The Green Flash

Powerboater brings his boat into the blazing sun at Dunedin.

There it was. The green flash. The blood-red sun, sinking fast into the Gulf of Mexico tinted the sky to peach and its edge, jelly-like, sank swiftly into the water. As the last limb of the sun slithered beneath the surface of the water, a rippling green flash emanated from the final rays. That's the first time we have seen the green flash since those idyllic days and nights in the Bahamas back in 2002.
Our neighbors on the beach along the causeway to Honeymoon Island outside Dunedin were oblivious to the phenomenon. A young girl squealed with delight as she caught a catfish and hauled it up on the shore. Her dad, speaking to her in Spanish, grabbed the line and put a pliers into the fish's mouth to retrieve the hook. He then tossed the fish back into the Gulf. Her mom chattered away on her cellphone but stopped long enough to grab a picture of the kid with her fish before continuing with her conversation.
Earlier in the day, Jo and I had strolled the sponge docks at Tarpon Springs. We were in a smorgasbord of Greek kitch, cruciform fish bones, Greek flags, baklava cheese cake, Greek urns made in China, but the saving grace was a harpist who sat in the shade of a tree along the docks. She played soothing music to the tourists who strolled in the bright spring sunshine.
The following night, we set out for the causeway to photograph the green flash. But it was not to be. We waited in similar conditions and the sun sank in the west. But no flash. So we have no picture of the event. But we did have a moment when a motorboat powered its way into the bloody sunset and it made a beautiful picture.
We headed out on a rainy morning, Friday, making our way north. Our anti-lock brake system warning light switched itself on our dashboard. We experienced this problem last year but it sorted itself out. This day it refused to get its act together so we called our emergency RV technician service and the sharp young woman said not to worry in the short term. She then asked where we would like to make an appointment to get it fixed and we told her Mobile, Alabama, since we plan to drive through there in the middle of next week. She called back in a few minutes and said she'd made an appointment for us with a technician. She provided the address and phone number.
We parked the night at a strange little campground: Neverdunn RV Resort in Lake City, Florida. It was a little out of the way and we regretted having to travel down a pock-marked gravel road. But the destination was worthwhile.
There were four peacocks and peahens on the property, along with goats and an enormous rooster who seemed to wear trousers because his feathers were designed to cover his legs. He strutted around as though he owned the place. The grounds were filled with azaleas in full bloom and there were huge, dripping bundles of wisteria at the entrance to the tiny swimming pool. Two clay alligators, one wearing a bra, the other in men's wear, welcomed you into the pool.
The lead peacock, named Samson, roosted in the large tree next to our rig for the evening. He flew up onto a van's roof, then flew the final 15 feet up into the tree. Initially, he spent an inordinate amount of time shouting at passing cars and I thought the unpleasantness might put a damper on our evening. But, as soon as night fell, Samson settled down and we didn't hear a peep out of him for the rest of the night. He had come down from his roost by the time we awoke on Saturday morning.