Red Tide

Red Tide is the name applied to a condition in which portions of the ocean become overrun with an algal bloom of phytoplankton. Despite the nickname, not all Red Tide is red. Sometimes an algal bloom can be present in sufficient quantities to make the water and nearby air dangerous even without coloring the water at all. Some Red Tides - increasingly, most of them, in fact - produce natural toxins and depletion of oxygen in the seawater. Scientists say they don't know everything about how and why Red Tide forms when and where it does, but I like the quote from here likening the delicate balance of algae in the ocean to that of the intestinal flora in our own stomachs.

There is no known case of Red Tide dating before 1793, when one occurred in Canada. When you look at the list of significant incidents since then, they're all weighted to modern times: there was a major outbreak in 1840, then 1972, then 2005, 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2014. Are you startin' to see a pattern here, well, huh, are ya?

The Red Tide is back with a vengeance this summer, and though it hasn't yet been definitively linked to the recent fish die-off on Honeymoon Island and Caladesi Island, it's a safe bet for the smart money.

Of even greater concern to me, though, is how the Red Tide may be a canary-in-coalmine indicator of increased hydrogen sulfide and methane in the area.

New Smyrna Jellyfish Invasion

A few days ago, beachgoers at New Smyrna Beach in Volusia County were horrified to find a jellyfish outbreak which resulted in 406 reported stings in just 48 hours. Purple flags were placed out there to warn people, but people do tend to ignore such warnings - I've been people surfing during tropical storm warnings, and swimming during Red Tide alerts.

I've seen mainstream media news sources state that it is "unknown" what kind of jellyfish were washing up, but I think that's just journalist-speak for "I'm too lazy to found out." I have it on good authority that the most common of the types of jellyfish washing ashore was Stomolophus meleagris, a.k.a. the Cannonball Jellyfish.

Coquina Beach

It's funny that after over a year with this blog, I haven't written about Coquina Beach yet, even though it's one of my favorite places in the Bradenton-Sarasota area and I've been coming here for years before the move. But some things just can't be described in words. It's just this beach, you know? What makes it different from nearby Bradenton Beach, Cortez Beach or Holmes Beach? I dunno, man, I'm just reporting the action live from the front lines, I'll leave the qualitative analysis to others.

It does have a splendid snack bar, if that helps. (But so does nearby Manatee Beach.) And Leffis Key is right across the street.

Longboat Key Beach Rules

You might be allowed to stand quietly doing nothing, but they'll take it on a case-by-case basis.

Mullet Key Hole

Sometimes when beachcombing, you find awesome seashells. Sometimes you find washed-up seaweed. Sometimes you even find dead sea monsters.

But sometimes you just find a big hole full of water.

You can't take it home with you, but I bet it would be swell to climb into and sit in on a hot day with a six pack of Bell's Two-Hearted, a Kindle, and some gator jerky.

Beachcombing

If you, like me, are interested in everything and have a tendency to focus on little details that the common man routinely misses, you probably, also like me, love beachcombing. With every passing moment, the ocean waves bring new fragments of flotsam and jetsam ashore from the sea, and you never know what you'll find.

Shells, of course, are the most common treasures. It never ceases to amaze me how many seaside locations have stores selling bags of seashells, not even especially dazzling ones. I just want to shake both the vendors and the customers and shout, "You're at the freaking OCEAN! You don't have to BUY SEASHELLS!!"

Sea glass is particularly fun to collect, for both ornamental and historic value. As broken glass finds its way into the ocean, what was the pollution of our ancestors becomes, over time, perfectly polished and frosted smooth nuggets of color. You can easily identify the source of many pieces - the recognizable "Coke bottle green" from old Coca-Cola bottles, for instance, and the tell-tale cobalt blue that almost always means Milk of Magnesia. Extremely rare colors include pink (often from Depression-era glass like Carnival Glass), teal (often from Mateus wine bottles), yellow (often from old Vaseline containers), and red (often from old beer bottles or nautical lights.) Orange is the rarest color of all, reportedly showing up only once per 10,000 pieces. Black sea glass is usually from very ancient pirate-era bottles that had iron slag added during production.

I haven't heard of anyone fetishizing "sea plastic" in same manner, but while surveying the area approaching the North Atlantic Garbage Gyre, I retrieved a staggering amount of tiny bits of colorful plastic, similarly buffeted by the elements.

Pottery shards are more common than you'd expect, and it's awe-inspiring to gaze on a piece of an ornate china plate and imagine the events that transpired on the track of time that led it to be held in your hand, right where you are sitting now.

And naturally, pirate treasure is what we all really want to find accidentally while walking our schnauzers, don't we? It really does happen. Spanish doubloons, antique buttons and bullets, and ancient salt-encrusted nautical bric-a-brac frequently washes up along Florida's "Treasure Coast". Some define the "Treasure Coast" as being Indian River, St. Lucie, and Martin, and Palm Beach counties, but I would logically extend the definition all the way up the coast to include St. Augustine.