’Ol Reliable

I’ve lived in Florida for a little over six and a half years now, and there isn’t much about it that has lost its novelty.

The sun rising over the Atlantic will never grow old.  The city of St. Augustine - despite its age - continues to reveal something new every time I wander its streets.  The Castillo de San Marcos, no matter how often I circle its coquina walls, offers a different perspective depending on the light, the clouds, or even the density of the air on a shifting day.

Even the heat and humidity - the unmistakable feel of Florida - still register as something alive rather than routine.  Dolphins breaking the surface.  Sea turtles carving quiet paths through the surf.  Manatees drifting like ancient stones just beneath the waterline.  None of it feels ordinary to me.

And then there are the alligators.

You might think that after years of seeing them, they would lose their edge.  They don’t.  There is something prehistoric about them - something natural, predatory, and unapologetically wild.  They are reminders that this place existed long before we named it.

I enjoy returning to the Alligator Farm in St. Augustine, watching them stacked along the banks like armored relics from another era.  But I also have my own quiet places.  I rarely walk the trails of the GTM Preserve without spotting a large gator settled into its habitat, barely distinguishable from the water until it shifts.

Then there’s ’ol reliable.

At the corner of A1A and Mickler Road, where the Guana River slips beneath the intersection, there’s a stretch of bank that seems to serve as a dependable lounge.  Even on cooler fifty-five degree days, there is often a solitary gator there, raising its body temperature under the midday sun.

I keep a camera in my Jeep partly for that reason.  Sometimes it’s the same gator.  Sometimes it’s a different one.  Sometimes it shares the space with herons, egrets, or other Florida birds that seem equally content in the warmth and stillness.

I doubt any of these photographs will ever earn the label of fine art on my website.  They are not composed with the same patience as a sunrise over the ocean or the careful geometry of a historic facade.  But they are treasures to me.

They connect me to something older than architecture.  Older than history.  Older than intention.

They remind me that wonder doesn’t have to be rare to remain powerful.  It simply has to be noticed.

After so many years of living in places not of my choosing, there is something deeply grounding about being here - in a place I chose - still captivated by what it offers.  The novelty hasn’t faded.  If anything, it has deepened into appreciation.

’Ol reliable waits there most days, silent and still.  And every time I pull over and step out with a camera, I’m reminded why this state - with all its heat, humidity, wildlife, and wild edges - feels like home.