In the Moment

You ever feel like you were just meant to be in a place at an exact moment?

A cool February night, before this whole Coronavirus mess started, was one of those times for me.

I had a late bridge run that evening in preparation for the Gate River Run in March. I finished the workout, and I found myself at the Nocatee paddle launch at the west bank of the Intracoastal. Normally, I’d have just turned around and headed back to the Jeep for my cool down mile.

Something  felt different, though. I felt compelled to take a walk over to the water. Maybe it was the cool, gentle breeze that had kept me refreshed during my two trips up and over the bridge. Or that I wanted to listen to the current as it meandered by the rocks at the water’s edge.

As I approached the launch area, I noticed a chair that a visitor had left, possibly by a local for the next fishing excursion. Or maybe it was just there for quiet moments such as this. I took a seat.

I relaxed, leaning back and taking in the stars that had found their way from behind the clouds. It was the perfect temperature for a post run breather; although I was cooling down, I was still comfortable just sitting there. I watched the lights of the restaurant across the water reflect from the ripples of the current, enjoying the quiet and wondering how long it will be before this kind of night gives way to the more familiar humid and bug filled ones.

Suddenly, I heard a noise coming from the water. My mind immediately assumed a boater had tossed a cast net, as it seemed too loud to be a fish jumping, but I hadn’t seen a vessel on the water, and the sound was too close to be from someone on the opposite bank. I then heard another splash just upstream from where I heard the first one, and saw the unmistakable fin of a dolphin.

I didn’t have my phone to take a picture or video (not that it would look very clear, anyway - iPhones are horrible at that), so I stood there, gazing in its direction, hoping that it would hang around the launch area. It, of course, was oblivious to my presence, and had somewhere else to go. So, with a spraying blast from its blowhole, it bid me farewell and continued on its journey. I stood there, watching and listening for any others that might be the vicinity, but all I heard was the sound of water lapping the shoreline.

I was pretty giddy about my fortunate encounter, and the jog back to the Jeep was tempered only by my realization that my headlamp battery had died, and I had to make my way through the blackness with the soft green glow of my blinking safety lights and the occasional headlights of passing cars. I couldn’t wait to get back home and share my lucky encounter with the kids. I paused for a moment before turning the key in the ignition, grinning to nobody in particular, before turning out of the parking lot and heading back to the house.

The way I see it, I’d like to think my finned friend was a reminder that we shouldn’t turn down those chances to stop what we’re doing, have a seat, and simply take in what Mother Nature has to offer.

Even at night.