Surfacing in Siesta Key

Just last weekend the four of us farm rats found our way to the whitest sands of sunny Siesta Key. I mean it when I say the whitest...I remember when my family and I visited this very beach; the layer of white, powdery sand accumulated after full days of tomfoolery would contrast the deeply tanned skin of my older sister who inherited ALL of the olive-skinned genes from our Italian grandfather. I remember finding traces of this Gulf Coast fairy dust sprinkled in the latest Nancy Drew I had brought or at the bottom of my Jansport back pack. But that image of Maegan's Mediterranean sandy ankles adorned by her little anklet is filed in such a sweet place in my memory bank.
The same fairy is still working her magic on the shoreline and what an absolute sublimity it was to see another generation of little legs coated in that white sand. Ensuing a late evening arrival in pitch blackness, May and Jack woke up to see the sun rising over a most alluring scene: extensive white shoreline, a lazy and gentle wave lapping the beach, palms and a plethora of vegetation that only an equatorial climate can put into play, umbrellas and early-morning walkers and runners, gulls and terns and what else?! It took just minutes for our eyes to register the majesty of the environs we were in, until we couldn't help but fling ourselves into it to find what more lied in wait. We must have appeared to be animals loosed from a cage with our wild bedhead and slapdash attire! We took no notice of any feedback we were getting on our appearance...and instead scampered to 'the sea' to feel for ourselves what the sands must feel, washed by those saline waters. And then to explore all that had been deposited by the tide overnight...the shells my mom taught my sisters and me by name: cat/shark eyes, turkey wings, conch, butterflies (coquinas), the elusive sand dollar of course. We would go on to do this for a week, waiting for the sun to set the stage, and then bounding out to introduce ourselves to the day's plotline...seeing where it would take us.

This adventure was so special. We farm all days of the week, a commitment we keep with our land and those living things under our care. A few weathered farmers in our lives have encouraged us no matter how costly or difficult it may seem to be, we should leave the farm and more importantly CAN leave the farm. Last year we budgeted for and intended to make this trip, all for one and one for all! (the FOUR Musketeers ;) ). In the end, Rich decided it was best he stay at the farm as conditions were ripe for an extended harvest from the field, and going into our lower-income season of winter, it seemed an opportunity not to miss. I wrangled my Mom to come spend an unforgettable week with the kids and me, and Rich minded our business for us back home.
Rich, a kid born and raised a bike ride away from the shores of Long Island, has a relationship with the sea. And you know what? I'm not sure I didn't start my days with adolescent Rich this past week. I'd watch him wake up early with a buoyancy and energy that fueled early-worm beach runs, he would listen to his podcasts in the room facing the water to not miss a minute, then meander down midday to get some time in on the beach :). I'm not sure if he'd describe it this way, but it seems anytime he is plunked on the shore somewhere, he is reconvening with a part of himself that has been asleep. Like striking a match, this energy born of the beauty of stepping away from routine, it ignited a series of ideas for our life, and our Foxhole. Whether while playing our daily paddle ball while May and Jack built whole fortresses in the sand around our feet, or cozied up after such construction had whisked them away to their dreams early, Rich and I had days in a row to noodle ideas and to let our hair down...to find ourselves with enough time and spare energy to have those long, wandering conversations we used to have more often.
Though Rich and I don't live for time off or the weekend or subscribe to the 'it's 5 o'clock somewhere' mentality, there's no doubt that something happens when you step away. You rise to the surface to grab the air you need to thrive in the water; you couldn't exist without either. And once that oxygen is pumping into your bloodstream, you are alive! Perhaps this is why May found her stride and confidence and completely surrendered any flotation or parental assistance in the water. Midway through our trip, she crossed the threshold and is a downright fish now. And sir Jack too...on day 1 he got stung by a jellyfish on his poor, tender, fleshy upper thigh and after exhausting himself and sleeping off the immediate pain of such a sting, he was eager to head back down to 'the sea'! Such conviction...and maybe a dose of his dad's affinity for the water.

And now we are right where we like to be...back 'underwater' in our natural environment on the farm, feeling enriched by the time up at the surface. A chicken coop to freshen, bread to bake, seeds to sow, sheep to move to new, stockpiled pastures, novel ideas to bring to life, and most immediately a Christmas tree to find. There is a lot to do under the sea, and when the curtain rises again, we'll dive in.