It's all very fascinating, and I'm listening - but not too closely,
because in absorbing my surroundings, I have observed another
important fact. Debby, one-fourth of our merry band of paddlers,
voices my thoughts:
"All these islands," she says. "They all look the same."
Vince nods appreciatively.
"Big place," he says. "So much nature and open space."
I HAVE COME HERE to southwest Florida
to paddle the Great Calusa Blueway and to get a firsthand look at
the water trails that continue to spread their blue-veined arteries
across
America. There are already water trails in almost every
state, and, even as you read this, more are in the making. On them,
with a map and some minor navigational skills, you can traverse
lovely swaths of wilderness, whether it be for an hour, a day, or a
month. Paddle sports - kayaking,
rafting, and canoeing - are
booming, and as they boom, more and more folks are grasping an
elemental, and wondrous, truth: Water is an alchemic portal to
places and rarities that would otherwise remain unseen. After all,
when was the last time you saw a manatee as you drove down the
interstate?
It's not just about the water, though. Most of the water trails
offer access to camping, of course, but for those who tire of
dealing with freeze-dried stroganoff and grit in their teeth, many
trails are laid out to deposit you at the landing ramp of
civilization so that you may haul your vessel ashore, shower at a
fine B&B, and then, surrounded by the boisterous buzz of
locals, tear into half a pound of fat, fresh shrimp. Why are the
locals so happy? Because the shrimp are as sweet as candy and the
people live on an island accessed only by boat.