Amelia Island’s Golden Years, Silver Tears

Gazing in wonderment at the horizon from a perch atop my chosen sand dune, I squint at the ocean waves which reflect the rising sun like jagged edges of many fractured mirrors. As dawn gives way to an angry red cauldron of clouds and winds exceeding any I have known for many a year, I am surprised to spy a fairy figure dancing among the frothy waves, her long blonde hair whipping furiously like the tail of a high-flying kite, arms outstretched, a mouth wide open in mirthful laughter that only she can hear above the roar of the pounding surf. This woman-child is skimpily attired in white diaphanous pantaloons, a silky, long, red kimono, a short matching chemise and dainty slippers. She appears to have not a care in the world as to who may be watching her cavorting on the beach so wantonly. Slowly edging a little higher—with a gentle pull on the reins—I am cautious that my horse and I are not seen. I reach into the satchel for my ever-present bird-watching spyglass to get a better look at the heavenly creature. As she comes into focus I am shocked to discover the newlywed bride of Mr. Harrison, they being the Strathmore Hotel’s recent arrivals from New York. What is she doing out here so early in the morning, and by herself? I ask myself. I mount and cautiously make my exit, hoping not to be discovered spying on another man’s wife. I surely am not in the mood to be called out to a duel! Shaking my head in wonder as I head for another of my favorite bird-watching spots along Main Beach, I cannot help but think of yet another free spirit who would dare such a freedom of the moment. Pauline, my girl, if you were here, you would be right out there with her singing a duet, dancing the can-can, kicking your legs high, laughing and be damned to protocol. Chuckling, I continue trotting my horse farther along the shore. Thoughts of times gone by darken my day as quickly as the clouds overhead cover the newly risen sun, while the wind quickens the speed of the sand thrown into spinning funnels. Sheets of stinging salt spray traversing the beach drench me into an awareness of a chilling foreboding. I feel I must return to find the fairy lady, to warn her to seek safety. For this, I fear, is no ordinary storm. The water has grown angry, dark and lashing at the shore. It now rises, reaching out to engulf a white, pristine beach with its hungry jowls, each wave more ravenous than the one before. Turning back I can no longer see the hotel as I face into a headwind. My skittish horse bolts for the dunes rather than remain on the treacherous beach, and I can only hang on sideways, slip-sliding and bouncing as the mad dash for refuge is finally attained near Egan’s Creek. “Whoa, damn you, whoa,” I yell at my black stallion, Ferdinand. I named him after my friend who was murdered back in 1884 by T.J. Eppes, great-great-grandson of President Thomas Jefferson, over an incident concerning his beautiful young bride. “I swear you are determined to drag me all the way back into Fernandina!” I continue hollering at him, trying unsuccessfully to disentangle my right foot from the stirrup. However, the frightened beast continues his headlong flight away from the howling winds—until he brakes to an abrupt stop at the now-swollen banks of the creek and unceremoniously dumps me. My foot at last untangles, but at a dear cost; I can’t stand on it. No matter how hard I try, the pain is excruciating, shooting sharp jolts through my entire body with each step.