By Bill Bligh

With a point and then a sweep of his arm that clearly said, "YOU! COME HERE!" Robert walked toward me through the sand with a purposeful stride. As if I did not understand the first demonstration, he pointed to me again as he walked in the heat of late May in his crisp uniform.

The waves were too choppy for Boogie Boarding and so my friend and I lounged on the beach at Canaveral National Seashore, near New Smyrna Beach. New Smyrna is where so many surfers were attacked by sharks last summer. The beach sits just below a sandy cliff and the day was windy, with a tropical storm whipping up the atmosphere somewhere out in the Atlantic, preventing anyone here from catching what are normally decent waves. Today's waves were more like those on the Great Lakes; small and not really the breaking type.

I eyed the small cliff behind us and said I was going to check it out. My friend, who knows these parts, told me I would only find cactus and prickly plants. "Then I'll wear my shoes, " I told her. I wanted to see the sea from a higher vantage point. I grabbed a clump of grass to help me up the sandy hill and found that she was right. I walked the edge of what easily could've been a canyon in California or Mexico with cactus and sand and assorted desert-like plants. The wind was strong and I looked out to the Atlantic, leaning into the breeze. I felt like Fletcher Christian on Pitcairn Island, the wind, salt, and sand beating me, a sun-bathing beauty just below. "This is nice," I thought. I looked down at my sun-drenched friend and thought how wonderful it was that the US Government had set aside such a fine stretch of coastline for us to enjoy. For only five dollars per motor vehicle we were free to enjoy this pristine park and all it's seaside beauty. She looked to be sleeping from where I stood and I decided to sneak up on her. I made the three leaps down the little cliff to the beach. That's when I spotted him. Robert. The Federal Officer. He had apparently spotted me long before and he was now on a mission.  The big pointing gesture clued me into what my crime was and I knew I was in trouble as I cut Robert's walk in half and met him on the beach.

"Didn't you see the signs saying "Stay off the dunes."?" he asked from behind his sunglasses.

"No. What signs?" I answered.

"There are three of them, " he replied, obviously angry at my ignorance.

He needed my driver's license and I returned to my sleeping friend to retrieve the keys to her car.

"I think I'm about to be ticketed for climbing a hill," I told her, "I'll be back. Maybe."

Robert and I walked the beach to the parking lot and I asked him about the houses we had seen a few hundred yards down the shore. Who owns them and how do you rent one? I was genuinely curious, but I was really trying to get Robert's mind off of my federal offense and show him I was just a normal nature lover with no intention of damaging his "dunes", which to me were no more than a tiny mound with some desert plants on top. Dunes to me are those big things you see in the Mojave or Saudi Arabia. Robert explained that those homes were privately owned and on a lifetime lease from the Federal Government, meaning that when the current owners die, the property belongs to the park. The houses were here before the land was turned into a national treasure, but the owners were not going to be able to leave their homes to their families. Just their Uncle. Sam. 

I told Robert as we walked that I would never climb a dune again and was totally unaware of the serious nature of doing so. He said, "Oh, I'm sure you WON'T!" I wondered what jail would be like clad only in swim trunks.

As we made our way down the boardwalk to the parking area, Robert showed me the tiny brown sign that told visitors to stay off the dunes. He then showed me a tiny notice on a bulletin board with the same warning. He also told me that the warning was stated on a piece of paper I received when I entered the park. I did not read it. My mistake. The little brown sign said that violators could face up to a $5,000 fine for walking on the dunes.

Robert ran my license through the system using a Palm Pilot and asked if I had ever been "contacted" in a Federal Park before. His tone was scolding as he lectured me on the effects of erosion and asked me what I thought might happen if every visitor to Canaveral National Seashore decided to climb on the dunes. "Well," I thought, "they will see the beach from a whole new angle and maybe even feel like Fletcher Christian as they lean into the wind." But I knew that was not the answer Robert wanted. "I see your point, sir," I said.

Robert was doing his duty, and I can't fault him. He let me go without a ticket but assured me that if I ever walked on a dune again, I was going to be arrested and face a very stiff fine. I extended my hand and thanked him for being lenient. He looked at my hand and walked away. 

My friend and I gave up on the waves and left not long after my dune violation. We were interested in camping on this beach in the future and inquired at the gate about the possibility of setting up a tent on this beautiful piece of government property.

"There's no camping during the summer," answered a co-worker of Robert's, manning the gatehouse.

Somehow I knew that when the government considers a sandy little cliff a "dune" they might just have their own definition of "summer" as well.

"And when would that be?" I asked.

"From April to November," he answered.

It's gonna be a long summer.

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