🔥The Fire’s First Crackle
When the October winds sharpen and the mangroves whisper, there is no better place than the glow of a fire. We circle close, cups of hot yaupon tea in hand, and let the sparks rise like prayers. Every flame seems to hold a story. Some are true. Some are lessons dressed in shadows. And some… well, some are warnings.
Florida has never lacked for stories. Our waterways run deep with memory. Spanish sailors swore they saw ghost lights dancing on the Gulf. Creek and Seminole families told of spirits that guarded the swamps. Fishermen spoke of shadows that followed their boats, slipping just under the surface, never making a splash.
Tonight, in the spirit of October, and perhaps in honor of my own birthday week, let us walk the shoreline of folklore. But keep your paddle close, for the waters of Florida carry more than fish.
🛶Legends of the Waterways
Florida’s rivers and bays are older than our maps. Long before highways and neon lights, they were trade routes, hunting grounds, and holy places. With that age comes story.
There is the tale of the Dead Man’s Hammock, where a canoe is said to drift without oar, carrying no one, yet moving against the current. There is the story of The Singing Shell, a conch that calls sailors into deep water, never to return. And of course, there are whispers of creatures that walk where no creature should walk.
One name rises among them: El Pasoclaro—the clear step.
Fishermen along certain estuaries say it appears only when the moon hides. It leaves no splash, no footprint, only a wake that ripples without cause. Those who see it swear it walks across the surface, following the unlucky until dawn. Some call it a guardian. Others call it a thief of souls.
I will not say more here. Only that on certain nights, when the fire burns low and the tide creeps in, you may hear the water stir without wind. If you do, stir your pot, tighten your tarp, and pray the fire holds.
🎂A Birthday Trip to Remember
Two years ago, Sean and I took a late-October paddle down a brackish creek north of Cedar Key. It was my birthday week, so we packed as if for celebration: fresh fish wrapped in palmetto fronds, a bottle of something dark, and of course, the old kettle for tea.
The night was clear, the water calm. We pulled up onto a shell mound once used by the Timucua, now just a rise of oysters and palm. Our fire crackled, and Sean, as he often does, asked for a story.
I told him of El Pasoclaro. He laughed, called it “swamp gas with a good publicist.” We toasted to health and to one more year of paddling.
But later, as we cleaned dishes by the waterline, Sean froze. His face had gone pale in the firelight. He pointed out toward the creek. The surface was smooth as glass, yet something disturbed it. Slow, deliberate ripples, as if from footsteps broke the water. No splash. No shape. Only rings widening in the dark.
We both watched, saying nothing. Then the ripples stopped.
The next morning, when we shoved off, we found a line carved into a nearby cypress. Three claw-like marks, fresh and wet.
Sean won’t admit it, but I saw him glance over his shoulder the rest of the trip.
📖Folklore as Lesson
Now, before you think this is only a ghost story, let me offer the real marrow. Folklore is never just fantasy. It is how a people teach respect.
When the old stories warn of spirits that walk on water, they are really saying: Do not take the swamp lightly. The Everglades and rivers are alive with dangers—currents, storms, hidden roots, gators. A person who listens to the stories is a person who pays attention.
That is the power of campfire tales. They carry wisdom in shadow. A child hears of El Pasoclaro and grows cautious near the water at night. A paddler hears of the Singing Shell and learns not to follow strange sounds into open bays.
Every tale is a compass pointing toward respect.
👻Spooky Florida Humor
Of course, we Floridians also know how to laugh at our legends. I once told a troop of Scouts that if they heard splashing behind their canoes, it wasn’t El Pasoclaro—it was probably just mullet jumping. One boy asked, “What if the mullet is walking?”
I told him, “Then paddle faster.”
October paddling in Florida means mosquitos thick enough to carry off a tent and raccoons clever enough to unzip your drybag. Frankly, those may be scarier than any swamp spirit. But when you hear a branch snap in the mangroves, or see a ripple that has no source, you remember: humor can soften fear, but mystery will always keep you humble.
🍵Trail Secret
Here’s one you won’t find in the guidebooks. If you brew tea by the fire on a still October night and drop three yaupon leaves into the pot, watch closely. Some say the steam curls into shapes that hint at what the season holds. One year I swear I saw the outline of a paddle. Another year, a skull.
Whether it’s steam, imagination, or something older, I can’t say. But I’ve never skipped the three-leaf trick on a fall paddle.
🌴Respect for Mystery and Place
When we sit by the fire and tell these stories, we do more than entertain. We acknowledge that the wild is larger than us. That rivers have memories. That there are places we will never fully understand.
As outdoor educators, paddlers, and cooks, our task is not to tame mystery but to live respectfully within it. We gather around the fire not to banish the dark, but to share its company.
So listen to the old stories. Laugh when you can. Shiver when you must. And above all, respect the places they come from.
Because whether or not El Pasoclaro walks the water, the swamp is always watching.
🪞Closing Reflection
This October, as my own years turn like the tide, I am reminded that every flame carries a story. Some we inherit, some we invent, and some we stumble into when ripples appear where no ripples should be.
Sean and I still laugh about that night, though he keeps one eye on the water whenever we paddle past Cedar Key. As for me, I make sure my fire burns bright and my tea brews hot. Because in the end, whether it is folklore or fact, the lesson is the same: respect the water, respect the dark, and never forget that some stories are written in ripples.
Liquid Rhythm Adventures' Journal 