INTO THE MIRACULOUS SEA
Flying southward by rail from Palm Beach one immediately leaves behind
tropical gardens and enters semi-arid wastes. The contrast is most
vivid. The traveler feels like Es-Sindibad of old who thus was
transported by magic, or perchance by an Afreet or the talons of a roc,
from king’s gardens to deserts, and anon back again. The dream of
yesterday was of stately palms, of richly massed foliage plants, of
broad-petaled flowers tiptoeing for a butterfly flight, of softly
perfumed breezes and man and maid in rich garments wandering joyously
among it all. The reality of to-day is sand and saw palmetto and dreary
wind-bowed, stunted pines, and dust and desolation.
Only by thus plunging back into bleakness can you realize what man and
climate have done, working together, to redeem the wilderness from
itself. By and by the arid levels of sand change to equally arid levels
of rock. The coral formation which is the backbone of lowest Florida
here rises to the surface, showing everywhere in minute, multitudinous,
interlacing mountain ranges of gray that snarl the surface with ridges
and peaks a foot high, entwining craters a foot in diameter. In the
craters only is soil and in these grow tired and dusty saw palmettos.
The railroad builders, seeking earth to put about the ties, have scooped
the dirt out of these near-by craters, leaving the surface pitted with
their yawning mouths till, looking down upon it at the stations, one is
reminded of the moon’s surface as seen through a good-sized telescope.
I say stations. These imply man, and here you find him, working in his
own small, patient way with the climate for the redemption of the land.
It may be that new gardens like those of Palm Beach are to be “wrested
from the stubborn glebe” here and eventually make the wilderness blossom
like the rose, with it. Certainly such gardening is done by main
strength. Dynamite and sledge and pick are the tools and vast walls of
rock surround such acreage as is partially subdued. They plant orange
trees by blowing out a hole with dynamite, filling it in again with such
soil as may be purloined from potholes and setting the young tree in the
middle.
What these trees are going to do when their roots fill these submerged
flower pots and clamor for more soil I cannot say. The country is very
young yet and may solve its own problems as it
[Illustration: Into the miraculous sea]
goes along. Between the ribs in this bony structure of the State lie
little parallels here and there of real soil. Here again is man at work.
He plants these tiny prairies with tomatoes, peppers, egg plants and
other tropical vegetables in the dead of winter, whispering, I have no
doubt, many prayers to his patron saint for luck. If his prayers are
answered his harvest is bountiful and his reward great. Great also is
his risk. Winter frosts may nip his budding vines and hopes, winter
flood may drown them in the saucer-like prairies; and even the
summer-like climate may be his bane, tropic thunder showers sometimes
bringing hail which beats his garden to a frazzle and leaves it for
hours under an inch or two of noduled ice.
The courage of the pioneer is proverbial. It seems to me that of the
Dade County pioneer ranks as high as any. His land may some day be
beautiful. To-day it is the stretch of purgatory which lies between one
paradise and another, for through it one passes from Palm Beach down
into the miraculous sea.
Even as far north as the play garden of the money gods you have wide
glimpses of the miracle. There are days at Palm Beach when the sea is
simply the sea as one may know it at Atlantic Beach or Nantasket,
magical and mysterious always but lighted by no miraculous inner fires.
Again there come times of tide and sun when a wonder of color wells up
from its depths, when it amazes with inner glows of gold and green and
azure, and fires the skyline with smoky purples. Their subtle beauty
lingers with you long after other impressions of the place have passed,
a memory that is a promise of delight, the lure which the Gulf Stream
scatters far toward the cold waters of the North. Circe has all who see
it within the slender, elastic bonds of her magic and the lure of it
will never be withdrawn. He who with seeing eyes has known the call must
some day come back to the very source, or die dreaming of what it must
be.
You get the first look at this as your train slides off the mainland
onto the first key and it flashes upon you again and again as you pass
from one islet to the next or roar by some tiny bay where cocoanut palms
lean over waters for the describing of which language has yet no fit
words. Someone has said that in the building of North America all the
chips and dust left over were dumped off shore and thus Florida was
made. If so the sea which bathes its southernmost tip of coral islands
must surely be formed from the dust of all gems that have been put into
the ground for mines since the world was first conceived.
Here by the very railroad is a shallow lagoon, dredged out by the
builders for all I know, whose color is the semi-opaque,
semi-translucent white of pearls. Another has no hint of these gems of
the sea but is a deep topaz. Anon the free tides wash the embankment
with waves of mother-of-pearl that leap from shallows of a blue so soft
and pure that to look upon it is to cry out with happiness. The heaven
of poets and founders of loving creeds can have no purer hue than this.
Beyond again the sea deepens through shining purples into sudden shoals
of emerald and jade, that bar it from the distant stretch of the horizon
where the depth and richness of the violet blue are a joy that is half a
pain so deeply does it stir the soul.
I have said this sea is made of dust of all gems. It is more than that.
It is as if it were steeped with all dreams of purity and nobility, all
holy desires and longings unutterable, here made visible to the eye of
man in miracles of translucent color. The memory of it stays with you as
does the memory of music that has stirred the soul to such happiness and
dear desires that the eyes are wet with wistful tears at the thought.
The eye finds the land of the keys little but a repetition of the dusty
purgatory through which the train has brought him to the place of
dreams. The rock-ribbed foundation is the same, though the vegetation is
more luxuriant and varied. The palmettos seem to give up the struggle to
maintain a hold upon the slender soil as you swing in bird-like flight
from islet to islet, and to be replaced in part anyway by the
slender-stemmed silver palm, which looks a bit like a spindling scion of
a noble race. The red wood of the royal poinciana trees is everywhere
visible, and these in the blooming season make the favored spots a flame
of crimson fire. Beneath is a wild tangle of shrubbery, whose components
are hardly to be differentiated in passing. Where clear beaches of coral
strand rim round some opalescent bay the cocoanut palms feather the
ground with shadowy fronds.
Along the side of the railway are to be seen the tall palm-like stems of
the West Indian papaw, and one can but think that the negro laborers who
made the grade have planted the seeds of the well-loved fruit, so
regular and persistent are these rows, which stand up like grotesque
telegraph poles along this railroad which, as we flee onward from key to
key, more and more impresses one with the might of a dominating idea.
At the water-gaps in the flood of color are dredges and pile-drivers
sturdily repairing the destruction which the West India hurricane of the
previous autumn wrought on these seemingly indestructible foundations.
Where the two miles and more of concrete viaduct is expected one finds
the train running gingerly on piling and marl
[Illustration: “By and by the road leaves the embankment and winds
totteringly out on piling”]
refilling, the supposed everlasting foundation having been ripped out in
a night by the wind and sea. Men cling like birds to slender staging or
insecure foothold, swaying to one side to let the train pass, then
swaying back again to go on with their work. Through the piling beneath
race the sapphire tides, and to lose hold for a moment is to be drowned
in a suffocating transparency of miraculous color.
A lean, knob-muscled navvy, who has been half-comatose, slumped in an
awkward heap in his seat, rouses to the hail of these men as we pass,
and becomes excited over the work. He explains that he has been in the
hospital for five months, and is just on his way back to the job. The
hurricane took his tent from over his head while he was eating his
dinner, picked him up bodily and hurled him against a pile of railroad
iron, breaking a leg and other bones. Some of his fellow-workers
suffered similarly, some disappeared utterly, drowned in the
opalescence, such toll does the sea take when man penetrates her
mysteries too boldly with his puny strength.
Yet if man’s strength is puny his mind is bold, daring as the sea
itself, and one appreciates that as the train spins on. By and by the
road leaves the embankment and winds totteringly out on piling, far into
the very sea itself, while above loom mighty concrete buttresses
carrying a bridging of railroad iron on steel trestles. A little later
it crawls beneath these trestles in the mighty space between two
buttresses and as one holds his breath in suspense comes to a stop on a
dock at the western tip of Knight’s Key. Beyond that the railroad in the
sea is still in a measure fluent in the minds of its originators and
builders, not having fully crystallized in concrete and iron. You sail
thence four hours or more over the miraculous water, viewing as you go
the fragments of this labor of titans slowly growing along key after
key, waiting yet to be fully pieced together, till you make port beneath
the friendly harbor lights of Key West.
The cleansing tides and the east winds which surge perpetually over the
island keep the city of twenty thousand inhabitants serenely healthy on
Key West, without wells or sewers, paving or street cleaning. Walking
along the dusty streets where shack-like wooden houses are piled
together in that good-natured confusion which marks the usual West
Indian town, one does not go far without having a sudden impulse to
shout with delight, for soon all roads lead to the verge of the island,
the rich, soothing breath of the trade winds and a glimpse of the
miraculous sea. You may come upon this sight as often as you will, you
will never get over the sudden stab of the delight of it.
If environment is the matrix of beauty the
[Illustration: “As one holds his breath in suspense the road comes to a
stop at the western tip of Knight’s Key”]
inhabitants of this favored isle should in time rival the gods and
goddesses of mythology. That they do not is probably because not enough
generations have succeeded each other in these surroundings. The
creatures that have been longer and more intimately born of these coral
keys in this bewildering sea have caught its colors. You have but to go
down to the docks to see that. Here the local fishermen bring in out of
the surrounding tides fishes as rainbow-hued as the waters from which
they are taken.
Perhaps the commonest fish of the Key West docks is the common “grunt,”
a variety which seems to correspond in habits and size with our Northern
cunner or salt water perch. As “hog and hominy” is derisively said to be
the mainstay diet of the Florida “cracker,” so “grits and grunts” is the
favorite food of the Key West “conch.” Yet look at the amazing little
fish! His gaping mouth is orange yellow within, his tail the same color.
His main color is light blue traversed with narrow lines of brassy spots
mingled with olive. Beneath he is white. His back is bronze and a dozen
bright blue lines on his head are separated by broad, brassy marks. Here
is the amberjack, as long as your arm, a vivid silver with amber tints
and a gilt band from his eye to his caudal fin. Here is the angel fish,
named as well I fancy for his coloring as his shape, which latter is
much that of a conventionalized, flat angel with fins which somewhat
humorously represent long folded wings.
If you will go to the docks you may look over the edge and see big,
semi-submerged boxes containing scores of these swimming freely, waiting
for the call to go up higher. This too is a blue fish with broad yellow
margins to the scales, making a scheme of color as a whole that is quite
as miraculous to the Northern eye as the sea from which it is taken. It
is as if the wonderful blues and greens and sapphires of gem-like
transparency which the sea suggests, though it is a thousand times more
beautiful than these can ever be, had been by long years of association
transmitted to the fishes which swim about in it.
But the one vast, continuing marvel is the sea itself. Never for one
hour of the day is the magic of its coloring alike; always each new
phase is more wonderful than the last. Within its heart of mystery are
continually born new dreams that pulse in nascent beauty to the rhythm
of its tides, quivering to the mind of him who looks upon them with all
fond longings and the bliss of noble desires. He who is privileged to
see it must be base indeed if it does not call some answering glow from
within him.
[Illustration: Gathering turtle’s eggs on a Florida beach]