by Tom Lowe
It had been a few years. The old man was in his early seventies when I’d first met him. Was he still alive today? The sign was coming closer, about a mile away. I’d stopped there years ago and bought an exotic orchid for my wife Sherri. She’d kept it in a corner of our home in Coconut Grove, the soft sunlight from the eastern window exposure was just what the orchid needed. A few months after her death from ovarian cancer, it seemed like the orchid itself had lost its will to live. I’d watered and cared for it the best I could, trying to replicate what she’d done so well, so effortlessly. One day, the final bloom folded, petals withering, dropping to the floor. The orchid’s once vibrant shades of lavender and pink, bowed over, never straightened, and died.
My name is Sean O’Brien. A few months after Sherri’s death, I’d left Coconut Grove and moved north to the center of the state, selling our home and buying a ramshackle cabin overlooking a remote oxbow on the St. Johns River. Leaving Miami, I’d piloted an aged, 38-foot Bayliner up the Intercoastal Waterway, finding a slip for it in a rustic marina near Ponce Inlet. The used boat and old cabin—both in constant need of repair, became my therapy after Sherri’s passing and my resignation as homicide detective from the Miami-Dade PD.
Max, my ten-pound dachshund, slept in the center of the seat beside me as I drove my black Jeep east on Highway 41, often called the Tamiami Trail. I glanced down at her. “Hey kiddo, I’m going to be stopping in a few minutes. You need a bathroom break?”
Max’s head shot up. She stood, stretching, eyes bright and animated. She was a reddish doxie with permanent black eyeliner around animated, brown eyes. Small in size, but she had the heart of a lioness supported by four little legs. Max was my wife’s final gift to me. The cancer not only destroyed our opportunity to have children, but also our life together as best friends and lovers, ending abruptly into a deep and cavernous void. Maxine, as Sherri originally named her, became the child we never had, drawing me out and bringing comic relief just when I needed it most. At my height, almost six-three and 200 pounds, together, Max and I make quite the odd couple.
The sign came into view. Same place as it was years ago. A small white board nailed to a rustic cypress post, not near the highway, but at least twenty feet to the right, off the shoulder of the road. You had to be searching to see it, and you had to slow down to read it. It looked like the lettering, black script, had faded to a grayish color. It read: Orchids for Sale. I slowed my Jeep, easing off the highway onto the grassy shoulder and then stopping at the entrance.
The galvanized gate was open.
In this place of minuscule signs, that was a good sign—assuming he was still alive and in business, as much as it could be called a retail business. I pulled a little further from the highway and turned off the motor. Max stood in the seat, trying to hang her head out, but at her size she could just rest her chin on the open window. She looked back at me, made a quick snort, and I said, “Okay, you know the rules. There’s a canal on this side of the road. What can live in a dark-water canal in the Everglades?” Max tilted her head, her nostrils wet. I smiled. “Gators. And one would love to take you to lunch. So, this means we’ll have to use a leash when you go pee. I can’t chance you bolting near the water.”
I took the leash out from the center console, snapped it to Max’s collar, holding her in one hand, opening the door and getting out of the Jeep. I set her down and walked toward the sign. The old road leading into the swamps was covered in pea-sized gravel, broken oyster shells and knee-high weeds. A breeze delivered the scent of tannin water, the decay of ferns and leaves in a stew beneath tall cypress trees. The warm air was moist, humidity soaking into my pores like a sauna. Even Max looked like she might break a sweat as she sniffed the grasses and squatted to pee, glancing back at me over her left shoulder. A mosquito buzzed near my face.
To my right and left, the canal ran adjacent to the road as far as I could see. Black water. Gnats orbiting in a cluster near the canal. The long ditch was dug during construction of the road back in the late 1920s, the roadbed fill dirt coming from the canal. It was a massive engineering feat at the time. At least seven men died building the Tamiami Trail, which made ground transportation possible through some of the most hostile country on earth, the Florida Everglades. I thought about that engineering endeavor as I watched a wood stork sail over the giant cypress trees. Its wingspan was close to six feet, the wing feathers black and white, like piano keys in flight. The storks, known by old-timers as iron-heads because of their bald, leathery heads, are as close to a flying dinosaur as you can find today—the pterodactyls of the Everglades.
A long, black snake slithered across the driveway, less than fifteen feet from where Max sniffed a fallen palm frond. She spotted the snake and barked once. Within two seconds, I heard the sound of a single splash coming from the canal to my left. I watched the water and could see bubbles coming to the surface, the trail of bubbles moving closer to us. I knew it was an alligator under the surface moving stealth-like toward a dinner bell—the bark of a dog.
“Come on, Max. Let’s get in the Jeep. As I recall, the drive through the swamp to the orchid man’s cabin is at least a hundred yards. Let’s go see if Chester Miller is home.” I swatted a mosquito, picked Max up and got back in the Jeep. I drove slowly, making sure the rough path hadn’t become engulfed in water since I was last here. Within seconds I’d entered into a place time had overlooked—a place like nowhere else in the world. It quickly grew dark under the midday sun, mammoth cypress trees with thick canopies stood like stoic sentinels as the drive wound around their trunks, some with a diameter wider than a car.
Max stood on her hind legs, the humid air through the Jeep’s window delivering a potpourri of ancient scents she never smelled. She looked back at me for a second. Max, my fearless dachshund, had a look I rarely saw in her eyes—a look of trepidation.
FOUR
Joe Thaxton never sought the limelight. Never looked for fame. Had a general disgust for professional politicians. But now he knew that the only real way to draw attention to the degradation of Florida’s once pristine waterways was to hit the source, and to hit it hard. That’s how he was raised. If you commit to do something positive, his dad would say, do it with everything you have. Never half-ass. Give it your all or don’t play the game. Thaxton thought about that as he drove to Channel Twelve in West Palm Beach. It would be his first of three scheduled television news interviews for the day.
There would be more to come.
Joe Thaxton was now a candidate for the state senate. He had a small but passionate and dedicated group of volunteers at his election headquarters in Stuart, working the phones, social media, hitting the ground and scheduling media interviews and rallies. At noon, Jessica and little Kristy would join him at a political rally in Stuart. He’d won the primary election by working twelve-hour days for months. His driving message was to do everything he could in elective office to restore clean water to Florida before it reached the tipping point of no return for the state’s greatest assets—its rivers, lakes, and beaches.
His message, energy and drive were resonating with a lot of people in his district and across the state. So much so that the opposing candidate’s party worked harder to solicit and receive more money than ever in the history of Florida’s state senate elections. That development, combined with Thaxton’s “downhome” campaign style, drew the interest of national news media. “I’m really your average Joe,” Thaxton would say to anyone who’d listen. And now thousands were listening. “I may be your average Joe … but I have an extraordinary need to save Florida.”
He parked in the Channel Twelve lot and got out of his pickup truck. He wore neatly pressed jeans and a denim shirt tucked inside his pants. His sleeves were rolled up. He entered the building and was met by a balding news producer in a sports coat with an iPad in one hand. “Mr. Thaxton,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you for coming. We’ll be going live in a few minutes. We can get you into hair and makeup.”
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br /> Thaxton smiled. “Not too much you can do about my hair. It’s been windblown for so long as a fishing guide I can barely get a comb through it. As far as makeup goes, what you see is what you get.” He grinned.
• • •
If there was a magical mystery tour in the Big Cypress Preserve, this had to be it. Chester Miller, perhaps the world’s foremost expert on the cultivating and growing of rare orchids, may not be much of a sign painter, but he knew how to design an entranceway that complemented the natural soul of the swamps. The last time I was here, the drive in was impressive. Today, it almost took my breath away.
Orchids, bursting in rainbows of deep colors, hung from the cypress trees like holiday ornaments. Deep verdant green ferns lined both sides of the drive and the worn wooden fence posts. Bromeliads, many in shades of red, pink and canary yellow, draped from tree trunks and branches. Staghorn ferns, some the size of manatees, grew from colossal bald cypress trees that looked older than the nation. Dappled sunlight poured through the branches in natural spotlights, catching the helicopter movement of hummingbirds and butterflies. They darted in and out of the flowers as if they all shared the same frenetic mission, like teams of elves working overtime before Christmas eve.
Max turned a circle in her seat, stood on her hind legs, looking out the window, nostrils quivering as the scents of mysterious flowers and fauna, rich and yet sweet, came through the open windows like a personal summons in the breeze. I said, “If these flowers smell good to you, imagine the effect it must be having on the bees.” She ignored me.
I drove another fifty yards down the gravel drive and could just see the cabin. It was as gnarled as the crooked cypress knees that stood up through the dark water like petrified wooden stalagmites. The exterior resembled the boards on an old barn, weather-beaten into the dark gray color of a solitary old elephant standing motionless in the shade of Serengeti trees. The cabin had a screened porch and three wooden steps leading up to it.
I parked and got out, then lifted Max and set her on the ground. Darting back and forth, her nostrils were not able to inhale the potpourri quick enough. To the right of the cabin was one of the largest banyan trees I’d ever seen in Florida. It appeared to have grown taller and wider since I was last here. If there was a tree of life in the ‘glades, the ancient banyan might be a good representative. The dark green canopy of leaves was larger than two parachutes engulfed in the wind. Some of the limbs reached to the heavens, others grew horizontal from the tree. Their heavy weight, supported by prop roots, resembled snakelike tentacles, twisting down from the limbs, burying their heads in the dark earth.
I heard a door open and a man walk out onto the front porch, the boards groaning under his weight. I could barely see his silhouette behind the screen. Max stopped in her tracks, staring. Usually she would bark. But not now, and like the open gate and faded board near the road—I took that as a good sign.
And then I heard a sound behind me. Someone walking. Max and I both turned around at the same time.
FIVE
Johnny Nelson threw a cast net with the precision of a rodeo cowboy. But, Johnny wasn’t roping steers or yearlings. He set his sights and skills on catching mullet. He parked his pickup truck near the water’s edge at the southern tip of Pine Island north of Ft. Myers Beach. Newly married, Johnny painted houses for a living. He fished and threw a cast net to help put food on the table for his family—a four-month-old son and his wife. As a former Marine, he’d spent more than two years in parts of Syria and Iraq. When he wanted to throw the net as hard as he possibly could, he thought about his time in combat. Something about the desert, the lack of water, the smell of death and fear of the unknown that made him throw harder.
Johnny thought about his wife and baby boy as he walked from his truck to the shallow inlet where he often fished. He stood almost six feet in his Croc water shoes. Scruffy, rust-colored, half-inch beard. Military haircut. On his right upper arm, was a new tattoo—a U.S. Marines insignia of an eagle at the top of the world. Johnny walked waist-deep in the water. A boat ramp, closed since the last hurricane, was to his left. Some of the asphalt pavement on the ramp was gone from the storm, as if a backhoe had chewed it and spat out one-third.
He glanced over at the mangrove-covered keys across the bay, the aberrant smell of something rotting in the breeze. Sky hard blue, hot sun licking his bare shoulders. He readied the net, rope with a slip-knot in his left hand, lead weights at the bottom of the net. He tossed it high in the air, the ten-foot net spreading like a pancake hitting the surface of the water. A white ibis in the shallows made a clucking sound and flew away.
Johnny pulled in the net. Even without seeing it, he knew there were no fish. A few mullets made a difference in retrieving the net. He pulled it out of the water. Nothing. Not even a minnow. He tried three more times, changing the landing location each time. Still, he caught nothing. He walked to the far right. Closer to what was left of the boat ramp. Johnny stepped out of the water, walking down the ramp and back into the water. The odor of rotting flesh was stronger here.
As he pulled back and started to throw, something caught his eye. In the spider-like mangrove roots next to the shore was a dead baby manatee. The carcass just floating in the rippling of the water. Flies buzzed. A large crab ate part of the manatee’s tail. Johnny slipped and fell on the slick, moss-covered surface, his shin hitting against something under the water. It was hard and sharp, like an oyster bar. Johnny could tell that he was cut. Just a small cut, he thought. He ignored it and cast his net in the opposite direction from the dead manatee. Nothing. After three more attempts, he looked at his watch and decided he had time to try one more place before heading home.
He walked carefully back up the derelict boat ramp, looking at his right shin. Blood oozing out of the wound and trickling down to his foot and between his toes. He’d get a band-aid from the glove box in his truck and continue fishing.
Johnny didn’t know it, but this would be his last time fishing. Although he didn’t catch mullet, he caught something else. Microscopic, but deadly. In a few hours, the first tracks of the unseen bacterium would show near the wound. From there, it wouldn’t take long to attack a combat veteran, a man who fought bravely and dodged death in the Middle East, to fall victim to something in the water that would escape the tightest mesh of any cast net.
SIX
Joe Thaxton sat in a chair on the television set of Midday Live and thought of his daughter, Kristy, the prime reason he was here. The reason he was out of his comfort zone and trying to make a difference for the health of Florida and the people who live and visit here. He took a deep breath through his nostrils and smiled. Opposite him was a reporter and host of the program. She wore a red dress, dark hair to her shoulders. Full red lips and curious hazel eyes.
“Stand by!” shouted the floor director standing next to one of the three cameras. “Coming up in ten.” A few seconds later, he used the fingers of one hand to countdown and then he pointed at the host of the news program. A recorded voice-over narrative came from a speaker mounted to the studio wall, “From Channel Twelve, Eyewitness News, this is Midday Live with Rachel Moreno.”
The host smiled, looked into one of the cameras. “Hello everyone. My guest today is certainly no stranger to the viewers in southeast Florida … or for that matter, the entire state of Florida. Joining us today is Joe Thaxton, a candidate for state senate. For those of you in the audience who may not have heard his story, Mr. Thaxton, who is a former fishing guide and holds a master’s degree in marine biology, won a tough primary election by promising to go to the state capital in Tallahassee with one primary goal … and that is to restore the state’s water quality within its lakes, rivers, and beaches. Welcome, Mr. Thaxton. Thank you for coming today.”
“Thanks for having me. But, before we go any further, please call me Joe.”
She smiled and said, “Okay. A large part of your message is that you are what you call yourself—the average Joe with an above a
verage agenda. What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not a career politician. Although I’ve always voted, I never sought elective office until my daughter almost died from acute respiratory failure eighteen months ago when part of the Indian River Lagoon became a river of green slime. And, since that time, it’s happened twice more. On the west coast of Florida, Fort Myers, Pine Island, Sanibel, Captiva, Naples and many other areas, they’re dealing with the same thing. Tons of fish are dying. Manatees are washing ashore, dead. Florida residents and tourists are experiencing severe health effects from airborne toxic spores. This is causing throats to close, breathing difficulties, coughing, and burning eyes. And, for folks with asthma … it’s extremely dangerous, especially for children, as my wife and I experienced with our daughter, Kristy.”
“If you’re referring to red tide, it seems that’s been part of Florida for decades. Perhaps way before much of the development and industrial runoff began. Correct?”
“It’s much more than a red tide blooming far out in the Gulf of Mexico. Yes, in Florida’s history, there have been outbreaks of red tide, especially along the Gulf Coast beaches. But never have we had to experience and suffer puke green slime pouring into our waterways. It’s happening when water management authorities give the okay to release millions of gallons of toxic water from Lake Okeechobee into two prime exits. One is the St. Lucie river, which empties into the Indian River and the Atlantic Ocean. The other is on the west side of the lake where the water is released into the Caloosahatchee River that flows to the beaches of Fort Myers and surrounding areas. When you have manmade toxins from one of the most polluted lakes in America hit the natural elements that contribute to a red tide, you have the perfect storm of contamination that’s killing fish, mammals and causing dangerous respiratory-related health conditions to residents and tourists.”
