Cold stunning is not frostbite; it is a systemic shutdown. As a turtle’s body temperature drops, its heart rate and circulation slow. The immune system weakens. Pneumonia, dehydration, and shock can follow. Without intervention, mortality rates are high.

Climate variability may increase the frequency of extreme weather swings, making these cold events less predictable. While sea turtles have survived natural temperature shifts for millennia, rapid fluctuations—especially in developed coastal habitats—create added stress. Conservation efforts, habitat protection, and public awareness are critical.

Photo credit: NOAA Public Library, Public Domain

The most commonly affected species along Florida’s Gulf waters include the Green sea turtle and the critically endangered Kemp’s ridley sea turtle. Juveniles are especially vulnerable because they often inhabit shallow bays and estuaries, where temperatures can plummet rapidly during strong cold fronts. In these protected but temperature-sensitive waters, a calm winter morning can reveal dozens—or even hundreds—of turtles stranded along tidal flats.

Photo credit: NOAA Public Library, Public Domain

St. Joseph Bay, where I have spent my winters for the last decade,  is home to a dense population of overwintering sea turtles. It has some of the the most pristine sea grass beds in Florida and is the perfect habitat offering food and deep channels where the turtles can escape predators. Normally, turtles leave the shallows for deeper water in cold weather but if the cold persists long enough, even those depths can create cold stunning conditions. And often, strong winter storm winds can blow the sea turtles onto coastal mudflats where they become stranded.

Scientists and volunteers use nets to scoop the immobile sea turtles out of St. Joseph Bay before transporting them to safety. Photo by USGS. (Public Domain)

Fortunately, rescue networks across the Gulf Coast respond swiftly. Organizations such as Clearwater Marine Aquarium and Gulf World Marine Institute work alongside state wildlife agencies (US Geological Survey, US Fish and Wildlife Service, and Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation) to patrol beaches after major cold events. Teams work by boat using nets to scoop cold-stunned turtles out of the bay. On the bay’s Cape San Blas (my favorite place in the whole world!) teams of scientists, wildlife workers and specially-trained and licensed volunteers walk the beaches and marshes, picking up cold-stunned turtles from the shoreline and loading them onto kayaks. Sometimes the kayaks may weight 400 pounds or more and people are out there in the cold and mud, with harnesses around their chests, pulling the kayaks across the mud flats. It’s exhausting, cold, tough work. Volunteers carefully transport stunned turtles to rehabilitation centers, where they are gradually warmed, hydrated, and treated for secondary illnesses. Recovery can take weeks or even months, but many turtles are successfully released back into Gulf waters once temperatures stabilize.

Photo credit: US Fish and Wildlife Service (Public Domain

When the turtles are released back into Gulf waters, usually at Salinas Park in Cape San Blas, it is a jubilant ceremony. Locals and snowbirds (like me!) gather to watch the volunteers bring each turtle down to the water and gently release them into the surf. The crowd claps and laughs with each release, and cell phone cameras are busy recording. Many of the onlookers reach out to the volunteers, clapping them on the back or telling them how grateful they are for the work they have done. I love the camaraderie and happiness of these events, the appreciation given to the humans who have labored to preserve these wonderful creatures, and the shared joy at the preservation of life. I often end up tearful, overwhelmed by the awesomeness of the moment. 

In the quiet aftermath of a winter cold front, the sight of a still sea turtle on a Gulf shoreline is sobering. Yet it also reveals something hopeful: a network of people ready to respond, hands steady against the chill, determined to give these ancient mariners another chance at the tide.

So, I think it’s appropriate in this moment to hear from Crush - the 150 year old, laid-back, surfer-dude character and his young son, Squirt, who helps Marlin navigate the East Australian Current. {Smile}

"Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them."

-Margaret Atwood

This blog posting will be unlike any of my other postings. For one thing, I’m not including any images. I am including a video from the Wall Street Journal and one from a technical guru that I trust. I will encourage you to seek further information for yourself. I’m relating my personal story because I truly hope that by doing so, I might be able to prevent the same horrific experience  from happening to someone else. This is meant to be a stark warning to all of my friends who utilize the apple ecosystem.

William Butler Yeats, 1919

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi 

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats' poem The Second Coming  was written in 1919 and published in 1920. The poem reflects Yeats' concerns about the disintegration of social and cultural order, as well as his broader metaphysical and historical beliefs. The poem was written in the aftermath of World War 1 - a time of political upheaval and widespread disillusionment. The tone of the poem is ominous, prophetic, and foreboding. Vivid and often unsettling images reinforce the poem's themes of disintegration and rebirth.

Yeats believed in the cyclical theory of history as a series of gyres or spirals, with each civilization inevitably giving way to a new order. More recently, The Fourth Turning: An American Prophecy by William Strauss and Neil Howe, written in 1997, also proposes a cyclical theory of history. Societies go through recurring generational cycles, or 'turnings', wrote Strauss and Howe, with each cycle lasting approxiately every 80-100 years. These cycles are divided into four distinct 'turnings', each lasting about 20-25 years, corresponding to different phases of societal development. The Fourth Turning (The crisis) is described by Strauss and Howe as a period of major upheaval, often marked by war, revolution, or economic collapse. Institutions are rebuilt, and a new social order emerges. The last Fourth Turning was the Great Depression and World War 2 (1929-1946). Significantly, Strauss and Howe predicted that the 2020s (twenty years after they had written their book) would be a cataclysmic period in American history.

Yeats poem describes a world descending into chaos marked by the collapse of traditional structures and the emergence of an ominous new force. In his poem, the transition from one historical cycle to another is signified by a terrifying vision of a 'rough beast' that heralds a new, darker age.

In the first stanza, Yeats begins with the metaphor of a 'widening gyre', symbolizing the unraveling of order and the loss of control. The falcon and falconer evoke a breakdown in communication and authority. 'The centre cannot hold' harkens to the central theme of disintegration and collapse of order. Widespread violence and the loss of innocence is captured in the phrase 'the blood-dimmed tide'. The final couplet is prescient for our own time of polarization: those with wisdom are passive and quiet, while zealots dominate and 'are full of passionate intensity'. 

In the second stanza, Yeats uses Christian imagery in referencing the return of Christ (the Second Coming), but Yeats subverts this expectation with an ominous, pagan vision. The 'shape with lion body and the head of a man' resembles a sphinx, symbolizing a monstrous and foreboding power. Its 'pitiless' gaze suggests an indifferent, primal force. The barren setting of the desert emphasizes a period of desolation and spiritual emptiness.

In the final lines, Yeats refers to the cyclical nature of history with the 'stony sleep' representing the previous years of relative stability. The 'rough beast' is the harbinger of a new age. Its 'slouching' movement suggests inevitability and menace, a stalking predator, and a stark contrast to the divine imagery associated with the second coming of Christ.

I think Yeats' poem is speaking to me these days. And this music encapsulates my mood perfectly:

On this trip, I drove to Petosky, Michigan - a beautiful coastal town on Lake Michigan - to meet up with fellow Airstream Atlas owners. For me, it was an excellent opportunity to meet in person some of the wonderful folks who had offered me support and encouragement online when I decided to adopt the RV travel lifestyle. When I left Michigan, I traveled along the coast of Lake Michigan (stunning views!) and then dove down into America’s heartland. I drove as much of Route 66 as I could on my way to Albuquerque, New Mexico for the International Balloon Fiesta. I was lucky enough that I could also visit one of my soul sisters, Barbara, and her wonderful husband, Norm, who had both relocated to New Mexico a few years earlier.  I then returned home, taking a more southern route through America’s heartland in order to visit my high school friend, Perry, in Mississippi.

Traveling Route 66 is the ultimate road trip adventure, blending the freedom of the open road with the nostalgic charm of America’s “Mother Road.” Spanning over 2,400 miles from Chicago, Illinois, to Santa Monica, California; this legendary highway offers a rich tapestry of history, culture, and natural beauty. Experiencing it in a camper van added a sense of intimacy and spontaneity, allowing me to fully immerse myself in the journey. Although, I can certainly see the advantages of traveling the route in a fawn beige Corvette Stingray convertible like Martin Milner drove in the 1963 TV series, Route 66 or on a Harley Davidson motorcycle like many of the fellow travelers I met on the road!

And what a journey it was! Route 66 is more than just a highway; it’s a living museum of mid-20th-century Americana. Originally established in 1926, it became a symbol of freedom and opportunity, especially during the Great Depression and post-war era. Today, the route is dotted with vintage diners, neon-lit motels, quirky roadside attractions, and small towns that seem frozen in time. From the Gateway Arch in St. Louis to the towering Cadillac Ranch in Texas, each stop offers a glimpse into America’s past.

I loved so much of the kitschy journey through the heart of America but what really enthralled me were the murals. The Mother Road is not only famous for its roadside diners, classic motels, and nostalgic attractions but also for its vibrant murals. 

These larger-than-life works of art transform small-town streets into open-air galleries, celebrating the rich history, culture, and spirit of the highway. As I traveled along Route 66, the murals I saw provided both a visual feast but also a deeper connection to the stories and communities that define this legendary route.

The murals reflect the unique identity of the town or region it inhabits. In Pontiac, Illinois, the murals were a celebration of the town’s deep connection to Route 66. The Route 66 Hall of Fame and Museum is flanked by colorful murals that depict classic cars, vintage gas pumps, and joyful road trippers from a bygone era. These artworks pay tribute to the town’s status as a cultural hub of the route.

Further west, in Tucumcari, New Mexico, the murals tell stories of the town’s heritage, blending images of Native American culture, cowboy lore, and the beauty of the Southwest.

The murals along the Mother Road often evoke the freedom and adventure of the open road. In Amarillo, Texas, the colorful murals echoed the grandeur of the Texas Panhandle, showcasing wide-open plains, iconic Route 66 shields, and the region’s unique charms. They reminded travelers of the romance of road trips—where every stop brings a new story and a new piece of art to admire.

Many murals along Route 66 also serve as living monuments to the highway’s storied past. They capture the golden age of the road, when it was bustling with travelers, gas stations, and family-owned diners. They often depict classic cars, neon signs, and vintage imagery that harken back to the 1930s through the 1960s.

These murals are not just decorative; they are historical records. They remind visitors of the route’s importance as a pathway for migrants during the Dust Bowl era and as a symbol of opportunity and adventure during America’s post-war boom. 

I stopped and photographed many of the renovated motels, gasoline stations, and quirky architecture of the this bygone American era but the murals became my obsession. For one thing, the historic Route 66 parallels and, at times, merges into a new federal highway system. Many of the small towns that dotted along Route 66 have now either grown into thriving urban centers or collapsed into ghost towns. Either way, finding the original buildings displaying the murals of route 66 can be like a scavenger hunt. 

So I often found myself either alone on a dusty country road and not sure exactly where I was or fighting urban traffic snarls, all in search of an elusive wall mural that I knew existed from my readings. I missed more murals than I actually found plus I did not travel the whole route of the Mother Road to its final destination in Santa Monica, California. What that means is that I need to make another road trip, sometime in the near future - before I die and before these murals crumble to dust!

The murals of Route 66 are much more than roadside art—they are windows into the soul of America’s most famous highway. They tell stories of resilience, innovation, and cultural diversity while celebrating the romance of the open road. As travelers wind their way along Route 66, these murals provide not only visual beauty but also a sense of connection to the people and places that make this route an enduring symbol of freedom and adventure. I can’t wait to begin the new journey!

So, the video of the day has to be :)

Vietnam. Just the word sums up a cacophony of emotions within me. 1964: I returned to the classroom early from recess because I had fallen and skinned my knee. I found Mrs. Geehan sitting behind the desk in tears. Such confusion, an adult, my teacher, crying! What’s wrong? I didn’t understand her words but I felt the fear. Husband. Deployed. Vietnam. 1968: My Lai massacre. The Jeannette Rankin Brigade when 5000 women marched against the Vietnam War. Khe Sanh. Tet Offensive. 1969: I was on the debate team in high school. Our topic: Should the United States Congress prohibit unilateral intervention in foreign countries?  1970: Some of us went to college, some of us went to war. My hometown was a military base - some friends lost their fathers. I lost some friends. Anti-war protests. Kent State. Secret Cambodia bombing. Congress repeals the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. 1971: Pentagon papers. 1973: President Nixon signs the Paris Peace Accords. 1974: Burst of Joy, by photographer Sal Veder wins the Pulitzer Prize in photography. The image depicts a joyous family greeting for Lt. Col Robert L. Stirm, a returning American POW. 1975: The Fall of Saigon. 

In the 2000s, I put visiting Vietnam on my bucket list. I wanted to see the country that had thrummed a drum beat throughout my life. In 2024, I finally got there. I flew into Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), traveled up the coast of the South China Sea and left via Hanoi. 

Urban Park, Ho Chi Minh City

River Park, Ho Chi Minh City

I saw motorbikes with entire families on them - sometimes 4 or 5 people. The children (and the dogs) never wore helmets but the adults did.

Light trails after dark, Ho Chi Minh City

A beautiful young woman and her sister posed for me, asking for an opportunity to be able to speak English. They both hoped to visit the United States.

Lantern maker,  Hui

Empty cyclos, Da Nang City

Fishing, Hoi An

Engagement photo shoot, Hoi An

Disgruntled vendor, Da Nang City

Red Dao people, Ta Phin Village

Banh Mi bread maker, Sapa

Smoking, Red Dao tribe

Creative blur, incense factory

Traffic trails, Hanoi

To those of my generation who fought, those who protested, those who left to avoid the draft - you were on my mind throughout my visit to Vietnam. When the power of love overcomes the love of power, we will know peace.

In my head, I know it was the right decision. I did not want him to have a minute of suffering or pain or fear. I wanted his life to be one of comfort and joyous moments. But the one thing I could not protect him from was time. And time can be a vicious victor. His steps had become slow and halting. He was often confused and hesitant. It broke my heart when he would bark for help and I would find him stuck in a corner because he had forgotten how to negotiate walls. 

On his last day, he spent the morning curled up by my side and in front of a cozy fire. We walked on the beach one last time. He took his last breath in my arms with me whispering 'such a good boy' in his ear.

Why am I so sad? It's not just that I will miss his presence in my life. That will be a lifelong truth. But I have memories and photos of his time on this earth and they should console me. They don't. 

I am heartbroken and distressed. I answered a question for my beloved Abba for which I have no answer. I ended a little body that was living and breathing and moving. I took life away from another living thing. One minute he was alive and the next, he wasn't. Because of me. Did I make the right decision? I wanted to save him from experiencing suffering, but is life so precious that we should value it at whatever cost? Should pain and suffering even be negotiable? Perhaps wrestling with this decision will prepare me for my own decisions about my end of life.

I have cried so many tears that when I woke this morning after only an hour or two of sleep, my eyes felt bruised and achy. And this I know - the anguish I feel is because of an ending. An exceptional thing in my life, a spark of joy in my life, has irrevocably ended.

Right now, it seems this is life - an accumulation of losses. Why do people say all good things must come to an end? Because that is our human experience. Everything good in our life ends and we grieve the loss. We never stop grieving the loss, and so each new loss meshes into a shroud over us of endings and goodbyes. Is this to remind us, repeatedly, that we also are transitory? To be human is to know loss, to know sadness, to know anguish. And yet, even as I feel overwhelmed at this moment, I am reminded of my connection to other humans who have also known these things. It is bittersweet, this reminder.

This, I know, is true. When I am drowning in misery and sorrow, the human connection saves me. The realization that all of us have been here. I cling to that like a life preserver.

Amy Miller

HIGHER LOVE

At the emergency animal clinic, I’m standing

in the bathroom thinking the crying room—

big and softly lit, a plant in a corner, the walls

airbrushed in grays and browns. The only place

in the building you can be alone. I remember

meeting a woman one night in this clinic waiting

for her Collie, injury treated, disaster over,

big bill paid. She told me she’d lost count

of how many times she’d been there over the years.

This is the first one I’ve brought home alive.

It’s the 4th of July weekend and hell’s broken loose

out there, the stories I heard in the lobby—bitten

by another dog, hit by a car, ate a box of candy,

foaming at the mouth from some new med.

My own cat 16 years old and stricken down

so suddenly that all he could do was lie

like a fallen tree and watch me though the vents

in the carrier all during the half-hour drive.

The stay is two days, the bill two pages long,

and now I’m standing here in the bathroom thinking

of people crying, though they say I can bring him

home tomorrow, just one more night of fluids

under the futuristic hoses and wires and dark-faced

monitors, his orange body blanketed in a warm balloon

of air while the vet tech types numbers on a pad,

a distant dog shrieking, a sound I can still hear,

that carries through God knows how many walls.

I wash my hands and push through the door

into the lobby and hold it open because a woman

is running toward me, her face swollen as a bee sting,

wet, her shoulders convulsing, a sound drowning

in her mouth. She rushes past, and I don’t dare

look, but I can see everyone—the lobby full, couples

and singles and families, some waiting with a dog

or a cat, some sitting alone with their phones and Cokes

from the machine, maybe fifteen people, every one

looking at her, and—reader, you have to see this—

every one with a face full of love and complete

recognition. No judgment, irony, glad-it’s-not-me,

a whole room of understanding while she pulls

the door shut and latches it to cry for the baby

that I now see—I remember this man from earlier,

how she sat with him in the waiting room when I did—

and in his arms he carries a small body, terrier-size,

wrapped tight in a blue blanket head to foot,

motionless as he bears it through the front door

into the parking lot. I follow him out,

but I can’t see any more—how gently he lays it

on the back seat, I’m guessing—because I’m

getting in my own car, eyes down, letting him

have his peace alone. To intrude, to help—

it just isn’t done, or I don’t know how, and neither

did anyone back there, though we all know exactly

how high that love goes, most of us with no kids

or ones that are grown, most of us lying in bed at night

with a dog or cat snoring softly in the half-light,

the not quite deep-death night but the still-living kind

that makes us want to stay awake an hour longer,

the air outside alive with tires on the road and those crickets

that only started up a week ago and now sound like

they’ll keep singing that aria forever, even when

we all know sooner or later it will have to end.

“I was born under a wandrin’ star. Wheels are made for rollin’, mules are made to pack. I’ve never seen a sight that didn’t look better looking back.”   Lee Marvin, in Paint Your Wagon.

I’ve always been fearful of the coma that happens with sleep, losing consciousness, losing track of time. That I could be oblivious to things happening around me makes me anxious and vulnerable. I seldom sleep restfully. My sleep is punctuated with many awakenings and sometimes difficulty in falling back asleep. As a child, I was a sleepwalker. Family members recall the many times they woke terrified to see me hovering above their bed in the middle of the night. Sometimes I would wake up and find myself in the oddest places, like my closet.

Truth is, most humans do better with two rest periods in a 24-hour cycle. From time immemorial to the 19th century, the dominant pattern of sleep for Western societies was biphasic. Most people went to sleep shortly after dark, slept for several hours, then woke briefly for a couple of hours (this was usually the time when humans engaged in sex or had their ‘second supper’), then went back to sleep until dawn. Artificial illumination and an imposed work day schedule eliminated that sleep pattern, although many cultures still have a period late in the day where rest is encouraged.

So, I think this might be an appropriate music video - and she's the kind of woman I've always admired. Gutsy, independent, provocative. {smile}

By mid-December, my trepidations having dissolved in salt air, I jolt out of the airlock and embrace the soul-rising, heart-singing joy of the coastal vibe. The metronome of the surf surrounds me - a faithful pulse. My heart rhythm syncs to the ocean cadence and I am reconnected to the music of the spheres. I focus on the changing colors of the tide - silver, green, blue and the desultory movement of clouds in the sky. It is almost like being twelve years old again when I was still relatively new to the world and I noticed everything about it. That’s what my beach brings me - my twelve year old self. I sleep when I’m tired, I awake when the morning sunlight pours into the room. I am so conscious of the cycles around me - the tide, the moon, the stars. And yet, despite the orderly, unchanging prolonged rhythm, there are daily unique variations. Doesn’t that say something about life itself?

The last weekend of the year for me, like most everyone I think, is a time for deep reflection. Where have I been? Where am I going? For me, this year adds another question. What have I done with  the year I have been given? In 2022, I was diagnosed with cancer. It could have ended my life. Instead, I was given another year and for that time, I will be forever grateful. But what have I done with the gift? That’s what I’ll spend this weekend contemplating.

So, maybe the song for the day should be:

dldavidson

Neil Gaiman

Song of the day: