It's another sweaty summer day and even a few of Eugene Lemire's snakes need cooling down.
While most people have furry friends, Lemire, 50, a breeder and hobbyist, tends to about 150 snakes and on this particular Monday, a handful of them are getting a soak in the yard outside his apartment.
Slipping a yellow-headed Woma python into a tray of water, Lemire speaks to the snake, a species native to the desert tundra in Australia and worth more than $1,200.
"There you go buddy, have a little chill out," he says as a photographer takes pictures. "He's quite the ham, this one."
That is, until it strikes.
The python, a little more than 5 feet long and not venomous, snapped its mouth onto his index finger. A stream of blood trails down, but to Lemire, a snake owner for more than 30 years, it's just one more instance to add to the "thousands of times" he's already been bitten. He presses down on his finger to make sure there are no teeth left inside and talks to the snake.
"Why did you do that?" he asks, "I don't even smell like a rat, silly."
Lemire has survived six venomous snakebites and the risk from bites is considered small, according to a paper published by the University of Florida IFAS Extension. In the U.S., there are about five to six deaths a year due to venomous bites--a tenth of the number of fatalities caused by hornet, bee and wasp stings.
"More people get attacked by dogs than they do by snakes," said Lemire, a tall, burly man with a flat top haircut.
According to the Department of Health, about 17,000 people with non-fatal dog bites were admitted to hospitals in 2007. The department doesn't track snake bites, but "The Florida Handbook" reports that there are 300 to 400 venomous snakebites annually and few are fatal.
To Lemire, snakes are just as much a pet as cats and dogs and he's serious about protecting them and educating people, he said.
Two bumper stickers on his car state his commitment: "I brake for snakes."
Need help?
Call snake activist Eugene Lemire to have a snake picked up and removed from a home or building for free.
He'll relocate them back to the wild. Exotic snakes will be placed in new homes.
Reach him at 386-428-2798 or on his cell phone, 386-416-8838.
See, Lemire's the type of guy that will pull over and help native snakes cross a road, unlike some people he's seen that try to run them down.
Last year, he watched a motorist on Maytown Road swerve across two lanes to smash a 6-foot yellow rat snake. Lemire picked it up, bleeding from the mouth and took it home to give it antibiotics. A week later, he fed it "a big fat rat" and turned it loose in a rural area.
A BAD RAP
Unfortunately many people continue to have a "not in my backyard" or NIMBY attitude with snakes, said Steve Johnson, a UF assistant professor of urban wildlife ecology. But as Florida development encroaches into new areas, snakes are losing habitat and encounters become more likely.
"They just have misperceptions about snakes in general," said Johnson, who said people continue to see them as slimy and aggressive, which is not true. "Snakes play an important role in Florida's native ecology. They have an important link in food webs."
Florida is home to about 44 species of native snakes. In this part of central Florida, Johnson said there are four venomous species, including the coral, pygmy rattlesnake, cottonmouth and eastern diamondback.
Like many animals, Johnson pointed out that snakes do try to return to their habitat after relocation, although he said Lemire is "doing a great service." "He's doing people a favor and he's also doing snakes a favor."
If Lemire finds an exotic snake, he'll pick it up and take it home. He also extends his public snake service to anyone who needs to find a pet snake a new home. Local pet stores even turn to him when folks call for help identifying or getting a snake out of a house or garage.
A DEATH THAT CHANGED HIS LIFE
Lemire wasn't always into reptiles, though. Back in the third grade, he was terrified of them.
"My darling brother, in all his infinite wisdom let word get around that I was deathly afraid of snakes," he recalled.
A group of boys caught a 4-foot black racer and cornered him in the bathroom.
"The only way I could see out was through them, so I grabbed a hold of the snake and used it like a whip and beat my way out of there," he said.
The ordeal changed his life.
"That snake died because of my ignorance and from that day forward every book I could find about snakes--I checked out and read cover to cover," he said.
Now he shares a non-venomous snake-breeding business with a partner in Edgewater, who declined to be interviewed.
They keep the snakes in a typical car garage--complete with a family storage fridge, a washer and dryer, except in some areas, the secured cages are stacked almost to the ceiling.
One of them includes a female Colombian boa that a friend found extremely emaciated and with parasites in an abandoned apartment.
In a year with Lemire, the snake gained twice its weight and now weighs 23 pounds.
Taking them in is just the start, though. Lemire envisions opening a snake rescue organization someday.
"Nobody thinks about the snakes and they're abused as much as any other animal," he said."Somebody's got to stand up for them."
Somehow, four months have gone by since the big engagement day and I still haven't figured out the most important, basic factor of all this wedding business. THE DATE! The beau and I have it down to a preferred month (March), and that's as far as we've gotten.
We don't even have our colors picked out. Annnd, we've driven all over Volusia County, searching from the north to the south for the perfect wedding venue that speaks to us and our lifestyle and we are close, but no cigar. (Although, if you read my blog, you'll see I'm actually trying cigars these days... and on another tangent, click here to learn what that cigar phrase is all about).
If you're anything like me, you've been researching how to find the best deals with the most reputable wedding vendors and are pretty much freaking out about the ever-expanding guest list. So now's your big chance to meet a bajillion other gals on Sunday who are probably going through the same thing.
I talked to Felicia Fink, who is involved in organizing the show at the Daytona Beach Resort & Conference Center. She said grooms are welcome and do attend, though it is "very bride-related."
"It is like a trade show for brides," she said. "They have everything from cakes to photography to limousines to decor, linens. It is everything a bride could possibly want."
Considering I'm not doing anything in the traditional order--date, venue, colors, decor, etc.--this may be my big chance to figure it out all at once.
Brides are asked to register and carry a book to all the different booths, and get it signed by every vendor so they can be entered in a contest for a prize. Of course, being a broke-ass bride, I got excited. Eyes wide and smiling, I asked Felicia what the big prize is-- secretly hoping it would be a free wedding.
Alas, it is only the "honeymoon of your dreams," which still sounds pretty good to me...
Felicia also said you can expect to see some bridal fashions. Girls will be walking around modeling dresses.
Good luck ladies--and you better bet I'm gonna be in the running for that honeymoon.
The options in the humidor can abound and confuse when you don't know a thing about cigars.
Chrissy and I didn't let that stop us, though. There's probably a lot of people out there like us, who wanna get into cigars, but don't really know where to start, so we ventured in to Fletcher's Cigar Bar & Social in Ormond Beach.
We didn't give owner Bill Fletcher a helluva a lot of time to prepare for our visit, but we decided on short notice that we'd become cigar connoisseurs on a jazzy Tuesday night, when Kaleigh Baker and Nathan Anderson would play some sultry sounds.
Suprisingly there were quite a few women in there-- maybe just as many as the men that night. (Which reminds me, Bill boasts up to 30 percent of the clientele are indeed the ladies).
Anyway, I've smoked a cigar a couple of times, but it didn't dawn on me just how little I knew about them until we got to talking to Bill that night.
Being a bit lazy, I had gotten my boyfriend to light me a honey-flavored stogie once and the
only other time I can recall smoking one was at the James Bond theme party for the London Symphony Orchetstra a few months ago. And thinking back to that night on the deck of the yacht club, we got it so wrong. Hell, we didn't even think to cut them-- or bite the head off, for that matter, (which is a huge no-no in cigar world, kinda gross and bad etiquette, so I'm told).
That night, we somehow lit the little, oil-infused flavored cigars (small-sized cigars are called petite coronas) and smoked for a while, looking at the International Speedway Boulevard Bridge as the lights twinkled from condominiums across the Halifax River.
We had the atmosphere and relaxation down pact with the cigars. But truthfully, we didn't know much about how to properly enjoy them.
Bill, 31, tried his first cigar about 15 years ago. Jazz played in the background as he quizzed us about our likes and dislikes and we stepped into the humidor with him to take a look at the selection and figure out what would fit our palettes.
Chrissy, a former cigarette smoker, went for a traditional, light cigar. Bill helped her pick a mild one by Rocky Patel. It was made with Honduran tobacco and a light Connecticut wrapper.
I went to the other side of the spectrum with a dark chocolate-flavored Drew Estate Java. It was a tough choice when offered a white chocolate truffle flavor.
Besides the flavor difference, this cigar had a box-pressed shape, while Chrissy's had a more rounded shape.
Traditional cigar smokers stay away from flavors like mine, Bill said. They go for straight tobacco, which by the way, reminds me of an interesting fact Bill mentioned. All hand-rolled cigars are considered organic.
"Traditional cigars are set up with just tobacco," Bill said. "Wrapper, binder filler-- no additives. No oil-infused flavors."
After making our selections, we headed to the bar, where everyone was puffing away and the smoke was being lifted up into the ventilation system. Fletcher's features a smoke ventilation air purification system that changes out the air 10 to 15 times an hour.
"There's no haze; there's no smoke clouds," Bill said. "When you blow the smoke it gets up and it gets out."
The next step at the bar--as you might assume--involved pairing the cigars with proper spirits. I went for a mild-flavored Stella beer to help me appreciate the nutty, chocolate flavor of my smoke. Chrissy broke connoisseur rules a bit, when she just went straight for a merlot-- no consulting involved on how that would affect flavor--but sometimes you just need your merlot, no?
The point behind proper pairing, which can be suggested by bartenders, is to avoid overpowering the cigar. So don't go drinking a limey Corona with chocolate. It's safe to go with something light bodied, Bill said.
As far as cutting it goes, he first introduced us to the guillotine cut, where you slice the cigar with a special cutter right at the seam.
Before smoking a hand-rolled cigar, you must cut the cap off. The cap is there to prevent it from unraveling and drying out and you should only cut it when you're about to smoke it.
We also saw Bill use a cigar cutting machine--one where you just put the tip in and swing a lever for a wedge cut.
And when it was time to light up it was an eye-opener.
According to Bill, you're supposed to use a butane lighter or wooden matches. Anything else, like you're average disposable gasoline lighter, is going to affect the flavor.
Unlike cigarettes, you don't need to inhale while lighting it. Just sear the end, without letting it touch the flame, until you get the famous red cherry.
Savor the flavor on your lips, roll the smoke in your mouth, and blow it out. And don't inhale! Beginners could get sick...
All in all, I think most of the cigar lure really comes from the social aspect. It's nice to bring something new to your palette and talk about the flavors you're experiencing. For me, it also has a lot to do with enhancing an already relaxing atmosphere, like sitting by the river at night or listening to live jazz at a snazzy place like Fletcher's.
The Atlantic Center for the Arts had an open house of sorts on July 17th during INsideOUT, a program that allows the public to meet and learn more about the artists in residency.
Residency #134 was performance based, featuring:
- Mark Applebaum, music/composition/performance
- Carole Kim, live video performance/installation
- Heather Woodbury, playwriting/performance
About 24 associate artists collaborated with the masters over their three week stay in New Smyrna Beach.
Here's a glimpse of INsideOUT and some of the work performed.
It's tough to imagine escaping "the fascism of gravity" for 24 hours, let alone what it will be like on Brian Feldman's feet.
The performance artist begins his take off and take on the original "Jumpista" video concept on Thursday night at the Atlantic Center for the Arts. He is going to jump in place for a full day--yes, literally--for an interpretation of a 1999 "mockumentary" created at the center during an Italy/U.S. Cultural Exchange, Darden Celebration of Cultures.
The physical feat, padded by a sole pillow, is a prelude to the center's "INsideOUT" program, an evening for the public to meet performance artists in residency and see their work in a live theater setting. The center's 134th Artists-in-Residence program unites 27 artists and associates from throughout the country and as far away as Ireland and Taiwan.
Feldman, an associate artist from Orlando, joins the crew of performance masters; Mark Applebaum, music composition; Carole Kim, live video/installation; and Heather Woodbury, playwriting. (For more info on the artists and the Atlantic Center click here)
INsideOUT happens several times a year, but this program promises to be a very exciting night with a mix of musicians, composers, live video performance, video installation and playwriting.
"Because the residency is so performance based, it should be a very lively INsideOUT," said Kelle Groom, communications manager for the Atlantic Center for the Arts. "We'll start in the studios and we'll move into the theater for the performances. It should probably be more collaborative than usual."
Groom also said it's safe to say the Atlantic Center has never had a marathon exhibit like Feldman's, which officially begins Thursday night, but won't be open to the public until Friday at 10 a.m.
To understand his idea, check out "Jumpista" on YouTube, where Enrico Corte, a widely respected painter from Italy, acts as a performance artist
whose "ultimate intent is to not return, to escape the fascism of gravity" through "the art of Jumpista." It takes place at the Atlantic Center, where Corte was enrolled in a residency program.
"The character in the movie, he's using it as a way to escape the boundaries of gravity, reach and touch the sky and keep floating up," Feldman said. "I agree with what (Corte) said in the video, but at the same time it's just about what we're capable of."
Of course, you're free (and encouraged) to make your own interpretation. (It's satire, people. Don't take it too seriously!)
Unlike Corte, Feldman will be jumping once about every minute, or multiple times depending on the crowd. No napping or eating--with the exception of a possible energy bar, to prevent, er um... a projectile performance.
"The reptition is a concern and staying awake," Feldman said.
He's been preparing for the "24 Hour Jump" by biking, running and climbing stairs, but is also no stranger to such antics. He organizes giant pillow fights in public parks (see PillowLANDO) and in February 2008 he performed a "Leap Year Day" piece, where he leapt off a 12-foot ladder once every 4 minutes for a total of 366 times--once for every day of Leap Year.
"When I compare it to that project, I'm thinking this is a little more manageable," he said.
Anthony Torres, an Orlando screenwriter and director of "Jumpista," said the video is meant to be a series of art jokes.
Feldman seems to be deconstructing the idea and bringing it back to the origin for performance art.
"I'm sure you can draw other conclusions from it, but I think it's just the joy of the physical act, rather than a subtextual comment," he said. "It's not decorative, it's not frivolous and I think there's something really pure about that."
To see Feldman at work, visit the Atlantic Center for the Arts at 1414 Art Center Avenue. The "24 Hour Jump" is free to watch on Friday from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m.
"INsideOUT" starts at 7 p.m. on Friday with a gallery walk and a series of presentations at the Harris Theater begins at 8:15 p.m. The event is free for members and $10 for the public. Call 386-427-6975 to make a reservation.
It feels like it's 90 degrees at 6 p.m. as I sit on a bench staring at a mess of Votran route sheets in my lap and considering the 11 miles to get home.
The guy sitting next to me listening to funk music so loud I can hear it through his headphones begins to kick at cigarette butts on the asphalt and suddenly stands up, thrashing wildly at the pile of soda cans and other garbage that surrounds our bench.
I know how he feels. My public transportation experiment began with the best of intentions, but after five hours of bus transfers, being clammy with sweat, walking and worrying, I can pretend to deliberate, but I know what I'll do.
I reach for the phone.
*****
I really wanted this to work. My car is 14 years old. Traffic is lousy. And I'm not only the victim of a pay cut, but I also don't want to shell out more money to Middle Eastern oil sheiks.
So in some ways, I viewed Dump the Pump Day as a key to freedom and a way to live efficiently. It would give me a rare opportunity to save gas money and let the car rest from the usual 42-mile, 90-minute round trip. The national event in June embodied almost all those reasons and considering I had done it in other cities, I figured it would be easy.
I was wrong.
For starters, it took me three hours and four buses to get from my New Smyrna Beach house to The Daytona Beach News-Journal office -- the same length of time it would take to drive to south Georgia. I found the bus stops conveniently located and considering the morning sun hadn't yet met its full potential, I arrived to work feeling only a little sweaty, but in awe of the people who have to make the journey every day.
Of course not everyone has a commute as bad as mine. Annie Ferrante, 50, made it sound like riding the bus is a breeze.
At the time we met, the Port Orange beauty consultant was in her second week of riding the No. 12 and was still charmed by the challenge of riding it to work in Daytona Beach. It takes her about 45 minutes-- probably about twice as long as a car ride.
"I really don't mind it," she said. "They do the driving and it's nice and cool. The folks are friendly and I'm a reader, so somewhere along the way I'll be reading a book."
Strangely enough, riding the bus with a bunch of random people is Ferrante's alone time. And not so surprisingly, her friends ragged on her about the decision.
"Before I got on the bus, some friends would say, 'Oh, no, you're going to hate it,'" she said. "But I love it. It's my solitude."
It helps that Ferrante's home and work are near stops along the bus line. It's not so easy for Michael Valentino, a lanky 23-year-old from Edgewater who rides the bus for more than three hours in search of temporary work in Daytona Beach. When he misses the last bus of the day, he tries to stay at a family member's house.
"It's a pain in the (rear)," he said, as we rode in the chilly No. 7 on our way to the Transfer Plaza in Daytona Beach. His car was damaged beyond repair during the record flooding in May. "I gotta take like three buses. If I ride it a week, it's going to come out more expensive than if I put in gas."
Valentino wonders why our transit system can't be more like New York City, where he used to live and could catch a ride every 15 minutes.
But the Volusia-Flagler area just isn't set up for a system that could balance the convenience of commuters with a realistic budget, said Liz Suchsland, Votran's assist general manager of operations and maintenance. "It's just not comparable to New York or Washington, D.C. where things are in close proximity to each other."
Votran's operating budget of $20.5 million generated 3.4 million boardings last year. The bus system provides the type of service that mostly caters to the "transit-dependent," Suchsland said, such as the elderly, students, the disabled and those who are unable to drive or can't afford a vehicle.
"Certainly somebody living beachside in New Smyrna, who wants to get into the core Daytona area using the transit system has limited options," she said.
Like a three-hour commute.
"For a traditional work schedule it would be somewhat of a challenge," Suchsland added.
No kidding.
*****
My challenge was trying to get out of the office before 2:30 p.m.
Barely working half a shift, I rushed out of the newsroom about an hour later and arrived at the Dunlawton Square strip mall in Port Orange too late to catch the last transfer to New Smyrna Beach. I stared at all the schedules and routes in disbelief, checking and re-checking the times to see if I was reading it wrong.
Maybe the guy with the funky music missed his bus too? Trying not to upset him further, I remained motionless as he took his trash-kicking episode to another bench.
Sitting alone, I felt defeated as I reached for my cell phone to ask for a ride home.
A friend answered on the third ring as I daydreamed about a cold shower.
"Can you come get me?" I said. "I give up." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Michael Nelson scans the expanse of river and shoals, looking for desperate waves from children and a nod from parents.
There's a little boy standing in the water, flailing both arms wildly. His dad is yelling something Nelson can't quite hear yet as he steers the red, white and blue, star-speckled boat toward the sandbar.
And then it's loud and clear. "Aarrrrrrr!" roars the dad, fist in the air.
Nelson, who wears a green pirate hat, knows the deal.
"Arrrrrrg! Coming in!" he bellows. "We're here to rob and pillage!"
Except Nelson isn't really the one doing the pillaging. Once he bumps his pirate-flag flapping Ice Cream Boat on the sandbar, children, parents and dogs surround him.
Canines hop aboard for free treats and stay a while, longing for more, as youngsters stare and marvel at their summer luck: a photo menu of ice cream on a stick on a 90-some- thing-degree Sunday in the middle of nowhere.
Ruby, a gray dog that looks like a short Weimaraner, hangs out on deck, while her human crosses slowly through the water.
"I think my dog wants to live with you," says Beth Siyufy as she buys an ice cream sandwich.
Siyufy gives Ruby ice cream "every single night," she says. "But we're going to just share ours now because it will melt too fast."
Most "creamies"-- Nelson's word for his customers -- often describe the boat as "awesome" and he knows it isn't such a bad setup. He chugs the 1989 pontoon through the Intracoastal Waterway for about five hours on Saturdays and Sundays, stopping at the beach at Smyrna Dunes Park, Disappearing Island (of New Smyrna Beach and Ponce Inlet), the surrounding sandbars or just pulling up alongside boats. (See video of the Ice Cream Boat man at work at the end of the story)
"It's a helluva way to make a living," he said, steering toward the next child waving a fistful of dollars.
Treats for $2 and $3 are stored in freezers, powered by a battery, and tunes stream from speakers above his steering post.
Here's a few of the Ice Cream Boat Man's customers
Nelson, 56, seems to live up to the persona of a pirate with a salty sense of humor. He's sunburned, has a shaggy beard and ponytail. Sunglasses shield blue eyes.
He never imagined he'd be driving the Ice Cream Boat, he said, but recalled a ceramic statue he made in 1974 of an old sea captain, hands in pocket, with a beard. On it, he scratched "Mikey" and realized in a bizarre way that it was an image of himself.
"How did I know 35 years ago that I was going to end up like this?" he said. "That's me, the beard, the captain's hat, sitting there looking over the ocean. It's like it was almost supposed to happen."
Before his Popsicle-pushing days, though, the Port Orange resident was involved in printing a Biker's Pocket Guide for motorcycle events and was a mail machine mechanic. He found his dream job in 2006 while he was browsing ads in the Pennysaver. A guy was selling an ice cream truck and boat.
"My name was all over it. I had to have it. I just knew that was it," said Nelson, almost out of breath from the thought of that day.
A former partner piloted the boat, while Nelson drove the truck that he said almost killed him. Six months into driving the truck all week long, he said he became ill and slept anywhere from 18 to 23 hours a day.
Nelson went to doctors to try to figure out what was happening, until one morning he awoke from a telltale dream on Christmas Eve 2006. In it, he realized his truck had an exhaust leak and was poisoning him with carbon monoxide, he said.
"I ran out, jumped under the truck and sure enough there was all these holes in the exhaust pipe and found rusty floorboards and that's how the carbon monoxide got in," he said.
After that episode, Nelson got in the boat for his first season on the water. It usually begins around April 15 and runs through the end of September.
Since then, he's catered to millionaires on yachts and average Joes on skiffs.
And it's not as easy as people would think, he said. "You gotta know the ocean and the tides and how your boat works and make sure you don't hit anybody."
It also helps to have the "gift of gab," he said.
Nelson knows he's a bit of a rarity, which helps draw in new customers.
Even Johnny Eskew sees the charm in it, and he's an offshore fisherman.
"I wish I was doing it," he said as he bought ice cream for the whole family and dog. "I'm jealous."
Maneuvering past anchors, Nelson later heads toward a group of about six little squirts waving like maniacs in hopes of being recognized.
He takes orders for SpongeBob and Powerpuff Girl ice cream for a few minutes and departs methodically for the next round until a young girl shouts his way.
"Thank you, ice cream man! I love you!"
Nelson waves back and shows a soft side for a moment.
Unlike a lot of women, I was never the type of girl that dreamed of the perfect wedding dress.
I had no idea where I'd get hitched, what colors I'd choose, let alone whether I'd wear a trumpet, mermaid, Grecian or ball gown style. Sweetheart or Queen Anne? Ivory or candlelight? What does all that mean?
In fact I was quite anti-wedding for several years, until I got engaged of course. Rather than gush about plans with my girlfriend, Cecilia and I made a silly pact to never wed. Bombarded with the question about upcoming marriage plans with our longtime boyfriends, we both vowed to be strong in solidarity and not let society pressure us to do it just 'cause we hit the ripe, old age of 25.
But as you probably know, even the best of friends break promises. Cecilia got engaged and married all in the same week in May at the age of 26. I finally decided I was ready for the big M in January and it took Tim (my bf) several months to ask.
So maybe that idea of resisting marriage, taking on someone else's last name and becoming the wifey type won't work out after all. I admit to always being open to compromise and most of my feelings changed when I realized my match had been at my side for the past seven years. (One fight remains to be duked out, though. He is still trying to convince me to take his name and it ain't gonna happen!)
And so far it doesn't seem unreasonable. I found some pretty ones during my first foray into the kingdom of all things bridal on Friday, June 12. And it was hot. But not hawt in a good way. Those dresses are heavy, huge and hopped up on some serious steroids. Well, some of them anyway.
I accompanied Audrey Parente, one of my very sweet co-workers at The Daytona Beach News-Journal, for a business story on Doralynn's Bridal & Formal. She needed to profile a local business and coincidentally, I gotta find a wedding dress.
I had imagined my mom would need to be there for this milestone, because I know she'd really love and enjoy seeing her little girl all dolled up. But she's in Miami and gave me her blessing to go ahead without her. Despite being without her, I tried to channel her voice in the store, trying on gowns I didn't like that she might like and dresses that might look better on me than on the hangar.
Trying on wedding dresses is more difficult than I thought. Doralynn's store is small and cramped, but it has a ton of stock. Within minutes I grabbed hold of three dresses and could barely hold them up as I tried to drag them to the fitting room, (by the way, they barely fit into the fitting room, they were that big).
The first one I tried on was kind of old Hollywood style, or maybe Grecian. See how I've
learned the vocabulary? (I owe it all to those wedding magazines.) It was flowy and simple with a nice draped back and was the only one that didn't weigh more than a few pounds.
I liked it. And as soon as Doralynn propped that veil and tiara on my head, I couldn't believe it. It was freaky and exciting and mostly just, "holy cow!" (If you can imagine what that feels like!)
Staring at myself in the getup, I finally let myself get excited. I mean how often do you get to see yourself in an outfit like that?
It was pretty swanky, but it made me feel old and young at the same time. Some might say I'm still youthful and fresh at age 26, and yet I also feel that it's another important step into adulthood. (Yuck).
I don't know that marriage will be much different than my life with Tim now. I already make him do my taxes and we've been living in sin for like three years.
We know each other in ways that no one will ever understand. But there's one thing he has yet to grasp.
It will be the meaning of that dress. Whichever one I end up wearing, it will be unforgettable. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The receding tide reveals a spit of land in the Intracoastal Waterway where beer is plentiful and dogs frolic in the soft white sand.
It's no exotic destination, but to local boaters Disappearing Island is their own kingdom -- a retreat accessible only by watercraft, with an ice cream boat and the improvisational culture required for short-term island living.
On an atypically quiet Sunday, women in bathing suits celebrate Mother's Day with the red Ponce de Leon Inlet Lighthouse in view. Their boys play catch in the water and a random big black dog joins them while the moms sunbathe and chat with beers in hand. They say it's all they ever wanted.
"We may not be able to go to the Bahamas or Cancun, so this is our paradise," said Melissa Layson, 38, as she watched her son, Coby, splash in the water.
Of course, a place like Disappearing Island is just a fleeting beach haven. As you might imagine, it disappears at some point.
The sandbar, also known as Rockhouse Creek Shoals, can measure about three-quarters of a mile at low tide. Most, if not all of it, can vanish at high tide.
No one takes a census, but on a summer weekend or big holiday, regulars say they see hundreds of boaters and families.
"You could walk from boat to boat to boat and never touch the sand," said Max Binz, a detective with the Ponce Inlet Police Department.
Those boats could be filled with partying 20-somethings or grandparents ready for a day of sun and scenery.
Do you have interesting island photos? Submit them to info@three8six.com for our photo gallery. As soon as we've got a collection, we'll post them here.
We checked out the island life on a quiet Sunday. Here's a video of what we saw.
Jennifer Jones, 34, has been anchoring here since she was a little girl and said it's become a family tradition for her three sons and husband.
"It's my favorite thing to do and it gets my whole family together," she said. "Where else in the world could you have a day with your family and see such beauty so close to home?"
Besides the usual coolers and snacks, homesteaders use the everything-but-the-kitchen sink methodology. They lug canopy tents, camping stoves to grill chicken, blenders for tropical drinks, bicycle ramps, a generator and have been known to bring sound equipment for the band stage.
ISLAND ANTICS
Authorities from several agencies police the waters near the island, looking for boaters abusing alcohol or pushing the speed limit. But they don't have the time or resources to regularly set foot on the sandbar, even though there are laws against open containers and loose dogs. The boat shared by neighboring cities is funded by a grant to protect manatees, which requires police to focus on water violations.
"The biggest problems that we've had out there had to do with underage drinking," Binz said. "The people out there are very good about policing themselves."
Last year, Binz said there was a fistfight involving 50 to 60 people on Memorial Day that was likely fueled by alcohol. Some charges were made, but were not pursued due to lack of evidence.
"The biggest problems that we've had out there had to do with underage drinking," Binz said.
But regulars say its not unusual to see occasional fights break out or get flashed by drunk young people. (A couple of youtube.com videos show a pretty intense fight between two girls at the island).
Officers walk the island a few times a month and patrol it when it's busy. This Memorial weekend was relatively quiet because of the bad weather, Binz said.
Yet there is some form of Disappearing Island etiquette. Mellow people and big boats tend to stick to the south side, where the water is deeper; party people usually gather on the north end.
And the partying gets creative.
With the help of a generator, the Burnin Smyrnans band from New Smyrna Beach assembled on a makeshift stage, complete with bass guitars, saxophone, and a full drum kit, to jam out on Memorial Day last year.
Girls in bikinis boogied on the sand. See the YouTube video for yourself.
People have also been known to set up techno dance tents and bike ramps near the water so people riding old bicycles can get some air time before dropping into a channel that runs on the backside of the sandbar.
Richard Steinhardt, 25, of South Daytona has seen crowds and antics grow over the eight years he's been hanging out at the shoal. It's not unusual to see visitors take a crack at drunken softball games and even try soaped up slip-and-slides that spill into the water.
"People just get drunk, gather around and just start hitting it," he said about the homemade slides.
THE LOCALS
When ice and heat become an issue, popsicle pushers like Michael Nelson have found a niche market in the ice cream boat business.
He captains a red, white and blue pontoon with a flapping pirate flag and blares high-pitched chimey music to lure in customers for $2 and $3 treats.
Wearing his green pirate hat and a Disappearing Island tank top on a recent day, Nelson admits he's got it good.
"If there was a contest for the best job in the world, I think I'd win," said Nelson, 56. "I have a blast."
For the most part Bob Wood, the unofficial mayor of the island, said it's a "family place" where everyone generally gets along. The 69-year-old earned his title about five years ago when another regular said he came to the island so often he might as well be its head honcho.
"I go to different parts of the county and people see me in a store and go 'Hi mayor,' " said Wood, a sunburned man with white hair and a beard. "I say 'Hi' back. I don't mind."
Look out for him on July 4th, when he wears American flag attire and pitches a flagpole in the sand. Piloting the "Woody Who," the mayor heads to the island every weekend to set up in the middle of the shoals for a day of horseshoes. Everyone knows where to find him.
"You can play me, but you won't win," Wood typically warns people.
One of his competitors is Tom Hall, 68, who wears a straw "Cozumel" hat and has been around here so long that friends call him an "island icon."
Thirty years ago, Hall said there were less than a handful of boats. Now there are close to 500, he said, and a gang of about 30 friends that look for his houseboat every weekend as a meeting spot.
He drives the one-room outfit, which he built himself, from Oak Hill on Fridays and stays till Sunday.
Folks crowd the boat and listen to classic rock while a graying poodle and black mini pinscher explore the deck. Sitting on the deck with a beer in hand, he said he likes "watching the bikinis" while his younger female friend watches for hunks.
But what does he love most about Disappearing Island?
"Being outside, feeling the breeze," he said. "If heaven is half as nice as this, we got it made."
A few years ago, I announced that I'd never get married. Babies. Baking chicken. Being a unit. That what it's all about, right?
I was, and still find myself in "me" mode and selfish. I graduated from the University of Florida in 2005 (go Gators!) and took a risk moving to New Smyrna Beach, where I knew no one and landed a job at The Daytona Beach News-Journal.
The voice in my head urged me to live my life. Start my career. Get my own place (and check the locks constantly). Meet new people and try new things.
But in doing that, I put my relationship on hold with Tim, my longtime boyfriend in Gainesville.
We did the long distance thing for two years and absence only made our hearts grow fonder.
Eventually he moved here and we found ourselves playing house in a ridiculous, pastel-colored home that closely resembles an Easter egg.
Tim helped me with the dishes. We split the grocery bills evenly. Both of us surfed on the weekends and entertained countless people who came for beach retreats.
We were happy. And happiness that lasted as long as ours could only mean one thing to so many people:
"So . . . when are you two going to get married?"
For the longest time, I had survived the proposition with good reasons, not excuses. We started dating when I was 19. Most of the time, when people brought it up, I could just say,
"Well, I'm too young," or "I need to finish college first."
And then I turned 25 and never heard the end of it.
Everyone we met had something to say about it. Suddenly we had a bajillion weddings to attend. Friends would pop the corny question after the ceremony: "So, you two must be next, huh?"
It felt like a societal obligation. You're 25 and he's 30. It's been seven years. Get married or get movin'.
Tim was ready, but I continued to resist. I wanted to be the social renegade.
More than anything, it's the growing up part that I disliked. I've been hanging on to the youth of singledom, living in sin and proudly marking that box for "single woman" on documents.
Marriage felt like the final step for me to reach adulthood. Surely we'd have to buy a house.
Set down roots. I'd have to pop out a baby or three and worst yet, learn how to be wifey and bake chicken or something. We would never travel or spend money on lavish gourmet dinners or go zip-lining through a rainforest.
And then, finally at 26, I found myself thinking about the scenario in a different way. The married couples I knew seemed happy too.
And when we moved in together, nothing really changed. We still had fun, goofed off, went on adventurous vacations, hiked and kayaked all we wanted. Who said any of that had to stop when we sealed the deal?
Our marriage could be whatever we wanted it to be. If I didn't want to be a housewife, I didn't have to.
In a way, I realized I would still always be me because Tim expects nothing less.
Interestingly, when I decided I was ready, he wasn't. Or maybe he was, and he just didn't find the right time to pop the question. I was getting close to the point of asking him myself, when he finally did.
A few weeks ago, I had a tough day at work and Tim coaxed me into coming home early. I arrived to a warmly lit home, with one of our favorite songs playing in the background.
There were some red daisies at my desk and a few candles burning.
Something was amiss, but I figured he was trying to help me calm down after a bad day. I never expected it to be our big moment.
I was petting the dog on my lap, telling Tim about my day when I found something tucked in his collar.
A tiny note with a short and special message: "Will you marry my owner?"
I accepted our dog's proposal that night, knowing full well that when I say yes at the courthouse and at our wedding, I'll still be me when I'm at his side.
It's another sweaty summer day and even a few of Eugene Lemire's snakes need cooling down.
Lemire has survived six venomous snakebites and the risk from bites is considered small, according to a paper published by the University of Florida IFAS Extension. In the U.S., there are about five to six deaths a year due to venomous bites--a tenth of the number of fatalities caused by hornet, bee and wasp stings.
