Poems by Andrea Lynn

Watered-Down Well-Being

by Andrea Lynn

From Canary Spring 2019

Andrea lives on the doorstep of The Everglades near one of the world’s largest mangrove systems. The expanse protects an abundance of threatened species, and its estuarine complex is the largest breeding ground in the world to the most endangered sea turtle, the Kemp's Ridley.

I glance down at my purple toe, the one I dropped my full water bottle on two days ago, hoping for a second the minor injury is the reason I’m not OK. The decay-tinged air clogs my nostrils—sinuses swell immediately. The burning sensation is settling into the center of my lungs. Maybe I’m sensitive to the air quality in a placebo sort of way because of my father’s fatal affliction—non-small cell lung cancer.

My community boasts the highest well-being in America on the Gallup-Sharecare Well-Being Index, but I don’t feel very well. My bare feet are on course to meet the soft, thick, dry sand that outlines the Gulf of Mexico in 300 yards, but even in my groggy, half-awake state I can picture the scene; the one that should welcome me isn’t here today.

The beach is deserted except for two county employees tending to their regular early morning tasks and the old man with spry eyes who feeds the mourning doves daily no matter the weather, as the squirrel with the scrawny tail climbs the bench to sit on his lap. My running partner joins me at our designated spot, near the shower towers, so we can dig our feet into the whitish sand, chugging barefoot through the thick grains. When the Gulf is well, dolphins entertain us as we run. Seeking breakfast they glide, arc, and dive in the smooth water that shimmers transparent blue in morning twilight.

To a backdrop of opaque, reddish-brown ocean and dead sea creatures tracing the tide line, Thomas and I set off in our usual direction. The stinging that causes my eyes to fill with tears blurs the big mound until we’re a few yards closer.

She rests silently on her belly—fixed, wide-open eyes stare at us and powerful flippers still reach for the sea. Although sea turtles generally have the capacity to detect and avoid the harmful algal blooms, something went wrong for this young turtle. Were her lungs weak like mine? I shake my head to clear the haunting story my parents told me from my mind—my pathetic lungs—the outcome of an unfortunate birth. Coupled with the fear of what lives in my DNA waiting to mutate my lung cells, it’s a lot to worry about, especially as a runner taking in red tide-laden sea air.

The county biologist charged with the safekeeping of this stretch of beach for the turtles steps out of his all-terrain vehicle with its lights flashing. He leans in close to the juvenile. “It was a Ridley,” he says as he places marks on one of the turtle shapes on the paper secured to his clipboard. The Kemp's Ridley—the most endangered sea turtle species in the world—lost another member of its tiny population today. “It was the tide that got her,” the biologist’s posture is stoic, but his eyes are soft, his voice gentle. “There are no marks indicating a boat collision, and during bad red tide years like this one it’s usually the tide that gets them,” he explains. Red tide season is typically over in April; this year the bloom is colliding with sea turtle nesting season. Thomas reaches over and touches my shoulder reassuringly, encouraging me to leave the sad scene.

Pulling air in through my mouth feels like drawing in hot embers; Thomas and I talk about the burning in our noses as we reach our three-mile marker, the condo building that took the place of the old snag that was home to the largest osprey nest for miles nestled within a stand of mangroves; we’ve never figured out how the building was granted its permits. The poor air quality combined with the unusually high temperatures the region has been experiencing—the heat stoking the fires in the Everglades—makes my mind fuzzy and I trip on a blue plastic pail caught in the thick brown seaweed brought in by the strong onshore winds that churn the red tide toxins into the sea mist. Plastic remains are as treacherous as red tide for the tiny turtle hatchlings who emerge from their nests in the middle of the night with moonbeams as their guides. We pause to pitch the pail, its companion shovel, and a nearby plastic grocery bag and water bottle. Trash bins are ample on our beaches. “Beachgoers should learn the pact hikers adhere to,” Thomas scowls as he picks up another plastic bottle. “Don’t they know to pack out what they pack in? You know, leave no trace?” Thousands of tourists visit our beach town each month, and thousands more cram into town during the cold winter months that drop snow and ice on their northern states. They live here part-time—in a distant sort of a way. They call themselves snowbirds; locals often have other, less affectionate labels for the part-timers. I am glad for the economic boost tourists and part-time visitors bring, but I wonder how you love a place when you already have a departure date logged upon arrival.

The helicopter that appears overhead muffles our conversation and drowns out the screeching of the dredging equipment situated just offshore, sucking sand from the bottom of the pass to replace what Hurricane Irma reapportioned last summer. One of the mosquito control district’s helicopters, flying the coastline at about four stories above our heads—easy to measure as we pass by and count to the fourth floor of the resort’s main tower—is dispersing Bti larvicide around the area to eradicate mosquito larvae. I received the district’s notification text about the application last night; both Thomas and I are signed up for the alerts—we try to avoid running in the area when they’re spraying even though those who produce Bti are quick to point out that its use is safe for humans and animals, although recent studies have demonstrated potentially serious concerns for amphibians, and maybe humans. I shiver involuntarily; our mosquito control district was recently accused of mixing and application violations by the Florida Department of Agriculture.

We cross our make-believe finish line just before the boardwalk. When the ocean is free of red tide we glide in about two feet to soak the magnesium into our bodies; it’s the best cooldown. Today we stay behind the line of carcasses.

One of the county employees has removed his deafening backpack—the gasoline-powered Stihl blower he uses to rid the walkways of sand—and I think about my corn broom at home. He is shaping and trimming the vegetation that lines the boardwalk. Not wearing hearing protection and still searching for good air Thomas and I decide it’s time to leave the death-scented sand today. I press my palms over my ears to reduce the hedge trimmer’s decibels as we walk up the boardwalk and away from the ocean. What will happen when Florida red tide meets the toxic blue-green algal blooms flowing into rivers, canals and estuaries from the polluted waters being released out of Lake Okeechobee?

I look back just once, over the manicured hedge and into the filthy, oxygen-starved water, almost stepping on a poisonous, invasive cane toad lounging in the shadows. His species was brought to Florida in the 1930s to control pests in sugar cane fields, the same timeframe within which Herbert Hoover Dike was built around the more than 700 square miles of Lake Okeechobee in an attempt to protect lives and land in the rapidly developing state.

Maintaining well-being here is becoming difficult, even if I watch my step.