Weedon Island Preserve 
                  - Written and Contributed by Edward C. Woodward      

Crossing Gandy Bridge from Tampa is an ironic primer for visiting Weedon Island Preserve. The bridge is an open-air aviary with a rubber, metal and concrete understory. When I’m part of the understory, I get distracted. Call me the DMV’s poster child for bad driving, but I can’t resist stealing glimpses of pelicans gliding eye-level near my car or cormorants perched as finials on streetlights.

     The bridge gives way to bayside mangroves along Gandy Boulevard. During this outing a Great Blue Heron crossed the road, then disappeared amid the green thicket. Within minutes Sam and I would be at Weedon Island, our appetizer preparing us for an experiential feast at the historic preserve.

     Several months ago during low tide at Weedon Island Sam stood in the water while I held his hands. I thought he’d dig the sensation of sand and flowing water. But as his feet sank in the sand, he looked uncertain, his eyes glazed like a squirrel’s when it waits too long to flee an oncoming car and hunkers down while it passes. Sam could walk holding onto furniture. But sand? Maybe he thought I had high expectations, as if mastering solid ground were for, well, babies. Fast forwarding eight years did Sam envision overbearing Little League dad bum-rushing the umpire after a called third strike? No worries Sam, I’m a basketball fan.

_______  as his feet sank in the sand, he looked uncertain, his eyes glazed like a squirrel’s  _______

     During this outing we hit high tide, the water thigh-high on me. So we chose a sandy step with inches-deep water. Squatting, Sam burrowed his fingers in the sand and struck gold, or its equivalent for young boys: rocks. Soon he plopped down and played, turning his attention to the wind rustling in cabbage palms, chirping birds or the sound of jets.

     I grabbed a brown mangrove leaf and set it afloat, moving it like a boat. Sam had smiled at a mangrove leaf floating out with low tide during our last trip. But he’s three months older, and the leaf boat can’t compete with his rip-it-if-I-can phase. I like to think he’s conscientiously accelerating composting, but there I go again with high expectations.

     I dried Sam off and loaded him into the stroller. “Unk, ah, unk ah, unk ah, unk ah,” he said. As mentioned in the previous column, this phrase means many things, among them contentment or discovery. I’d like to think this “unk ah,” was thumbs up for the water time. More likely he was fired up that I handed him an oversized green plastic kitchen spoon left in the stroller from an earlier walk.

     Sam was dirty, barefoot and happy. I walked barefoot, too, slowing my pace, feeling the texture of each step. Soon we passed a series of Weedon Island’s educational displays that are simple and informative. One display described how to discover an animal’s diet by studying its scat. Since potty humor entices most kids, this is your teachable moment. You’ll learn a tortoise passes dried grass clumps. And nuts, berries, pieces of crab or snail fill raccoon scat. Imagine how you’ll beam with pride next time your offspring calls someone “scat-head” or “dried-grass-clump head,” instead of “poo-poo head.” If you’re really lucky, you might inspire a new shift leader for litter box duty. Imagine that, all from a walk in the woods.

 

_______  I’ve admired their frenetic water ballet at Weedon Island, the jump-happy mullet rising and falling from the bay.  _______

    We strolled along a mangrove-lined boardwalk and stopped at an observation deck. We heard a fish break the water, but didn’t see what kind. Mullet is my guess. Often I’ve admired their frenetic water ballet at Weedon Island, the jump-happy mullet rising and falling from the bay, their bodies crashing cymbals as they slap the surface at re-entry.

     As we strolled along the boardwalk, Sam fell asleep. Earlier I’d bypassed the Cultural and Natural History Center. I figured Sam would be as fascinated with its carpet patterns and electrical outlets as its prehistoric pottery. So as Sam snoozed I leisurely learned about Weedon Island’s earliest inhabitants and their skills, among them crafting a canoe from a tree by removing its bark, charring the wood with hot coals, then scraping the wood away with stone or shell tools to shape a seat. Since hurricane season is here, seeing the exhibit was perfect timing. A mature cherry laurel leans over our back yard. If life gives me a cherry laurel, I’ll make a canoe.  

     One late afternoon several weeks later, our family of four returned to Weedon Island during low tide. “Green with your Offspring’s” official staff photographer, my wife, shot some photos while I walked part of the mangrove trail with our kids. Listening to our daughter kept me in the moment. The sand under her feet felt like a blanket, she said. And a dead snag looked like a mouse. Inevitably, she came around to thoughts about food, like her dad. Weedon Island made her hungry for cookies. “Why?” I asked. “I keep looking at the sun and it’s shaped like a cookie,” she said.