Aerial roots
by Susan Weber
With legs planted wide, I hope for any breeze at all and point my phone straight down the boardwalk. I want the video to capture the roar of bugs alive in the deep green leaves. I barely hear the human cry above the drone. There are foot beats pounding the planks. Someone’s getting closer.
A young woman swerves into view running towards me. Dark eyes flash when she asks if I speak Spanish. We’re both disappointed that I don’t. In Europe, multi-linguists are the norm, but here on a trail in South Florida, we’re down to frantic hand waving. Her boyfriend needs help. I think she says he’s in the water.
I point her toward the staff in the visitor center. Further on I come to paddles poked through the slats. Below them a man lies prone on a kayak moored in the boardwalk’s shade. He sits up in no obvious distress and lies back down when language fails. I’m not exactly sure about the nature of this emergency but I’m thinking shade is not a bad idea.
I backtrack to the trees and lean against a thick rail. I don’t know why I’m standing guard. The young man’s got help coming and he seems okay. I’m not in any kind of hurry, a state of mind that surprises me. I don’t know when that happened.
When I first entered the visitor center, the woman at the desk didn’t look twice at the wheels of sweat drenching my shirt. My sunburnt face, my slicked back hair didn’t faze her. I rushed through explaining my immediate needs. She was patient in her answers. Yes, I could use the facilities by the exhibit hall. No, there were no trails leading to the beach from here, but plenty of boardwalk through this ecosystem. As for eating lunch outside, the resident raccoon had a reputation. “Be ready to pack up and bolt.” There was fire in her eye when she said this.
Refilling the water bottle, I rubbed sweat brine further into my eyes—not helpful. In the ladies room I tidied up inconclusively. I could have wandered all day around the interesting exhibits in the cool, dehydrated hall. I do not have all day of course. A plane, my plane, is leaving for the wilds of Cleveland in a few hours.
The exhibit hall, well stocked with knowledge, left an impression. I can feel it here on the boardwalk where I lean back on the railing to chug down half my water. The tides are key. High tide brings in salt water from the Atlantic. At low tide, waterlogged mud girdles the mangrove roots. Subtropical sun evaporates more water, making the mud even saltier. Life forms adapt to the environment. Salt. Heat. Muck.
I’m not as adaptive as I’d like to be. The kayaker, I notice, is dozing. I squirt water on my face and neck. Mangrove trees are perfectly constructed for the tidal coast. They’re excellent adapters. Salt rich mud makes it hard for them to breathe, so mangroves take in oxygen through elevated roots. I look around me. Tree roots like spindly fingers cup into the smooth dark lake.
I wonder how it’s going at the visitors center. Will they come pluck the boyfriend from his kayak? They should ask a mangrove for a hand. My shade is dissipating and apparently, so’s my brain.
I scroll through pictures I took inside. My husband would have loved the mangrove swamp. It’s a habitat we never saw together, or apart. Well, now we’re apart. There’s a lot going on down there. Algae, barnacles, oysters, sponges cling to the underwater roots. Shrimp and mud lobsters thrive deep down in the muck. Tree crabs colonize the prop roots and prey on the mangrove seedlings. They feast on the leaves of adult trees too, enriching the mud for the bottom feeders. The tidal swamp is teeming with adapters.
A snore glides up through the heavy air. I readjust my backpack, weighted down by lunch I pilfered from the Comfort Inn. Bottom feeders. Crabs. Monica. I laugh aloud. Who’s the biggest crab around here? That would be me.
My last picture of exhibits is the best. A baby crab and a card that says, the intricate mesh of underground roots provides a quiet marine region for young organisms. The mangrove swamp is not exactly quiet, but down in the muck the outside world can vanish. Time for me to move along. The young Spanish speakers will figure things out.
Around another bend is a long stretch of boardwalk aiming straight out into the lake. It ends at a pagoda. There’s no other way to describe it. A square cap on a sloping roof supported by four strong posts. A small bench sits in the center, swaddled in shade. White clouds plume above the green rimmed lake. I’m already treading softly. I’m hungry. Organisms need to eat.
Photo Susan Weber CC BY-SA 4.0