Sand Frog

Across the Bridge

At least for those of us who enjoy the predawn darkness, it is so easy to love a predawn thunderstorm. Now Dasher, now Dancer, it came rumbling noisily through, awakening me from the slight doze to which I’d returned after Father Nature’s quick traipse. In a Navy ship, a headcall, but in those days it didn’t strike during the wee hours. Lightning and thunder, on Donder and Blitzen, and the sound of rain on the upstairs porch roof just outside my door. I went out to appreciate it for a moment and check for the PCNH, not there yet, and to read the thermometer, just over 80F and gaspingly muggy. Back inside just as the storm, which had a chance to make itself proud but didn't, drifts on off toward Apalachicola.

The iTitan program on my iPad shows another string of yellow revolving toward me from just this side of Fort Walton Beach.

Stretching from Grand Isle to Ocala, this weather system covers this entire part of the Gulf of Mexico. It has its back arched to the north and is rotating slightly clockwise, which means nothing to worry about, just enjoy the sound and fury. It would be nice if its bite is as wet as its bark, but typically these late summer storms go either slightly south of us, pouring on Shell Island, or just up the road, drenching Advance Auto Parts and the Hertz outlet at 15th and Frankford, but leaving us parched.

Here comes a little more now, and the newspaper’s there at the end of the path. But I’m not going downstairs and out yet. Hoping it is but betting it isn’t, I’ll trust the carrier double-bagged it this morning.

Across the Bridge. Yesterday Linda and I had an adventure, left here about ten-thirty or eleven, drove out to the beach and explored the eastern shore from Bridgewater to Bay Point and on across the Lagoon bridge to Thomas Drive and Schooners. My mouth was set for the oyster basket until someone laid the blue menu in front of us and said “we’re still having our lobsterfest” so we both ordered from that. OK but Buddy Boy, this ain’t Maine, next time I'm with the local shellfish. On the beach just beyond our table someone was sculpting an enormous frog in the sand. Beautiful, and really well done. I should have gotten a picture but was busy texting Tass and Kristen.

After lunch we browsed back along the bayshore, returning to Magnolia Beach looking across toward St. Andrews. When I was a boy nothing was over there before WW2 but Major Wood’s homestead. True to its name, the place is covered with magnolia grandiflora, and from one place we stood on the quiet and peaceful bayshore looking straight across at the Port. That freighter looked close enough to toss a stone across and hit it if I were George Washington.

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all.