What is it about the natural world here in Florida that made me start thinking of myself as a naturalist? I certainly had no training as one in California, which arguably has more nature. In the 20+ years that I lived there, I got to know the Pacific Ocean by swimming, bodysurfing, and surfing in it. I got to know the mountains and the deserts from my interest in rock climbing. But I knew the nature of California in the same way I knew her freeways: don’t drive through the Sepulveda Pass on the 405 in the afternoon unless it’s Super Bowl Sunday or you’ll be stuck there for hours. Don’t climb that wall in the afternoon, because the sun will be on that rockface, and it’ll be too hot. Don’t swim directly to shore across that rip current; swim at an angle instead.
I learned not to pitch a tent in the lowest area under a Joshua Tree rockface, because midnight downpours can create instant cold running water through your sleeping bag. I learned to wear a hood at Jalama Beach in February, because ice cream headache is not something you enjoy when you’re being pounded by 10- to 12-foot swells. I learned that sometimes, when you surf Coal Oil Point in the morning, you might be joined by a playful sea lion (but don’t count on it–no matter how many times I went back after that first magical morning, it never happened again).
But I never had a deep, abiding interest in nature.
That all started a few months before we left Los Angeles for Boca Raton. I was browsing a used book shop in Van Nuys and ran across a copy of the Sibley Guide to Birds, and I bought it for some reason. (I suppose there weren’t any good astronomy books at that shop, which is what I had actually been looking for, having developed an interest in astronomy a year or so earlier.)
Then one afternoon, Marcella and I rode our bikes down Ballona Creek to Marina Del Rey, as we often did, and we saw a couple of huge birds in the vacant lot next to the apartments at the end of the bike path. They were tending a large chick. We flipped through the guide, and sure enough–Great Blue Heron. We looked on the other side of the bike path, in the tidal portion of the creek, and saw some smaller birds, with downcurved bills. (Flip, flip.) Curlews? No, that’s not quite right. They have a big stripe on their head, but the bill isn’t long enough. (Flip, flip.) Whimbrel? Yes, that sounds right. Yes, now I’m sure of it.
And what’s that little white bird flying over the creek? It looks like a tern. What could it be? (Flip, flip.) Least Tern? Probably…
After that, we were hooked. When we drove over to Los Liones trail in the Santa Monica mountains (yes, gas was relatively inexpensive back then!), we would bring our astronomy binoculars along with our running shoes. Every now and then we’d even see a bird.
And then, a few months later, we found out that we’d be moving to, of all places, Florida. And not just anywhere in Florida: Palm Beach County. That’s right. The county where the voters were so confused, they couldn’t decide whether they were voting for Bush or Gore-bachov, but they had to do something so they could make it to the diner in time for the early bird special.
So I decided to approach the alligators and the birds, as they seemed more reasonable. And that’s where it all began. This September, I will start the third and final module of my Florida Master Naturalist certification. I’ve gotten to where I can name more plants and animals here than I ever could in California. And I’ve met some lovely people out in the Florida wild, too. Maybe I’ll see you there some day!