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The Effects of Seasonal Changes on Floridian Coastal Wildlife

By Scooter Wirth


Prologue

“When the tiny turtles are ready to hatch out, they do so virtually in unison, creating a scene in the sandy nest that is reminiscent of a pot of boiling water. In some areas, these events go by the colloquial term "turtle boils." Once hatched, the turtles find their way to the ocean via the downward slope of the beach and the reflections of the moon and stars on the water. Hatching and moving to the sea all at the same time help the little critters overwhelm waiting predators, which include sea birds, foxes, raccoons, and wild dogs. Those that make it through the gauntlet swim to offshore sargassum floats where they will spend their early years mostly hiding and growing.”

— National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, February 9, 2024

* * *

Before I was even conceived, my mother laid a strip of surfboard wallpaper all around my room, painted the walls like the beach, and placed a sign across from my bed reading: “Wiggle your toes in the sand.” The first place she took me was to the sand, and in it I became an elemental. I was more comfortable amongst dune, shore, fish, and bird than amongst kitchen, bedroom, man, and dog. The glare of the sun was similar to the hazy tint of a dream to me. The only air I could breathe was salt and brine. My hair, which fell in waves, was bleached platinum by sun. My eyes were a piercing turquoise-green-gray. They knew the true color of the ocean. If I didn’t have a bed to return to, I could’ve lived as an ocean sprite, an apostle of the waves.

I felt like I was suffocating when the sky grew dark. I was unable to sleep some nights, feet always primed to run straight into the waves. My mother held me down to my bed like a soldier, and still I struggled against the chilling dark of night. I hated sleeping. I found myself in an alien world. Here, trees grew tall and dark; they sprouted needles instead of leaves. Here, the ground was caked with soggy snow. Here, the horizon rose in jagged peaks.

What frightened me the most, though, was that here, I was entirely different. I didn’t care for the ocean, I skied on waves of snow, and I smiled at the bite of the cold through an open car door. On frozen ponds, I found my reflection. It seemed my hair had one day unexplainably curled, just like my father’s had. I was skinnier than I should’ve been, just like my father. The shoes I stood in were an old pair of Timberlands, not my usual sandals. I was the spitting image of my father. This is when the dream became a nightmare. I felt if I got too close to that ice, I might want to move away from the beach. I felt that this reflection might draw me in, might tempt me to become him. I ran before my reflection could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in this place.

I suppose that explains why my father’s skin was like ice. “Y’know, back in New Hampshire, we used to go outside in shorts on summer mornings when it was this exact same temperature,” he would say to me as I stacked layer upon layer over my shoulders and struggled to grab my backpack from beside me as the seatbelt tangled with my buckle. When I finally pulled myself from the car into the biting wind of January, I looked back at him with resentment I knew I had no reason for.

It was how different we were, or perhaps how distant he felt, that drove me to roll my eyes at comments like that. When I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a slice of his face, only his eyes, I thought the mirror was pointing at me. I wondered how somebody with his alpine inclination could give birth to somebody like me; I wondered if he was really my father. I ran from my reflection before he could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in him.

Then, he took me to the only hill in Jacksonville: a small uprising in the city that seemed a lifetime away, a foreign land of alien wonder and blinding, scorching, metropolitan lights. From there, I was able to see the sun sink beneath the horizon for the first time, not just the ribbons of purple-orange lightning that called in wary surfers from their heaven. The full sunset was tender, red, fiery, and the sky was dark, empty, twinkling with stars. Even on the hottest, muggiest Florida nights, I found myself shivering. Here, though, against the lights of the city, the night felt warm.



 

About the Writer...

Scooter Wirth is a 12th grade student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the winner of a 2022 scholastic gold medal for fiction and a 2024 Extravaganza featured artist. He frequents gothic genres and writes pieces that often revolve around the comparison of humanity and the natural world. He also enjoys songwriting and intends to pursue both forms of art in the future.


About the Artist...

Hailey Edwards is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys storytelling through her art, and her favorite mediums include digital, painting, and oil pastels.

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