Notes from the Quiet Side of Central Florida
The birds always wake up first.
Before the sun pushes over the trees. Before the fog lifts off the water. Before I’ve had a sip of coffee. They stir in the mangroves and cabbage palms, calling across the bay in loops and trills, declaring the day before it’s fully begun.
This is my favorite time to paddle.
Not for the exercise. Not to get anywhere. Just to be out in it—this fragile, shimmering hour when the world hasn’t decided yet what kind of day it’s going to be.
The water is still, glassy, and dark, mirroring the soft color of the sky. Sometimes pink, sometimes blue, often both. If I’m lucky, a manatee breaks the surface beside me like a slow exhale. Mullets leap with a splash. A heron watches from the mangroves, one leg tucked, as if it hasn’t yet made up its mind to move.
The air is thick and warm, scented with salt and something faintly sweet—maybe mangrove blossoms or sea grapes. I don’t check my phone. I don’t talk. I just let the rhythm of my paddle set the pace.
Out here, I remember who I am when I’m not rushing. I write whole paragraphs in my head. I breathe like I mean it.
There’s something about Florida in the morning—before the heat rises and the roads fill and the headlines start shouting again—that feels like a secret worth keeping.
Or maybe just worth sharing with you.
So if you ever find yourself in Central Florida, near the edge of a quiet creek or a mangrove tunnel or a bay that looks too still to stir—climb in. Paddle slowly. Leave the to-do list on the shore.
The birds will wake up first.
And they’ll save a seat for you.
~ LS