DAYS LATER, near the southern end of
the trail, I kayak along the shoreline of Lovers Key with
Nancy McPhee and Trudi Edelman. Trudi has kayaked and guided
in these waters for 38 years. Nancy was instrumental in
seeing the Calusa Blueway become reality.
We rent kayaks from the Lovers Key park concessionaire. As we take
our first strokes, nothing but mangroves and a riverlike spread of
Zamboni-smooth water is visible.
"This is what the Calusa saw when they paddled here," says Nancy
quietly. "This is what we wanted people to see when we created the
Blueway."
Moments later, we see a trail marker, a post emblazoned with a pair
of crossed oars and the number 11. This is my fifth day on the
water, and this is the first Blueway marker - other than the one I
spotted while jogging - that I've seen.
When I tell Nancy this, she shrugs.
"I didn't put up a whole lot of markers. To be honest, I don't want
to see the next one. We want the Blueway to be an adventure. Plus,
the hurricanes and the fishermen took a lot of the signs out. I
think we might have marked some of their favorite fishing
holes."
The women turn their tandem kayak toward a seemingly impenetrable
mangrove wall. We push through a narrow, shaded channel. The
mangrove roots resemble the curved fingers of an emaciated pianist.
The bottom of my kayak scrapes across an oyster bed, and then the
three of us are out in the bright sunlight again. The world is
nothing but caws and trills. We drift in our own private lagoon,
watched by egrets and ibis, resting in the mangroves like white
linen handkerchiefs. A roseate spoonbill registers our sudden
intrusion - and perhaps his opinion of man - with a great gastric
expulsion.
I LIKED PADDLING and exploring with my
fellow kayakers, but, as anyone knows, in nature - and perhaps in
life - true discovery comes alone, with silence.