Insurance, Anyone?

Growing up in Miami, I remember geckos (lizards, we called them then) skittering across the concrete porch and up and down the screens. Our cat, Blackie, was fascinated by them but I don't think he ever caught one. I also remember scorpians in the bathroom, fire ants in the yard, termites in a nearby neighbor's home and webs of freaky large yellow and black spiders in most of the trees. It's any wonder we ever played outdoors, but we did. Miami is where my sisters and I tried to catch a glimpse of the Mafia wife's capuchin monkey next door, where we first went trick-or-treating around the block, had our first birthday parties, and where I learned to ride a bicycle. My father found this secondhand, heavy blue and black bicycle that was just built for crash landings. It moved with us to St. Louis in 1964, where my sisters Patti and Beth learned to ride "Old Blue" too.

We have a lot of geckos here in Jacksonville, too. They are usually too swift for me to get more than a glimpse but I was lucky today to find and get a close-up of one sunning on the top of our dock steps. He didn't bother to ask me if I needed any car insurance.

A pair of white herons, or great white egrets, are daily visitors, usually fishing for breakfast around 8 a.m. and then again in the evening. They are raucous and seem to call for an audience shortly after landing on our slip. Our cat is happy to oblige, chattering back and, were it not for the screen door, would launch himself straight at the big bird.











Bill was recently hired on at the marina where we live and I believe he thinks he'd died and gone to heaven. Although the dockmaster said hiring him was a matter of self-defense. "We had to give Bill a job so he wouldn't clean his boat so often and make the rest of us look like slugs!" And, yes, Bill does complain that he only has weekends now to keep Pure Grace pristine. Although his title is dockhand, thus far Bill has done some landscaping, repaired or replaced dozens of dock lights, is powerwashing all four concrete docks and their fingers, does a daily trash patrol of the grounds, opens and closes all the umbrellas at the pool every day, and not once has he been put on pump-out duty.

This morning while we were getting ready for church (well, Bill hadn't quite started his morning routine yet, enjoying a cup of coffee watching Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood) when I heard a knock on the door. "Is Bill around? A boat is sinking on the dock!" The young man who owns the Boston Whaler had left the seacock open in his bait box yesterday afternoon, in a hurry to get to work. (He and his wife publish a local, suburban newspaper and he had three events to cover for Cinco de Mayo.) The bilge pump struggled all night to keep up but eventually the battery died. Someone out walking a dog at 7:30 this morning discovered the listing boat and sounded the alarm.

After trying to use the marina's sewer pump out and not making much headway, a professional salvage company arrived mid-morning and an hour later, it was dry and ready to be hauled out for a look at the engine. The Ortega River is dark brown due to tannin from cypress trees. Not too many people ski in this river.