Shell Mound to Deer Island

I am spent. The Gulf will do that. The path we took was only six miles total, but it was a tough six, against the wind, against the current, facing the sun, contending with airboat wakes, paddling into false thruways, and so on. By the time we got back to the truck, I'd had a full day.

Finding islands in the Gulf is tricky when you're sitting a foot off the water. Horizons tend to blend and, as its name suggests, all is horizontal. Thankfully, a paddling couple has lovingly put together an excellent guide with simple maps that makes it nearly impossible to get lost. Deer Island was exactly where they reported it to be.


The island itself is as unspoiled as anything can be in Florida. By our reckoning, only one house exists there and everything has been allowed to grow as it was intended. Nevertheless, when we pulled up to stretch on the beach there, I found an empty gallon wine bottle and an old cup, which I dutifully transported back to the mainland. The only possible excuse for such neglect is if they did indeed thrown down a gallon of wine, then remembering to take it with them was probably too much to expect.

A cool, stiff wind stayed with us the entire time, and strangely it seemed to want to turn my bow out to the Gulf. On the other side, the sun baked from above and, as it reflected off the water, from below. Yes, it was a temperature sammich with me in the middle. I am fried to a fare the well, but it's the kind of exhaustion honestly earned.


Tomorrow: Gonna drive north until I hit the Santa Fe and then I'm gonna put in.