion in the Gulf of Mexico that killed eleven men and spewed forth oil into the waters off the coast of Louisiana. Four million barrels of oil flowed from the damaged Macondo well over an 87-day period, before it was finally capped on July 15, 2010.

At the time of the explosion, I worked for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission as a public relations director. However, I was attempting to transition out of my job because I had recently married, and I planned to move to Pittsburgh where my husband worked.

In addition, wo weeks prior to the Deepwater Horizon disaster, twenty-nine men had been killed in the Massey coal mine in West Virginia when gases and coal dust ignited. The news media in Pittsburgh–just a few hours from the mine–had been all over this disaster.

These two events have several things in common. The disasters could have been prevented if proper safety standards had been followed by the companies. And they could also have been avoided if the government who created those standards had actually enforced them.

As a writer, I felt drawn to both stories because of how they touched my life. But that book, , also addresses several personal issues about family and finding a way to heal the wounds that stretch back generations. All the while the oil spills and the West Virginia community deals with the shock of losing so many lives.

I began writing Trails in the Sand in the months after Deepwater Horizon and the Upper Big Branch coal mine explosion. Forty deaths within two weeks of one another pushed me to write something that might serve as a reminder of two preventable disasters in 2010. Both events touched my life in some way, and both made their way into the writing of Trails in the Sand.

I made the trip back and forth between the two states sixteen times in 2010. I conducted meetings from a cell phone in airports, highway rest areas, and at a dining room table from our small temporary apartment in Pittsburgh.

Every time I started to give my two-week notice to my supervisors, something happened, and my wildlife biologist bosses pleaded with me to stay. During a crisis, the spokesperson for a company or agency suddenly becomes a very important part of the team. Scientists become speechless when looking in the face of a microphone. And all their scientific facts and figures must be distilled and translated into sound bites for the public. That was my job at that time.

Nothing much happened in those early days of the oil spill for the wildlife community, although as a communications specialist, I prepared for worst-case scenarios, while hoping for the best. Partnerships between national and state agencies formed to manage information flowing to the media. By May, some of the sea turtle experts began worrying about the nesting turtles on Florida’s Panhandle beaches, right where the still gushing oil might land. In particular, the scientists worried that approximately 50,000 hatchlings might be walking into oil-infested waters if allowed to enter the Gulf of Mexico after hatching from the nests on the Gulf beaches.

An extraordinary and unprecedented plan became reality, and as the scientists wrote the protocols, the plan was “in direct response to an unprecedented human-caused disaster.��

When the nests neared the end the incubation period, plans were made to dig up the nests and transport the eggs across the state to Cape Canaveral, where they would be stored until the hatchlings emerged from the eggs. Then they would receive a royal walk to the Atlantic Ocean away from the oil-drenched waters of the Gulf.

The whole project reeked with the scent of drama, ripe for the media to descend on Florida for reports to a public hooked on the images of oiled wildlife. Since I was in transition in my job, they appointed me to handle all media requests that came to the national and state agencies regarding the plan. From my new office in Raccoon Township, Beaver County, Pennsylvania, I began coordinating media events and setting up interviews with the biologists.

As the project began in June 2010, I began writing Trails in the Sand. At first, I created the characters and their situations. Then slowly I began writing about the oil crisis and made the main character, Caroline, an environmental reporter who covered the sea turtle relocation project. Then suddenly I was writing about her husband, Simon, who mourned the loss of his cousin in the coal mine disaster in West Virginia. I didn’t make a conscious effort to tie together the environmental theme with the family saga unfolding, but before too long, I realized they all dealt with restoration and redemption of things destroyed. As a result, the oil spill and the sea turtles became a metaphor for the destruction caused by Caroline and her family. I wish the disasters never occurred. But I can’t wave a wand and erase the past. But with strokes on the keyboard, I could create something lasting that might make a difference. At the very least, I made that attempt. And the result is Trails in the Sand.

“Why aren’t there any mosquitoes when I visit Florida?�� I was once asked.

“Where do you go in Florida?�� I asked.

“To Disney World, Sea World �� all those theme parks around Orlando.��

I wondered how to reply without bursting this man’s image of “natural�� Florida that exists within the gates of “unnatural�� worlds made from the crumbs of a chopped up natural world and sculpted into the vision of a perfect living community.

The real Florida, buried under tons of asphalt in the majority of the state, does exist in random spots and clumps of preserved zones or land unfriendly to developers who have yet to figure out how to grab remaining wetlands and scrub forests to turn them into yet further replicas of what some would prefer to call “natural.��

People come to the Sunshine State for a week or more to soak up the sun and ride trains through wild lands with propped and stuffed bears, panthers, and alligators. How tranquil it all appears from the seat of a train. Twenty years later, after the kids are grown, they race south to live and become shocked when the first mosquito stings or a coyote eats their dog.

That’s the real Florida. New subdivisions are built on the edge of raw and natural wetlands and woods. People want to view the natural world, but often don’t want to be bothered by all the creatures that inhabit the last vestiges of wild land. Often the new developments disrupted the habitat of the wildlife further confusing the natural order of things.

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For several years, I worked in public relations for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. One of my first assignments found me in Ft. Myers, Florida, in a subdivision that had recently been built adjacent to a wildlife preserve. Guess what? Coyotes, recently displaced, thought the cats and small dogs in the neighborhood were dinner.

One woman yelled at me to kill all the coyotes. She couldn’t understand that buying a home on the edge of a wild, natural area meant there would be wildlife whose natural habitat had just been cut in half.

The “wily�� coyote earned its name based on its behavior. In wide-open expanses of land, the coyote roamed and only became a menace when attacking domestic livestock. Ranchers handled the situation. When the coyote found its environment disrupted, such as in Florida, the animal adapted. Space became a problem. Subdivisions encroached on rural areas, and the wily coyote adapted to become the urban coyote.

The same thing happens wherever habitat is disrupted. The wildlife doesn’t just walk away into the sunset to find a benevolent zookeeper where the public can see wildlife behind cage bars.

If the wildlife adapts, then so must we by respecting and enjoying wildlife from a distance. Coyotes adapted when humans fed them, which led the wild animal to associate humans with a dependable source of food, according to a report by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. The coyote became aggressive and bold and led to attacks on humans, pets �� leashed and unleashed �� and livestock.

If you want to minimize your contact with wildlife �� from bugs to alligators �� buy a condominium or rent an apartment.

If you love nature but hate buzzing mosquitoes, watch the Discovery channel.

But if you understand the nuances of living with, yet separately, from wildlife, buy a home on the edge of wilderness and help educate others on how to live peacefully with wildlife. And don’t forget to buy a set of good binoculars and a camera with a zoom lens.

The three books in this series are stand alone reads but with similar themes–Florida and its wildlife, in human and animal form.

Each book is available in Kindle (free with Kindle Unlimited), paperback, and audio.

Sopchoppy River, Florida

The first drew my eye to the small town of Sopchoppy, Florida, located between Tallahassee and the Gulf of Mexico. I had no idea what it was, but it sounded weirdly fun.

Worm Gruntin�� is an ancient technique to get earthworms up from the ground. A wooden stake—a “stob”—is pounded into the ground. Then the “grunters�� use a length of iron to rub the top of the stake. This process creates a grunting sound underground and gets those worms riled up enough to come to the surface. During the festival, contestants in the contest create their own stakes and “roopin’�� irons.

Locals often use this method to capture earthworms for fishing and then sell them to area bait shops. And there are many of those for good reasons. There are ample opportunities for fishing all around the small village.

So, what better way to bring more tourists to town and to honor this old tradition? Start a festival, which features a contest for worm grunters, vendors, music and at the end of the day a Grunters�� Ball with live music and dancing at the Civic Brewing & Pizza Co.

April 12, 2025

Begun in 2001, the festival has been featured on national television and has made the town famous. This year’s event happens on Saturday April 12 with the contest and 5K run happening early in the morning. The entire event is free and open to the public.

The water and its excellent opportunity for fishing brings folks to Sopchoppy, which is located on the eastern bank of the Sopchoppy River as it flows to the nearby Ochlocknee River shortly before it widens and becomes Ochlocknee Bay and empties into the Gulf.

Tourists come from around the world to fish in the nearby fresh and salt waters. We kayaked a small portion of the Sopchoppy River recently. We launched from the City Park and paddled upstream for three miles before turning around. The current is slow in this section with several sharp turns. At the headwaters, the river is a squiggly line on the map. As it goes further downstream from the town, it widens and can be effected by the tides from the Ochlocknee.

On our little two-hour excursion, we saw only a handful of houses and passed two other kayakers. The wild azaleas were in full bloom, which created a beautiful and peaceful respite from the crazy world.

When we finished, we developed a mighty thirst, so thank goodness for the in the downtown area across from city hall, which opened in 2021. It’s been a great addition to Sopchoppy.

Elliot Seidler and his sister, Taylor Seidler, are both Sopchoppy natives who left home as young adults—him to the Navy and her to Boston—when their paths converged on the craft brewery concept. They could have gone anywhere to start it, but they chose to come home. And I for one am happy they did! Every beer we’ve enjoyed there has been top notch. I even tried something way out of my usual tastes after the kayak trip—a white chocolate vanilla wit. Still smacking my lips.

And on April 12, it will host the Grunters�� Ball after all the excitement of the Worm Gruntin�� Festival. Life is good in Sopchoppy, Florida.

by P.C. Zick

A wild and raucous ride through the crazy world of small town Florida politics. Political satire filled with murder, mystery, suspense, and vengeful antagonists. And women who fight from home and the workplace.

Available in Kindle (free download with Kindle Unlimited), paperback, and audio.

I’ve long had a love affair with sea turtles. It might have started when I learned the amazing life history of this species. It only grew after my experience first as a volunteer member of a sea turtle patrol on Matanzas Beach, Florida, twenty years ago. Then fifteen years ago, I was a part of a team tasked with saving sea turtles from the tar balls on Florida’s Panhandle coast in the months after Deepwater Horizon in my job with Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (FWC).

Loggerhead sea turtle

Sea turtle nesting season has begun in Florida. In March, along Florida’s southeast Atlantic coast from Brevard County south to Broward County, they begin the nesting process. Nesting begins on the Gulf Coast or north Florida beaches in April or May. Because Florida’s shorelines provide important nesting habitat for several species of threatened and endangered sea turtles, beachgoers can impact either he success or failure of the nests. Once the eggs are laid, it’s a waiting game until they hatch later in the summer and fall. But first those nests need to be protected on Florida’s busy beaches. If you visit Florida’s coast from March through November, please follow the guidelines from FWC—listed at the end of this post—for ensuring a successful birthing season for these special animals. But first, here’s my story of the early stages of my burgeoning love.

Several years ago, I gave birth to a sea turtle on Matanzas Beach on Florida’s Atlantic Coast. Well, not literal birth, but I helped a hatchling go to the sea.

(Photo from 2005, P.C. Zick)

Volunteering as a sea turtle patroller requires walking the beach before 7 a.m. By the end of the summer, many of the volunteers have decided it is too much. The staff who run the sea turtle program call those of us who make it through the entire season the “dedicated ones.�� To me, the reward for the early walks would pay off once the hatchlings emerged later in the summer, so I stayed for the whole season.

One morning in June 2005, I walked alone on the beach near the Matanzas Inlet. My patrol partner walked the north end of the beach, nearer St. Augustine. We carried our cell phones to call in reports and a stick to mark potential nests. That morning, I noticed a pattern of swishes in the sand, starting at the tide line and heading toward the dunes, but the patterns looked small for the flippers of the loggerhead, which is the more common of the sea turtles in Florida.  They can weigh up to 275 pounds. I walked away without leaving my stick, but as I continued my patrol, I knew nothing could have left marks in the sand in such symmetry. I called the office, reported its location and placed my stick in the sand so the biologists would be able to find it. Later it became a confirmed nest. Matanzas North Nest #3 may have been the official title, but from that day forward, I thought possessively of it as mine.

After seventy days of incubation passed, the biologists decided it was time to dig up the nest to see if any of the eggs were viable. Fortunately, they remembered to call me to witness the process. They had barely scratched the surface when they found a hatchling. It barely moved at first, and the biologist conducting the dig put it in a box of wet sand until it starting moving around in the sand.

They continued digging and eventually found the remains of 120 hatched eggs and four eggs that had gone bad. These are pretty good statistics, but there is no guarantee all 120 of the hatchlings made it to the sea. Those of us gathered on the beach kept all predators away from this lone straggler, but the other hatchlings didn’t have that protection when they emerged, mostly likely the night before.

When the hatchling began moving around in the box, a volunteer placed it on the sand next to the nest so it might remember the precise location of emergence. If this one turns out to be a female, in approximately thirty years this same turtle most likely will come ashore at Matanzas and lay its first batch of eggs. The scientists believe the turtles tap into the Earth’s magnetic field while in the nest.

“My baby�� sea turtle began its long walk to the sea following its instincts. A group of high school biology students formed a protective circle with the rest of us. Morning visitors to the beach, along with their vehicles, already competed for space. We left our baby a wide berth, so nothing could impede its determined yet slow walk to the sea.

As the tide receded, the hatchling encountered some difficulty when the first wave hit it, but it knew just what to do—it just didn’t have the strength yet to swim out far enough not to be swept back in. Repeatedly, we watched as it attempted to go back into the ocean. We cheered each time it managed a ride and commiserated each time we saw it come back toward us.

“Watch your feet,�� one of the biologists yelled when the wave swept the hatchling back toward those of us forming its shield.

Barely two-inches long, this baby looked no bigger than the sack of eggs left by sharks on the beach. The hatchling tried again, this time managing a five-foot entry into the sea, only to be swept back onto the beach again.

And then a big wave came as we cheered, but “my baby�� came back near my feet—belly up. The soft under belly, black and white spotted, faced me as its flippers frantically tried to right itself.

One of the biologists picked it up, walked out into the ocean for more than ten feet, and let the sea turtle go into its world undersea.

In one hour, this baby had been pulled from the sand, crawled for the first time and then swam away to fend for itself in the sea. We had done all we could to protect it. The rest was up to nature and the sea grasses will protect it in the coming years.

“Safe passage,�� I whispered.

Luckily, the Deepwater Horizon oil spill was five years away, so maybe this little hatchling made it before the tarballs entered its habitat. The story of my role in protecting those nests will have to wait for another post.

For now, if you go to either coast of Florida from March through November, please follow the guidelines set by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. And if you see either the female coming ashore to lay its eggs or hatchlings emerging later in the summer and fall, give them space and keep others away from them.

Guidelines for BeachgoersLights out �� Any lighting can misdirect and disturb nesting sea turtles and their hatchlings, leading them away from the ocean and toward potential danger. To prevent this, beachgoers should use natural starlight to see while on the beach at night and avoid using flashlights or cellphones. Anyone living along or visiting Florida beaches can do their part by putting porch, parking or deck lights out when not in use and closing curtains after dark to avoid disorienting nesting and hatchling sea turtles on the beach.Admire from afar �� While it can be exciting to witness sea turtles on the beach, getting too close (50 feet or less) to nesting sea turtles can cause them to leave the beach before they complete the nesting process. If an animal changes its behavior, you’re likely too close. Remember �� it is illegal to harm or disturb nesting sea turtles, their nests and eggs, or to pick up hatchlings.Clear the way at the end of the day �� Female sea turtles expend large amounts of energy crawling out of the surf and far enough up the sand in order to dig and lay nests in spots that are less vulnerable to the tides. Obstacles on the beach can entrap and prevent them from nesting as they crawl across the sand to lay their eggs. Trash, holes in the sand and other obstacles can also prevent sea turtle hatchlings from reaching the water once they emerge from their nests. Food scraps attract predators, such as raccoons and crows, that prey on sea turtle hatchlings. Litter on beaches can entangle sea turtles, birds and other wildlife. Properly stash or recycle all trash, fill in man-made holes in the sand, and remove all beach toys, gear and furniture from the sand before sunset. Fishing line can be deadly to sea turtles, waterbirds, and other wildlife, so be sure to dispose of it properly.For more information about nesting sea turtles and how you can help, visit the . Report any sea turtles that appear sick, injured, entangled or dead to the FWC’s Wildlife Alert Hotline at 888-404-FWCC (3922).

I met Wes Skiles, a cave diving pioneer, explorer, and underwater cinematographer, soon after moving to High Springs, Florida. He also lived in High Springs. His business, Karst Productions, was based outside the small town.

His photographs of the springs and caves, not only of caves and springs in the High Springs area, but also worldwide, had been published in National Geographic. He was a rock star locally, and I was in awe of the dude and all he did. Yes, he was known nationally and internationally for his photography and filmmaking and underwater discoveries, but he also never lost his loyalty and passion for the first springs he ever visited as a young child. He loved them so much that he moved from Jacksonville to High Springs and raised his family near the Ichetucknee and Santa Fe rivers.

I worked for a decade as a reporter for several local publications. I often wrote about the rivers and springs in the area, and without fail, Wes never turned me down for an interview despite his growing fame. He would even provide me with photos if I wrote about the ecology and conservation of his beloved springs. I last interviewed him in 2010 a few months before he died tragically and suddenly in an underwater photo shoot for National Geographic in South Florida.

During that last interview he described for me the course his life took. “The springs were the first truly magical place I explored as a child,�� Skiles said. “We first went to Ginnie Springs [on the Santa Fe River], and I was totally mesmerized and consumed. I never had any doubt—even at that young age—that I was going to do everything in my power to keep coming back to the springs.��

In 2001, Wes and his crew began filming his series and asked my then-husband, Larry, and I if we would be a part of the film as homeowners who were taking conservation measures in our home.

When the film crew first showed up at my house on September 29, 2001, I was not enthusiastic about the production. I became even more disillusioned when my thirty-second movie debut took all day to film.

I am not sure what I expected that Sunday morning when they came to our house. I thought it would be just Wes and a guy with a camera who Wes would direct. When we offered Wes coffee he said, “I’m sure the crew would love some.��

That was my first clue that this was no small production.

After the crew of eight dismantled my living room and kitchen, I recognized very little of my home. In the film, I could identify things I owned, but they were placed in different spots for effect.

Living Room Redux

I went upstairs to put on make-up and dress for my role as homemaker. I thought with my blonde hair, black would make a nice contrast. When I arrived on the “movie set,�� AKA, my living room, the head camera guy started yelling in what sounded like a French accent. “She’s too white; she’s too white!�� he screamed.

I’ve always been white, but I never had anyone shout about it. Wes saw the look on my face—picture a deer in the headlights of a car—and threw his head back in laughter.

“He means the black shirt and your hair are creating too much contrast for the camera,�� he told me. “Can you put on something lighter?��

I changed into a beige cardigan set and came back down even less excited about my “acting�� debut.

During the filming, Larry spoke passionately about his reasons for conservation, and I provided the June Cleaver role. It starts with me waiting patiently for my husband’s return from a hard day of work—in my beige cardigan—and truly acting because I am not generally a patient person nor did I await his arrival at home so I could wait on him.

“Would you like a glass of water?�� I asked as I stood waiting for him in the kitchen.

I asked him more than thirty times before it was announced that I had it just right. I was really acting at that point because I was ready to throw the damn glass at somebody, probably the camera guy who announced my whiteness to the world. As I poured from the jug, I had to hold my arm and wrist at the weirdest angles, so they could capture the water escaping the pitcher into the glass.

As weird as the whole thing felt to me, the result was well worth the pain of acting like the perfect housewife. The movie’s message resounds with common sense reasons why we all need to be aware that our actions impact the very water we drink, not just today, but for the long-term future.

My Acting Debut

The movie turned out to be the first of a series of documentaries about water produced by Wes and his partner at Karst Productions, Jill Heinerth.

The finished production follows a group of explorers as they trace water’s journey through caves, springs, rivers, wetland estuaries, and coral reefs. It even takes the explorers through a Sonny’s Barbecue restaurant in Alachua, Florida. Done with a touch of humor it brings together all the elements of water’s course and importance. And it even shows me gracefully pouring a glass of water from a pitcher in my beige top and still white face.

 More than two decades later, the film is still being shown and used as a teaching tool in schools across the country. And I’m still waiting for my Oscar nomination.

Water’s Journey was shown on PBS where it won an award for a documentary series.

Wes may have left this world in 2010, but his legacy endures. In 2011, the Florida State Park system renamed Peacock Springs on the Suwannee River in his honor. West Skiles Peacock Springs State Park is a 733-acre park honors Wes for “his documentary filmmaking, springs advocacy, and contributions to cave exploration.

In 2018, Julie Hauserman, Florida journalist, published

It is a thorough look at the talent and passion of Wes and features interviews with his colleagues, friends, and family. Excerpts from his journal throughout his extraordinary and too short life paint a lasting impression of how much one person can accomplish.

My book about Ichetucknee Springs features interviews with Wes Skiles who loved to talk about the springs and rivers of north Florida even though his explorations took him around the world.

Any discussion about the Florida town of Palatka begins and ends with the St. Johns River, which helped create the community centuries ago. Back in its golden days, many called it the “Gem City of the St. Johns.��

The St. Johns River flows for 310 miles northward, making it Florida’s longest river. It begins in the swamps west of I-95 and Vero Beach on the eastern side of the state. The slow-flowing river takes a sharp turn east as it nears Palatka. The Palatka Memorial Bridge rises high above the river and leads to the highways connecting interior Florida to the coast. A “Spirit of the American Doughboy�� statute stands guard at the base of the western side of the bridge.

Today, the river town is reinventing itself as a tourist destination not far from St. Augustine. And in the rejuvenation, both its history and the river play important roles. The name Palatka comes from a Native American word “Pilaklihaha�� or “Pilotaikita,�� which means cow ford or crossing. Before the invasion of the Spanish, the Timucuans split their time between the lush lands surrounding the St. Johns and the lush ocean for its variety of sea food. They enjoyed the benefits of both worlds.

After the Spanish arrived, they developed Palatka, Gainesville, and Tallahassee as major ranching areas, but the cattle from those places had to cross the St. Johns River because on the eastern side, St. Augustine housed the slaughterhouses. Cows, as its original name implies, could ford the river at Palatka.

But it was during the 1800s and during much of the Gilded Age that Palatka thrived, rivaling only Jacksonville on the east coast. When Florida became a U.S. territory in 1821, developers began eyeing central Florida. From Mayport north of Jacksonville, the large ocean vessels would venture southward on the St. Johns. The furthest south they could travel on the river was Palatka. For the next sixty plus years, prosperity reigned as military installments and steamboat lines boosted the status of the city. The wharves installed on the western side of the river could hold up to forty large ships. And during this time, it became the hub of Florida’s citrus industry. , built in 1860, showcases one of the city’s most prominent homes during this time. It is open for visitors every Saturday from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. as well as on the first Sunday of the month from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m.

Two things occurred before the end of the century that changed the trajectory of the place once known as the “Gem City of the St. Johns,�� thus ending its golden age.

First, railroads began replacing the steamships as they progressed into the interior of Florida. It was easier and faster to send goods on the trains. Then two years of devastating freezes wiped out the citrus farmers in the area around Palatka. Either Palatka could become a ghost town, or it could reinvent itself.

Industry became the savior when the Wilson Cypress Company established itself in Palatka in 1889. It eventually became the largest cypress mill in the world. Today, the main employer in Putnam County is Georgia-Pacific, a paper mill, which opened in 1947. For years, whenever I thought of Palatka it came with the smell of sulfur, one of the byproducts of paper mills.

Fortunately, I have gained a better appreciation of the town’s location and have enjoyed watching its revitalization. We stayed at a hotel that faces the river and adjoins to the riverwalk, which crosses under the bridge and over the river and leads to Riverfront Park. Along the way, we passed the Doughboy Statute and memorial to the infantry soldiers of World War I, and a sculpture created from a sketch by William Bartram who traversed the area in 1774 and stayed with the Timucuans for several months.

Walking away from the river toward the city center, the old buildings are adorned with murals depicting the history of the town. This walk leads directly to one of my favorite places, , located in the old Coca-Cola bottling plant on 7th Street. The variety and quantity and quality of beer is astounding. They also host lots of community events, which makes it a popular local gathering place.

Azalea City Brewing Co. in the old Coca-Cola Bottling plant

Also, a visit to , located within the city limits provides another glimpse of history when the CCC went to work during the depression creating walkways, fountains and gardens at this lovely spot that comes alive in the spring with an abundance of azaleas. And every February, the city hosts the Florida Azalea Festival with lots of activities and music at Riverfront Park.

I’ve traveled to many places in Florida and feel I’m quite knowledgeable about wildlife and the environment, but on my recent visit to Palatka, I learned something new. When I saw folks out on the piers and wharves casting nets into the water all through one warm September night , I was curious as to what they were doing. Turns out, shrimp come into the St. Johns at Mayport and head south starting in late August and sometimes continue into November. What I witnessed was a form of saltwater shrimping out of a freshwater river. Even better, other fish such as redfish and flounder follow them. I had never heard of this phenomenon until this visit.

Exploring the small towns of our country shows us history, culture, and ecology without much expenditure or effort. And in most of these towns, parking is still free!

A rainy day in Palatka is still filled with sunshine!

A Project of the Heart

Please download my new book, Ichetucknee Springs �� A History and Culture of a Florida Spring.

It’s #Free to download in any format that works for you. Click on the cover or .

Ichetucknee Springs �� A History and Culture of a Florida Spring �� my latest project offers a glimpse into one of Florida’s natural gems. In north Florida less than an hour from the University of Florida, the Ichetucknee River is formed from the first-magnitude flow from eight-named springs.

I originally wrote this book in 2003 as Old Timers Remember �� Ichetucknee Springs under the direction of Jim Stevenson, then chief biologist with Florida’s Department of Environmental Protection and expert on the springs of Florida.

For the past several years, I’ve wanted to update the book but could not find the digital copy used to print the book. I was the only one with those files. When someone approached me about the book, I decided it was time to redo the whole thing. So I digitized, edited, researched, and redid the whole thing and now to support the organizations who work tirelessly to protect the Ichetucknee and the other springs of Florida, I am offering the ebook version for free downloads.

Here’s a sampling from the book.

INTRODUCTION

When I moved to north Florida from Michigan in 1980, I had no conception or knowledge of the springs. To me, a spring was a little bubbling bit of water that might be found in the Upper Peninsula on an ice-cold river.

So, discovering the three rivers near where I had moved outside of High Springs came as a revelation. The slow-moving Santa Fe River was nothing like the fast and twisty rivers of the north. The wide Suwannee River with its dark tannic color and sandy banks—sometimes almost cliff-like—provided another surprise. But perhaps the lifesaver and most surprising came when I tubed down the Ichetucknee River on a hot August day my first summer in the south. Just when I began wondering how I would ever survive living in heat and humidity like nothing I’d ever experienced, I jumped into an innertube at the north entrance of the state park and melted into the 72-degree water and forgot all about leaving the south. It then became the ritual of summer for my family and me and gave us at least one day of respite while enjoying the unparalleled beauty of the clear water, eel grass, and sunning turtles of the Ichetucknee.

And then I met Wes Skiles, a cave diving pioneer, explorer, and underwater cinematographer, who also lived in High Springs. His sense of wonder and respect for the waters of my new home inspired me. I was in awe of the dude and all he did. Yes, he was known nationally and internationally for his photography and filmmaking and underwater discoveries, but he also never lost his loyalty and passion for the first springs he ever visited as a young child. He loved them so much that he moved from Jacksonville to High Springs and raised his family near the Ichetucknee and Santa Fe rivers. He located his business, Karst Productions, in High Springs.

I worked for a decade as a reporter for several local publications. I often wrote about the rivers and springs in the area, and without fail, Wes never turned me down for an interview. He would even provide me with photos if I wrote about the ecology and conservation of his beloved springs. I last interviewed him in 2010 a few months before he died.

He described for me the course his life took. “The springs were the first truly magical place I explored as a child,�� Skiles said. “We first went to Ginnie Springs [on the Santa Fe River], and I was totally mesmerized and consumed. I never had any doubt—even at that young age—that I was going to do everything in my power to keep coming back to the springs.��

In 2003, Wes Skiles approached me about writing a book for the Florida Department of Environmental Protection. Jim Stevenson, then chief biologist with FDEP, wanted to pull together all the oral and written histories he’d been collecting from a group called the Old Timers, consisting of folks who had lived near and enjoyed Ichetucknee Springs before it became a state park in 1970. Under Stevenson’s direction, I wrote Old Timers Remember �� Ichetucknee Springs in 2003, using audio tapes and letters from this group. I then researched the history, geography, ecology, and cultural aspects of the Ichetucknee to round out the book. The little book that I wrote and published, with Stevenson’s direct input and editorial assistance, was sold at the state park. We printed a limited number of copies. I only have one myself and one printer’s proof.

When I was approached recently to provide an electronic copy of the book, I realized that in the twenty-two years since I pulled this project together that the copies on the old zip drive disks no longer existed. I had no files electronically anywhere of the manuscript or photos. When I looked back over my copy of Old Timers Remember, I realized it really needed to be updated and edited.

As a result, I present Ichetucknee Springs �� A History and Culture of a Florida Spring. I was able to scan the maps drawn by Larry Behnke for the first book. Thank you, Larry.

A debt of gratitude to the work and dedication of Jim Stevenson. His love of the rivers and springs of Florida has helped bring awareness and has pointed the way for all residents to be wise stewards of the place where we live. His book, published in 2014, , chronicles his experiences with the state park system in Florida from 1965 onward. Thank you, Jim.

Patricia Behnke [AKA P.C. Zick]. “Saving Florida’s springs one drop at a time.�� Florida Wildlife. July/August 2010.