Sting

Thunderstorms have returned to Florida’s east coast. On most days this summer the late afternoon dark clouds fat with rain kept their distance while the fringe of green above the beach began to brown. But something jostled that dry pattern and one day in mid-August the familiar claps of thunder and razzle-dazzle of lightening returned, bringing with it the long awaited downpours. For the past ten days the afternoon rain has crashed down in a daily abbreviated monsoon. We’ve been spared the threat of dangerous weather this far into the season, but according to weather wizards, the approach of Tropical Storm Isaac now in the northern Caribbean may change that. Looks like we could be tying down the outdoor furniture and battening down for Sunday and Monday.  

Stingrays are common in coastal tropical waters around the world, but a comparatively rare sight on the Florida beach that I call home. Unlike a hundred other creatures of the deep, until this week I had never seen one washed up in the surf. The one in the photograph below is a baby whiptail stingray in the family called Dasyatidae. Found worldwide in tropical to temperate marine waters, they have flattened pectoral fin discs that are most often oval, but are sometimes seen in a diamond shape. They range in size from seven inches to almost six and a half feet across. The name comes from the whip-like tail, which is longer than the disc. All of the whiptail rays have a venomous barb near the base of the tail for defense. In the picture below the stinger barb is visible just below the small white shell at the top. 

Stingrays are a fish with a cartilage skeleton and related to the shark. Most have the barbed stinger on the tail, which has two grooves on the underside with venom glands. In larger rays the barb can reach a length of almost fourteen inches. It is covered with a thin layer of skin where the venom is concentrated. 

They feed mostly on mollusks, crustaceans, and sometimes small fish, but with eyes on top of the body and a mouth on the underside, stingrays cannot see their prey, so use smell and electroreceptors instead. They bear live young in litters of five to thirteen. 

Usually docile creatures, the most common reaction is to flee any disturbance, but they will use their stinger in cases of self defense. For the victim, the sting causes local trauma, pain, swelling, muscle cramps from the venom, and possibly infection from bacteria. It is a very painful injury, but seldom life-threatening unless the stinger hits a vital area. (Most are familiar with the sad death of Steve Irwin in 2006 from a stingray.) In most cases the barb breaks off in the wound requiring surgery to remove the fragments.

In some countries rays are caught as food using fishing lines or spears. Depending on the country, there are any number of recipes, but in Singapore and Malaysia it is commonly grilled over charcoal, then served with spicy sauce.

Amanda & Mr Clean

Feels like it took two weeks longer than it should have, but the evil offshore currents swirling around tropical storm Sean have finally passed beyond reach of Florida’s central east coast. In its place now blows a gentle northeast wind and a less than foamy surf hardly big enough to knock over a toddler. No doubt a relief to everyone along this shore. For far too long there’s been a maelstrom of wind and salt, a bedlam of roaring waves full of rip currents and tossing up mounds of seaweed. For those hoping to walk on the beach it’s been a tricky affair. Daily high tides have caused bad erosion, leaving little space between surf line and seawall, heaps of the fetid seaweed underfoot. Only my second autumn in the area but the difference in this year and last has been huge.

Now that the storm has moved north of Bermuda, something like a sunshine-crowded window has opened onto Florida and brought back a glimpse of November 2010. Morning and evening hours are cool enough for long sleeves, but afternoon hovers at the perfect temperature of 74° F.

Despite the return of good weather, Saturday around here was taken up with preparing for the arrival of vacationing friends from Louisiana. My less than efficient system means that things tend to get let go for long stretches until a deadline looms into sight and the hustling begins. But claiming all the credit would be unfair to the delightful Miss A who spent half her Saturday lending a big hand to turn the place into a shiny hangout for a couple of almost-Cajuns.

Flying Tables

Wouldn’t want to lull anyone into thinking that life at the beach is boringly sultry and beguiling, the days a surefire succession of warm sand, tumbling white surf and postcard skies. No question there is a lot of that, but once in a while a passage of nasty weather clears the board of all that stereotype. Sometimes all the opposites come into play in one broad stroke.

Scenic prettiness went out with a whoosh late Wednesday afternoon with the arrival of a wet and windy fury. Thunderstorms of electrical brilliance and claps of thunder near enough to set balcony railings vibrating are powerful attention getters, and in the space of three minutes all signs of humanity vanished indoors. Sweeps of rain hit walkways like a hail of dampened firecrackers, their pops muted by the surrounding symphony of violent elements at play. The first threat of high wind sent a heavy teakwood chair scudding across the patio, flipping onto its back with a loud clatter. Figuring at first it was a large bird I saw something swoop from above, catch a gust and fly off to the beach where it landed with a crumpled thud. The bird turned out to be a table in flight from the fourth floor.

In howling wind three pool deck chairs took off in a hop-skip-jump into the deep end, while other outdoor furniture skittered around the pool deck like bumper cars in a carnival gone mad. Conditions on the oceanfront deck were no more stable and a long line of lounge chairs caught the wind and fell into a twisted tangle in the rope barrier separating sand and brick. A speck of red caught my eye, and there to the left my pet geranium floundered in a mini-tornado of wind and rain, beaten to a sodden droop. And out on the ocean waves, a smear of blue gray indifference, pelicans soared over the water unconcerned with the onshore tilt-a-whirl of lost equilibrium.

Another crackling bolt of lightning, a momentary pause, a boom of thunder and electrical power vanished. As coincidence would have it, the storm’s power immediately diminished as though connected to wires. It was a power outage lasting two hours but even now a day later the drizzle continues.

The picture here is of a fallen tree almost fifty miles from our flying tables and dancing chairs.