I was born in Mobile and spent part of my earliest childhood around New Orleans, but Florida quickly became one of the defining places in my life. I grew up around Fort Lauderdale and Plantation, spent countless hours at beaches and in the Everglades, explored old Florida attractions before Disney reshaped tourism, and eventually returned to live and work here again in 2014.
Florida has never been just palm trees and beaches to me. It is clear spring water, dark tannic rivers, mangrove tunnels, hurricanes, alligators, manatees, dolphins, seagrass, thunderstorms, heat, salt, mosquitoes, old roadside attractions, working rivers, retirement sunsets, and an almost endless invitation to get outside.
When I was young in South Florida, the beach was not a special once-a-year vacation. It was where we went all the time. We swam in every season, stayed in the water for hours, played in big hurricane swells, and explored around the jetties. I remember diving down, seeing tropical fish and barracuda, catching small fish in nets, and trying to keep them alive at home.
The Everglades felt almost as close as the ocean. South Florida gave me two completely different wild worlds: saltwater beaches in one direction and sawgrass, canals, reptiles, birds, and wetlands in the other. Long before I studied ecology or worked as a field biologist, Florida was already teaching me to pay attention to water and wildlife.
Before Disney World dominated Florida tourism, family trips meant places like Silver Springs, Marineland, the Miami Seaquarium, Monkey Jungle, Pirate World, Lion Country Safari, and the strange assortment of jungle, reptile, and roadside attractions scattered around the state.
One of my earliest memories is riding a glass-bottom boat at Silver Springs, seeing huge numbers of fish below us, and trying to stomp on the glass because I could not believe it would hold. Decades later, I would return many times by kayak.
Florida’s old wildlife attractions helped spark my fascination with reptiles and natural history. I became especially interested in Dr. Bill Haast and read everything I could find about snakes and herpetology.
My lifelong connection to water started early. Swimming, fishing, looking beneath the surface, watching storms, and exploring shorelines all became habits that stayed with me.
In 2014, I transferred to Florida with the U.S. Geological Survey. The move and house-hunting were covered, and I began the final five years of my USGS career in the Tampa area. Cindy moved with me, and Florida became home again—not as the place where I was a child, but as the place where I would finish my career and begin retirement.
I had vacationed in Florida for what seems like almost every year since leaving in 1972, and always knew I would return when the time was right, and the timing was perfect!
That return opened up an entirely new Florida life. I paddled rivers for work and recreation, learned the Gulf Coast, lived on a lake in LandO'Lakes, and another on Allen’s Creek, owned an almost ridiculous number of kayaks, explored all over Pinellas County and beyond, and gradually built a network of paddlers, volunteers, friends, and outdoor people.
Water has shaped where I have lived for much of my life. In Florida I spent four years on Allen’s Creek, another four years on the water in Land O’ Lakes, and eventually settled in the Largo–St. Petersburg area, surrounded by water on every side. Kayaks, paddleboards, tide charts, weather forecasts, and sunset plans became part of everyday life.
I currently own about eight kayaks, and even more during the Allen’s Creek years, along with a couple of paddleboards. My current favorite kayak is my Necky Manitou 14, but different places call for different boats. Plastic makes sense in mangroves, longer sea kayaks make sense in open water, and I have always preferred real boats over inflatables.
Hurricane Pass between Honeymoon and Caladesi is one of my favorite local paddles. The sandbars, moving water, standing waves, outgoing tides, seabreeze, and nearby pet beach make it endlessly interesting.
Some of my happiest Florida evenings have been late paddles with Buddyboy—fetching on the beach, swimming, waiting out low clouds, and watching the sun suddenly reappear just before dropping into the Gulf.
Through work and recreation, I have paddled or worked on roughly thirty Florida rivers. The state’s rivers range from clear spring runs to dark, winding, floodplain channels that feel completely different from the coast.
I've helped organize nimerous Pinellas Paddlers trips, organized days for new paddlers, emphasized safety, and tried to make the water accessible without pretending that wind, tides, heat, and boat traffic are harmless.
My final five years with the U.S. Geological Survey gave me a view of Florida that most residents never see. I measured rivers, worked floods, used tons of hydroacoustic instruments, helped with flood mapping, traveled to so many incredible remote sites, and saw how water moves through a state that is flat, heavily developed, and extremely vulnerable to both drought and intense rainfall.
Florida also reinforced everything I had learned about runoff and development. Rooftops, roads, parking lots, drainage systems, bridges, and culverts move rainfall into rivers far faster than natural landscapes do. That means rapid rises, higher flood peaks, and less groundwater recharge to sustain streams during dry periods.
Storm response could mean being among the first people into a flooded area to document high-water marks before the evidence disappeared. It was demanding work, but it mattered. Accurate measurements help communities understand what happened and prepare for what may happen next.
Alligators are part of daily Florida reality, but so are manatees, dolphins, sea turtles, rays, fish, shorebirds, snakes, frogs, salamanders, raccoons, otters, and countless small creatures most people never notice. Some of my favorite days have involved nothing more dramatic than drifting quietly and watching what appeared.
Silver River remains one of the most unusual paddles in the state: clear water, fish visible beneath the boat, old movie-set remnants, and rhesus macaques in the trees. Weeki Wachee offers another kind of clear spring river, while coastal mangroves create dense, shaded tunnels that feel worlds away from nearby highways and subdivisions.
My volunteer work also kept me connected to Florida’s wildlife and waters. That included beach and roadside cleanups, Indian Rocks Beach Trash Tribe activities, seining programs for visually impaired children through Lighthouse for the Blind, and paddling-related community events.
I have always loved weather. I studied meteorology and oceanography, watched thunderstorms for pleasure, and built much of my outdoor life around reading forecasts, winds, tides, and clouds. Florida gives you a lifetime supply of weather to study.
Summer heat controls when it is safe and enjoyable to paddle. Afternoon seabreezes can build quickly. Outgoing tides can turn passes into fast-moving water. Tropical systems can change everything. Lightning can arrive before people expect it, and a sunny launch does not guarantee a quiet return.
My own safety routine reflects years of experience: wearing a PFD, carrying a VHF radio, sharing a live route, dressing brightly, practicing hand paddling, and respecting open crossings. Florida water can look easy right up until wind, tide, heat, or boat traffic changes the situation.
The landscapes of childhood: beaches, canals, tropical fish, the Everglades, and the beginnings of a lifelong love of nature.
A childhood glass-bottom boat memory that became one of my favorite adult kayak destinations.
Sandbars, Hurricane Pass, pet beach, sunset paddles, outgoing tides, seabreezes, and countless evenings with Buddyboy.
A beautiful spring run I returned to repeatedly, including the six-mile paddle to Rogers Park.
Largo, St. Petersburg, Dunedin, Gulfport, Indian Rocks Beach, Treasure Island, and the network of bays, bayous, passes, beaches, and mangroves around them.
Working rivers, spring runs, floodplains, tannic water, and the many places I reached with a USGS truck, canoe, kayak, or field crew.
An annual gathering during the first week of October, combining paddling, friends, and one of North Florida’s most interesting landscapes.
Music festivals, camping, Christmas lights, Hulaween, and plans to keep returning for more outdoor music and community.
In my late sixties, Florida has become the setting for one of the most joyful periods of my life. I can paddle after the gym, watch sunsets from the Gulf, take Buddyboy swimming, volunteer, attend music festivals, travel with Kym, meet new people, and still keep discovering places close to home.
I never would have predicted during my troubled youth that life would become this rich. Florida is not the whole story, but it is an important part of how all those earlier chapters eventually came together: science, water, wildlife, adventure, friendship, gratitude, and the freedom to keep exploring.