Biscayne National Park. Some days, Biscayne Bay's shallow waters are glassy smooth, a window on another world. Other times, the wind whistles and whips, creating white waves that bite like teeth at an angry sky.
Some days are quiet and still, the silence broken only by the sound of ocean ripples lapping at the mangrove-fringed shoreline, the exhalation of a manatee, or a crab scuttling across the leaf-strewn forest floor. On weekends, the laughter of children, the sizzle of burgers on a grill, or the sound of water being cleared from a snorkel takes over.
Some days, the water over the reef is so clear that every detail on the bottom is visible, and zooming across it on a boat can seem like flying on air. Then there are blustery days when it is milky with mud stirred up by wind and wave. Even the 10,000 year human history of the place reflects its temperamental nature.
Idyllic vignettes of a Tequesta Indian man free-diving for conch from a dugout canoe, or a Bahamian woman watching the sunset across a tidal creek after a hard day's work contrast with violent shipwrecks, acts of piracy, and a long, hard struggle for environmental protection.
Wed, 30 Jan 2019 08:00:00 GMT
Covering the politicized park service during the shutdown - Columbia Journalism Review