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Tag: Ernie Vanderwalt

Salty Dawg: Two dolphins

Written by Ernie Vanderwalt on . Posted in Beach, Dolphins, Outdoors.

Three days without salt. That’s a long stretch for a man who counts water as oxygen, and I felt every hour of it. A tropical storm had stirred the Gulf into a wild mess, and my wife made her case for staying dry with the kind of concern that only comes from love. I told her I heard her. I stayed on the sand until the surge dropped.

Today the flag was yellow. Medium hazard, exercise caution. The waves were breaking in loose, unorganized sets instead of our usual easy roll, and underwater visibility was very limited. On the sea floor I could still make out a few things, but sand kept being churned up by the surge. Found a bunch of bleached sand dollars. It always makes me feel like a kid on Christmas.

Then I swam past the breakers, out where the Gulf was still working off its temper, and the day turned into a different world entirely.

A dolphin came flying up out of the water – a full breach, its body glistening in the morning sun as it hung briefly suspended in the air. There was so much sheer joy in that moment – a wild creature bursting with the pure delight of being alive. I shouted. Couldn’t help it. Out there alone with the storm’s leftovers still churning around me, this wild thing threw itself into the air for no reason but the glee of it.

I didn’t think the day had another gift in it. It did.

A second dolphin swam in close, closer than they usually bother with, a fresh catch still flashing in its mouth. And then it started tossing the fish – up, catch, and up again – like it knew exactly who was watching. I floated there, holding still, serene. An audience of one. I felt treasured.

When it finally peeled off and disappeared, I stayed floating, savoring it. A quiet sense of completeness. It’s hard to explain. I swim this Gulf nearly every day but do hope I never lose my sense of awe when handed a gift like that. A kindness bigger than the both of us, showing up uninvited amid a storm’s aftermath.

I almost didn’t write this one down. Some things feel smaller the moment you try to hand them to somebody else in words. But some things ask to be witnessed out loud anyway, clumsy telling and all.

So here it is. Two dolphins, one restless Gulf, and a reminder that showing up – even on the days the flag says think twice – is usually where the good stuff is hiding.

Salty Dawg: Wade In

Written by Ernie Vanderwalt on . Posted in Beach, Outdoors.

Most people meet Anna Maria Island the same way: They pull off Gulf Drive, kick off their sandals and walk down to the shore, sand so sugary and white. They stand there a minute. Maybe snap a photo and admire the clouds at sunset. The breeze comes off the water just right, and it feels like enough.

It is enough, for most people.

But the beach was never the point. The beach is just where the story starts.

I have a confession. I cannot just look at the Gulf. I have to get in it. Ankles first, the way it goes for everybody. Cool water lapping over sunburned feet, sand shifting underneath so you can never quite stand still. That part is easy. That part is the postcard. But if you stop at the ankles, you have only dipped a toe into what this place actually is.

So, I keep walking. Knees next, and the water finds the hem of your shorts. You make a decision, whether you meant to or not, about whether today is a look day or a swim day. Then the hips, and there’s no pretending anymore. You’re wet. You’ve committed. The Gulf does not care how far you meant to go. It only cares how far you’re willing to go.

Goggles down, and under I go.

This is where Anna Maria stops being a postcard and starts being a real place with an actual bottom, grass beds swaying sideways in the current, a sandbar a few hundred yards out where the water goes shallow again and the sun lights the sand up like a second sky underneath you. I swim out there most mornings scanning the bottom for sand dollars, those flat disks half buried until the light catches them right. Finding one still feels like the ocean handing you something on purpose, just for showing up.

I used to think that was the whole draw. The hunt. Turns out that’s only half of it.

I’m drawn toward the sea the way some folks are addicted to having coffee in the morning.

Salt water isn’t a hobby for me. It’s closer to a requirement. I love the noise of the world going quiet the second I go under. I love the salt drying tight on my skin after, salting my beard by the time I’m walking back to the truck, so even hours later I catch a whiff of Gulf every time I run a hand across my jaw.

Folks ask why I swim so much, why a grown man gets this worked up over a sand dollar. I used to try explaining it. The light underwater at sunrise. The weightlessness after a week where everything on land felt heavy. Honestly, I’ve stopped trying.

Some things you either feel or you don’t. If you’ve ever stood at the edge of the Gulf and felt the pull to keep walking past your ankles, past the point where turning back is still easy, you already know what I’m talking about.

Come wade in with me. Ankles first. We’ll let the rest follow.