Surrounded on Three Sides

CAUTION: Writer at Work

2012-11-21T06:37:00.000-05:00

For the last few weeks our Story Farm crew has been been [happily] laboring away on a cookbook for John Rivers, of 4Rivers Smokehouse fame.

At a recent photo shoot, when not capturing brilliant images of brisket and cornbread salad and chocolate bread pudding with bacon on top (killer!), photographer Diana Zalucky found me scribbling away in my notepad and asked me to hold it up for the camera. Someone quipped that it looked like the blackboard after Russell Crowe got finished with it in "A Brilliant Mind." I won't go so far as to say that my notes are a brilliant mess -- they're just a plain ol' mess.

But with luck, the photos, the stories and John Rivers' brilliant cooking will all come together over the next few months so we can trot everything out for public consumption in August 2013. Working title: "SOUTHERN COWBOY: The John Rivers Cookbook." But we're still playing around with that. Stay tuned...

HOW TO MAKE THE PERFECT RUM DRINK

2012-06-15T06:16:00.000-04:00

WHERE THE HECK AM I?

2012-05-24T10:06:00.001-04:00

Recently visited a tropical island where I did all the good things that one should do on a tropical island: I walked and walked and walked; I swam and swam and swam; I ate and ate and ate; and yeah, I had myself a couple of tropical-island drinks, too.

Let's turn this into a contest. First person to identify this tropical island wins a free copy of BAJA FLORIDA. Or the e-book of your choice.

So let the guesses begin...

A Carnivore's Defense

2012-05-20T11:22:00.001-04:00

A recent story in the New York Times asked if any of us who call ourselves carnivores could offer an ethical defense for eating meat. Here’s mine:

As human beings, each of us has an ethical duty to help guarantee that our seven-billion member tribe retains a toehold on this planet. Just as we wouldn’t stop ingesting oxygen because it makes us emit carbon dioxide, nor should we stop eating meat because it makes us harvest lower life forms. Eating meat, for better or worse, got us to where we are today. With judicious application, it will help insure our ongoing survival. To wholly castigate the consumption of meat is to mark our kind, if not for extermination, then at least, in the short run, with less favorable odds for enduring. Where is the ethos in that?

While the jury is still out on whether our carnivorous ways flipped the genetic switch that gave us opposable thumbs, helped us walk upright and propelled us toward thinking abstract thoughts, there’s no arguing that the world would be a far different place today – and not necessarily a better place – had our forebears not parted ways with a wholly plant-based diet and started herding animals instead. Please note that we evolved from prehistoric hunter-gatherer societies, not those who simply gathered. Nothing against those ancient fruitarians, but their DNA footprints dusted a dead-end road thousands of years ago, and those of us walking around today owe a hearty thanks to our esteemed ancestors who heeded the biological imperative of supplementing their diets with animal protein. In other words, let’s not forget who brought us to the prom.

Yes, meat has become way too big a part of the contemporary American diet. We need to scale back its consumption and take more protein from beans, nuts and seeds. Who knows? We might even devolve to the point that we can eliminate meat entirely and take sustenance solely from plant-based foods. When might that happen? Probably about the time our mouths stop sprouting incisors and our stomachs stop emitting gastric enzymes. In other words, not in this lifetime. Until then, it’s biologically unethical and no doubt unhealthy not to use our bodies in ways they were meant to be used.

Yes, eating meat means exterminating lower-life forms, but it’s nothing to get horribly hung up on. The whole “eat nothing with a face or that has a mother” mantra is little more than anthropomorphic manipulation of the heartstrings unless taken to its full extent, namely: “eat or breathe nothing with a face or that has a mother.” With every inhalation we take in zillions of microbes and dust mites, along with occasional gnats and flies (yum, more protein!) While those critters might not have faces to love or readily identifiable mothers, each and every vegan is guilty of murder on this front. Shame!

Far be it from me to base a meat-centric argument on the Bible, which has lots of dietary crazy talk, especially when it comes to shellfish, swine, dairy and combinations thereof. But for all its clumsy ethical codes, the Bible remains an elegant metaphorical explanation of how humankind came to be and how we might consider living if we want, you know, to continue to be. We should not take lightly the words of Genesis 1:28, which talks about how we should have “dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”

Except, when I was a kid and just learning to read, I didn’t know what dominion was. I thought maybe it was a type of onion. Which, I still believe is a valid interpretation. And I’ll take mine caramelized, please, with a little pig flesh on the side.

BEST DAMN BACON & EGGS YOU'LL EVER EAT

2012-04-10T06:17:00.001-04:00

So what happened was: I made deviled eggs on Easter but they turned out a tad too runny. Kinda like egg-salad soup. On account of I put a bit too much sweet pickle juice in the mix and maybe a tad too much sour cream, too.

So how do you fix that? Adding flour would be unspeakable. Didn't have any bread crumbs. What kind of thickener could save the moment?

Then I remembered the bag of pork rinds that I'd bought a couple of days earlier on a road trip back from Gainesville. They were still nice and crispy. Heck, pork rinds stay nice and crispy almost forever.

What if ...

So I made pork rind flour. Took a bunch of them, tossed them in my coffee grinder -- along with a little coffee dust -- and then added the somewhat gooey result to the eggs. Problem solved. The pork rind flour sucked up the extra liquid and the deviled eggs took on a smoky, meaty character that gave them real stand-up-and-salute substance. In other words: deviled eggs that were even deadlier than the normal deviled eggs, two-bite cardiac bombs.

I put a tray of them out for my luvverly wife to sample and asked if she could i.d. the secret ingredient. She ate two of them before I told her, and then she ate another. So I would judge them a raging success.

Now I'm thinking what else would benefit from the goodness of pork rind flour? Pancakes perhaps?

ANOTHER AWFUL, UNFORGIVEABLE JOKE

2012-03-30T07:18:00.000-04:00

I'm stealing this one from my pal, Jim Swain, and retelling it here in honor of the upcoming Florida Film Festival. Forgive me, but

Guy comes home from work and his wife greets him at the door with a lustful embrace and says: "I want you to make love to me just like they do in the movies."

So he rips off her clothes, drags her to the bedroom, and spends the rest of the evening making love in every way he has ever imagined. And then some. The next morning, he wakes up to find that his wife has packed her bags and moved out.

"Why did she do that?" his buddy asks.

"Beats me," the guy says. "I guess we just don't watch the same movies."

THE BEST-EVER OPENING PARAGRAPH TO A CRIME NOVEL

2012-03-26T08:01:00.001-04:00

That's Charles Portis in the photo, former newspaperman, Arkansas hermit, and author of "The Dog of the South," "Norwood," "Masters of Atlantis," and "Gringos." Yes, he also wrote "True Grit," which, despite its various film interpretations as a western, is really, at its heart, a crime novel.

In my Crime Fiction class at Rollins College, students write the first 25 pages of a crime novel, and I teach them to pay particular attention to their opening pages. Most readers these days -- and that includes agents and editors -- have really short attention spans. If you don't grab them from the get-go, then all is lost. They certainly aren't gonna hang around for more than 25 pages to see if the book gets better. Nope, everything hinges on that first page.

Each term, I share with my students the opening paragraph of "True Grit." It has everything you could possibly want in an opening paragraph: conflict, setting, a strong and compelling narrative voice, and a terse summation of what the reader should expect in the pages ahead. Here it is:

"People do not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avenge her father's blood but it did not seem so strange then, although I will say it did not happen every day. I was just fourteen years of age when a coward going by the name of Tom Chaney shot my father down in Fort Smith, Arkansas, and robbed him of his life and his horse and $150 in cash money plus two California gold pieces that he carried in his trouser band. Here is what happened."

I tell my students that if they succeed in writing an opening paragraph better than that one, they'll get an automatic "A" and don't have to attend class for the rest of the term. Hasn't happened yet, but there's always hope.

Thank you, Charles Portis.

(One of my) New Favorite Florida Artists

2012-03-17T12:41:00.000-04:00

This is what I took home from the Winter Park Art Festival. It's called "Blowin' In" and it depicts one of my favorite Florida sights: Sandhill cranes lighting down on Paynes Prairie, just south of Gainesville.

It's a relief print made from original carved blocks of wood by G-ville artist, Leslie Peebles. I had a really tough time picking just one of Leslie's prints. I loved the one of mullet swarming above a spring boil in the Itchetucknee. Ditto with her depiction of pileated woodpeckers and black skimmers and palm trees and gopher tortoises. If you would like to see more of her work -- and this is something you really need to do -- then go here.

WHO, ME? NO, I'M NOT GETTING OLD ...

2012-03-16T11:34:00.005-04:00

I mean, just because I've got four -- count 'em, four -- pairs of glasses sitting on my desk and close at hand, that doesn't mean a thing. Nor does it matter that I probably have another three or four located at strategic locations around the house (Downstairs bathroom? Check. Master bathroom? Check. Office bathroom? Hells to the yeah.)

Please note that up there in the left-hand corner I also have a knife. A very sharp vintage Florida fruitpicker's knife. I hone its blade each day.

It's at the ready should anyone choose to mock me for keeping so many pairs of glasses at my beck and call.

Not to worry. I have no intention of posting about how many times a day I have to stop work in order to pee. Or how I can never find a damn thing. Including my glasses.

DIRTY JOKE ABOUT ONE OF MY FAVORITE FOODS

2012-03-06T12:43:00.001-05:00

So this guy is driving down the Florida Keys and he stops at a roadside joint. There's a good-looking woman working the takeout window. Sign on the wall behind her says:

Conch fritters: $5

Grouper sandwiches: $10

Hand jobs: $15

Guy asks the woman: "You the one who gives hand jobs?"

She smiles and says: "Why, yes, I am."

Guy says: "So wash your damn hands and give me a grouper sandwich."

WALKING AND EATING AND SPITTING

2012-03-06T11:07:00.000-05:00

Yep, it's loquat (aka Japanese plum) season here in Florida. Meaning, a morning walk through my neighborhood brings free fruit for the picking.

Most folks with loquat trees think they are purely decorative and never bother eating the fruit ... which means, more loquats for me. Tastewise, they are kinda like mini-mangoes -- a peachy, juicy, sugar bomb.

But eating them requires the same technique one might apply to really soft boiled peanuts: You pop the whole thing in your mouth, chew up the goodness, then spit out the seeds and whatever's left of the skin (usually the little nub at the blossom end, which you can certainly swallow if your diet needs more roughage.)

I'm told that if you want to go to all the effort, you can make a fairly decent jam out of loquats and a passable wine (say, if you were in prison or something.) But I am content with walking and eating and spitting.

And ye shall know me by my trail of seeds ...

WHAT DO YOU CALL A GAZILLION WHELKS?

2012-02-16T10:14:00.000-05:00

So there we were, walking along the long, lovely, low-tide beach at Cumberland Island, where there were no other people to be seen—only the distant pulp mills in Fernandina Beach—but gazillions and gazillions of whelks. So many whelks, dug into the sand, that it was tricky not to step on them.

Yes, seeing all those whelks made me kinda hungry. Truth to be told, just about anything makes me hungry. And it got me thinking about the Cayman Islands, where one of the local specialties is a spicy whelk stew. We could have had ourselves a feast. But these particular whelks were protected since they live along the Cumberland Island National Seashore, and despite being sorely tempted, I did not poach. Promise.

But it got me thinking: We have all sorts of collective nouns that describe groups of things—a pod of whales, a congress of ravens, a murder of crows, and, famously, an exaltation of larks—but what do we call a mass collection of whelks?

Which is to say: I'm open for suggestions. And if someone posts a brilliant one here, then I'll give you something cool and as-yet-undetermined as a reward. Maybe a book. Maybe a whelk. Maybe my recipe for whelk stew.

TURKEYS WITH TESTOSTERONE

2012-02-06T09:26:00.001-05:00

One of the coolest things we saw on Cumberland Island -- the magnificent and largely deserted barrier island off the coast of Georgia -- was a couple of wild turkey gobblers tussling for territorial rights. Or, more likely, over some hen. We were walking from the beach down the path toward the Greyfield Inn when we came across them. There was a third gobbler, but he just watched. Turkey voyeurism, I suppose.

WHAT TO READ WHEN YOU'RE OLD AND COLD

2012-01-04T14:13:00.000-05:00

Don't know if it's the recent cold snap or the sense of mortality that overtakes us at the beginning of another year, but my reading list has taken on a distinct Scandinavian tilt in the last week or so, along with all the dismalness that implies.

Knocked off THE SNOWMAN, by Jo Nesbo, set in Norway with alcoholic, self-destructive cop Harry Hole. Then followed it with THE TROUBLED MAN, by Henning Mankell, in which we bid farewell to Kurt Wallander, the depressed and achingly introspective Swedish police detective who is facing an endlife with Alzheimer's.

No matter how old and cold I might be feeling, these guys really brighten my day.

WHAT GOOD DRUIDS GET FOR CHRISTMAS

2011-12-22T11:47:00.001-05:00

I was out walking the dogs this morning when a big hunk of mistletoe fell out of an oak tree and landed right at my feet.

The Druid in me took note that this happened on or about the Winter Solstice and hearkened to the ancient Celtic ritual of cutting mistletoe from the sacred oak at this time of year to bolster the chances of prosperity and, ahem, good lovin' in the days ahead. A gift from the gods? You bet.

The Episcopalian in me thought about the birth of the Christ child and how is it that a Druid symbol got entwined with Christmas anyway?

The Jewish guy in me (I lived on a kibbutz, my brother is Jewish, I'm an honorary Jew) wondered if maybe I couldn't make a little extra money selling mistletoe door to door, perhaps even corner the worldwide mistletoe market.

The Buddhist in me contemplated all of the above deeply but then let go and didn't pass judgement one way or the other.

The dogs, well, you know what the dogs wanted to do with it. Or on it. After all, this was their morning walk.

So the Sybarite in me quickly picked it up and took it home and hung it above a doorway with hopes of kissing all the lovely ladies, but mostly my wife, who pass below.

Whatever your flavor, here's to your holidays.

The Drinking Chef Does Gravlax for Christmas

2011-12-21T16:54:00.000-05:00

I'm liking me this gravlax that just went into the refrigerator for 72 hours of curing so it can be splendid for Christmas Day. Slice it thin, add bagel and capers, maybe a bit of lemon, and you will fight until the death anyone who tries to take it away from you.

The recipe, from Saveur, called for a healthy splash of Aquavit along with the dill, salt, sugar, fennel seeds and caraway seeds.

What's good for the salmon is good for the chef. Cheers all!

GIMME SOME OF THAT GOOD OL' CUBAN GRAVY

2011-12-16T09:10:00.000-05:00

The trees in my mother's backyard put out a bumper crop of sour oranges this year. My friends, Diane and Scott Meltz, showered me with Meyer lemons. Garlic, cumin, and olive oil are always in the cupboard.

The happy result: Mojo.

Or, as I like to call it: Cuban gravy.

It's essential for roast pork. Goes good with chicken, shrimp and fish. And I'm convinced it could make a decent cocktail of some sort. But then, I'm convinced most anything can make a decent cocktail. Further experimentation is necessary.

In any event, if you're on my holiday gift list, this might be what you're getting.

Ho-damn-ho...

WHY YA GOTTA HIKE FAST IN NEW ZEALAND

2011-12-15T09:38:00.001-05:00

Hiking in New Zealand's Abal Tasman National Park, our guide, John Glasgow, (that's him in the middle above) kept checking his watch and telling us we had to pick up the pace in order to make it to Awaroa Inlet at low tide. We soon understood his urgency.

Five minutes into our crossing, we were already in ankle deep water as the tide turned and the water rushed in from the Pacific. And five minutes after that ....

We were up to our knees in it.

But our brave little band of hikers made it safely across with more adventures awaiting us on the other side. (Coming next: The Sad, Sad Tale of Evered Hadfield)

BEST VIEW FROM A COMMODE ... EVER

2011-12-14T08:30:00.000-05:00

I admit this might fall under the category of "A Little Too Much Information." Still, you gotta admit that this is a killer view and the fact that I shot the photo while sitting on the john at the Wakefield Quay House, a B&B in Nelson, New Zealand, should not be off-putting in any way whatsoever. Full disclosure: I was not actually using the john when I shot the photo. Just sitting on it. Lid down.

OK, moving out of the head to the balcony, we're looking across Tasman Bay to Abel Tasman National Park, where I'll be hiking/kayaking for a couple of days.

Yep, that's snow atop them 'thar mountains.

Here's a streetside view of Wakefield Quay House, built in 1905.

And I'm delighted to introduce you to the owners/hosts of Wakefield Quay House, Johnny (left) and Woodi Moore. Johnny is a captain and teaches sailing on Tasman Bay. Woodi is ... well, she's a hoot, actually. She makes a mean breakfast, pours a fine drop of wine on the porch in the afternoons and has plenty of good stories to tell. So hop a plane, get to New Zealand, find your way to Nelson and check in to what just might be the Coolest B&B in the World.

PUT SOME BAIT ON YOUR PLATE

2011-12-10T07:58:00.001-05:00

Lucky me. I just happened to hit New Zealand during the annual white bait run, when tiny fish known as galaxids migrate from the ocean up freshwater rivers and people with fine-mesh nets line the riverbanks trying to catch them.

The season lasts only for a few weeks with most of the white bait taken home for private consumption. It's a pricey delicacy, fetching about $30 a pound, and isn't that common on restaurant menus. I sampled it at the restaurant at Hotel D'Urville in Blenheim, smack dab in the heart of the Marlborough wine region. Chef Maree Connelly prepared it as a light fritter using only egg whites to bind the fish together.

Bottom line: White bait tastes about a million times better than it sounds especially with a hoppy beer to wash it down. I figure there musta been a couple hundred tiny little fish in the entree I downed. And ever since then my stomach has been rising and falling with the tides.

ASSUME THE POSITION: Why Guys Suck at Yoga

2011-12-07T15:29:00.001-05:00

In an effort to prolong my life, advance good health and deceive my body into thinking it remains invulnerable to the ravages of age, I have for some years now been a devotee of yoga.

Yoga, for the uninitiated, is an ancient exercise regimen that originated in India as a way to achieve balance, flexibility and a sense of wellbeing long before big pharmaceutical companies figured out how to do the same thing even faster with prescription drugs.

Yoga takes its name from the Sanskrit words “yo,” meaning “to bounce or stretch,” and “ga,” meaning “muscle,” and is generally translated as: “Wow, I had no idea I could strain myself in such a way that my entire body hurts when I simply blink my eyes.”

The popularity of yoga in the United States in recent years is generally attributed to the fact that it helps participants unwind from stress and remove themselves from the crunch of time, with most classes lasting from sixty minutes to an hour, whichever comes first. There are many types of yoga, including Hatha, Vinyasa, Iyengar, Eeyore, Bilbo and Kardashian (also known as “hot yoga”), but they all share common philosophical ground, which is usually about $15 an hour, or $12 per on a monthly plan.

Yoga classes consist of a sequence of maneuvers known as “poses” that, practiced with regularity and dedication, help make practitioners more flexible. Some of the more basic ones and their benefits are: Warrior I, in which the student strikes a fierce pose with legs spread slightly more than shoulder width apart and gaze focused on both hands clasped overhead (increased circulation, gran mal seizures); Warrior II, in which the student strikes an even fiercer pose by squatting lower and bringing both arms perpendicular to the body (complete disorientation, shoulder separation); and Warrior III, in which the student strikes a totally ridiculous pose by tilting as far forward as possible with all weight on the front leg (face-plant on floor, broken nose.) The most essential of all poses is “Downward Facing Dog,” an elegant and highly beneficial posture in which the student hikes one leg and sniffs other students indiscriminately.

Despite the fact that yoga was originally developed by men who wore baggy underwear in public and called themselves yogis, most contemporary yoga classes in the U.S. are led and attended by women in skintight underwear, many of whom look quite fetching and are the primary reason why old guys like me sign up for yoga classes under the guise of getting healthy.

This motivation is not lost on my wife.

“So,” she asked the other evening after I arrived home panting and sweating, “how was yoga class?”

“It was great!” I said, speaking as I usually do after yoga class in sentences that end with exclamation points. “I've never had such energy!”

“You were leering at the women, weren't you?”

“Why, no, not at all. Yoga is not about paying attention to other people. It is about focusing on one’s self and perfecting the poses.”

My wife gave me that look. It is a look in the face of which a condemned man bares his craven soul.

“OK, Your Honor,” I said. “But let the record show that I was not, in the very strictest sense of the word, leering.”

“What were you doing then?”

“I was practicing my Ogling Pose.”

Here is the underlying basic truth about yoga: It dashes the notion that there is such a thing as equality between the sexes. For starters, in any yoga class I’ve ever attended there are at least ten women for every man, and it is not unusual for me to be the only guy in the class. Which makes it altogether oppressive for we members of the male species because women are much more flexible than men could ever hope to be. I don’t care what kind of great shape a guy might think he’s in—lean, muscled, a triathlete even (which is pretty much how all guys envision themselves)—you can put him in a yoga class alongside the heftiest, Spandex-stretching woman imaginable and, seated in lotus position, she can touch her nose to the floor and he can’t.

“Accept your limitations,” one yoga teacher told me. “Women just have much more open pelvises than men.”

This is why women get to have babies and live longer, while the full expression of man’s flexibility is his superiority in striking the Couch Pose, with his feet resting for hours on a coffee table and his fingers nimbly operating the remote.

Another thing: Men make lots more noise in yoga class than women. I’m not talking about grunts and groans. I’m not talking about joints popping and bones creaking. I’m talking about those objectionable noises of a gaseous nature that, when one is warm and relaxed from doing yoga, just kinda slip out.

That’s why most men in yoga classes usually position themselves at the back of the room in a corner. Plus, it’s the best place for perfecting the Ogling Pose.

WHERE HOBBITS ROAM

2011-12-04T07:54:00.001-05:00

On the road between Picton and Nelson, on New Zealand's South Island, I crossed a broad valley that was just getting ready to bust loose with Spring. Had to pull off the side of the road to soak it all up. It was as if a coastal salt marsh -- like the kind you see around Charleston or Savannah -- had been transported far inland, and the air was fresh, the sky way blue.

Later, some of the folks I met in Nelson asked: "Did you come via Hobbit Valley?" Apparently this stretch of the island provides a backdrop for some of the scenes in "The Hobbit," the upcoming film from New Zealand director Peter Jackson. Yes, there is a Middle-Earthy feel, not only to this place, but pretty much all of New Zealand. Can't wait to be that guy who, in the middle of the movie sez, a bit too loudly: "Hey, I've been there!"

MOA BETTAH BEER ...

2011-12-03T17:41:00.001-05:00

So I'm driving around the Marlborough region on New Zealand's South Island, past miles and miles of vineyards that produce some of the most acclaimed wines in the world, when I spot this sign. A perfect example of the Kiwi sense of humor.

Josh Scott (that's him in the photo) started brewing beer when he was 13 years old, which landed him in a bit of trouble at school after he started selling it to his classmates. Now, at 28, his line of Moa beers, named after the extinct, giant flightless bird that used to roam these parts, is one of the stellar offerings from New Zealand's burgeoning craft brewing industry. Here's the good news: While I was there, Josh told me he had just learned that Whole Foods is picking up a couple of his beers for U.S. distribution, so look for them to reach our shores sometime in 2012.

The lovely Alex Mousley, bar manager at Moa Brewery, pulling me a pint of IPA.

And you gotta love the cheekiness of Moa's ad campaign for its porter (below left) and pilsner (right)

Damn the Bacteria, Full Nog Ahead

2011-12-02T07:35:00.001-05:00

You can tell it's officially the holiday season with the first news reports telling people to beware of drinking homemade egg nog. So let me get this disclaimer out of the way right off the bat: If you try this recipe there's a slight, very slight, almost non-existent chance that you might get salmonella poisoning. But trust me. I've been downing it for years without ill effect and it beats hell out of drinking the awful store-bought swill.

Now, the important stuff. You'll need:

12 eggs, separated
2 cups sugar
1 quart cream
1 quart milk
1 quart fairly decent rum, but the bottom shelf stuff will work just fine
Fresh nutmeg (essential)

Separate eggs and beat yolks. Add one cup sugar to yolks. Add rum to yolks (listen to the sound of those salmonella bacteria screaming and dying). Beat whites as stiff as humanly possible. So stiff they stand up and salute you. Then add one cup sugar. Fold egg whites into rum-yolk mixture. Stir in cream and milk. Chill and hold off from drinking as long as you can. Top with grated nutmeg. And don't come whining to me when the stomach cramps set in.

You Know It's Winter in Florida When ...

2011-12-01T17:05:00.001-05:00

... the buzzards come back to roost.

We have a year-round population, of course, but the numbers start swelling in December when their brethren in Ohio and Pennsylvania and other buzzardy places head south for warm weather and abundant road kill. Spotted this tree-full last weekend while cruising along the Santa Fe River. Made sure I was under the boat's canopy when we passed under the tree.