By Joseph S. Shields
There is a place called Peanut Island. It is in Florida and I have been there. You would think it is shaped like a peanut, but it’s not.
Peanut Island was created in 1918 with excavation debris from the construction of the Palm Beach Inlet. It was originally called Inlet Island, but the name changed after plans were made to use the island for a peanut-shipping operation. The venture never happened but the name stuck.
Aerial photographs reveal the tiny landmass is perfectly circular, as you would expect from an artificial undertaking by humans. The inlet connects Lake Worth lagoon to the Atlantic Ocean and maintains a depth of 35 feet.
During the Cuban Missile Crisis, Navy Seabees built a nuclear fallout shelter on Peanut Island for President John F. Kennedy. The bunker was situated 5 minutes by helicopter and 15 minutes by boat from the Kennedy estate in Palm Beach. The bunker would have literally been JFK’s last resort.
People often visit Peanut Island Park to tour the bunker and the U.S. Coast Guard Station that used to be situated there. My kids, however, weren’t interested in a maritime museum or remnants from the Cold War. Instead of spending part of the day underground, we spent the afternoon underwater swimming with fish.
The children asked the captain if they could jump in after he dropped anchor. Captain Ron (yes, like in the movie) was worried about the current and tossed a line out so they could grab it and pull themselves back to the yacht.
“I can’t get much closer,” he said. “If you guys are good simmers and want to swim to the island you can.”
My brother-in-law arranged the afternoon excursion for a break from late-December holiday festivities. His friend owns the boat—we’ll call it “Cliché” (Newport, Rhode Island)—and keeps it in Palm Beach during the winter season.
“They grow up so fast!” my brother-in-law exclaimed, watching his niece and nephews jump overboard. All three were quickly taken away by the flow of water. They expertly swam against the current and grabbed the rope.
“You should avoid using annoying clichés,” I said. “That one has had its day.”
“But cliché’s are always true, which is why people started saying them.”
For once in his life he had a point. I took my shirt off and jumped in before he could say: “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Captain Ron served lunch: shrimp cocktail, fruit platter, and cheese and crackers. My kids devoured the food like dogs and quickly returned to the water to escape my brother-in-law and his girlfriend.
My brother-in-law—let’s call him “Lighthouse,” a nickname he earned in college because of his height, pale white skin, and fear of the sun—was badly sunburned in the Galapagos Islands as a child and spends his free time covering his body with globs of SPF 70 sunscreen in all climates. The practice becomes more extreme the closer he gets to the equator. And the madness is contagious; his perfectly “normal” girlfriend—let’s call her “The Girlfriend” because she has taken a leave of absence—inherited his illogical fear of sunlight. Both wore large-brimmed hats designed for African safaris and clothing intended for fishing guides.
The 30-minute voyage to Peanut Island was fantastic. When I wasn’t enjoying the scenery—to the east, waterfront estates hidden behind walls of greenery and privacy hedges, and to the west, high-rise condos and industrial Riviera Beach—I witnessed the happy couple force sunscreen onto the bodies of my offspring. Annoyed, the three looked at me for help, but I considered the benefits: a return to shore without sunburns.
The après-lunch activity took the prize. Lighthouse and The Girlfriend reapplied sunscreen to the children and then all five dove into the water. Rings of the sunscreen’s potentially harmful synthetic ingredients—oxybenzone and octinoxate—appeared on the surface of the water. The swimmers emerged from the plunge and bubbles fizzled away the messy slick.
Captain Ron and I tossed them snorkeling equipment. Each swimmer struggled putting on his or her mask; excessive sunscreen application did not help matters. Fortunately, Cliché did not have enough flippers onboard, which limited the struggle to masks and snorkels.
After Lighthouse had his mask and snorkel ready, he asked me to throw him the plastic bag full of sunscreen.
“You should consider living in Norway,” I said.
“Come on, just throw me the bag.”
“But we have a couple-hundred yard swim? And it only takes ten minutes to circumnavigate the island?”
“I told him I would carry it,” said The Girlfriend.
I threw her the bag and instructed my children not to go near either one of them as the couple attempted to swim towards the artificial reef near the shoreline. Lighthouse performed an Olympic-paced, disturbing version of the Australian crawl, leaving The Girlfriend behind to flail in his troubled wake. The sun shirts they wore on their backs appeared to pull them under.
“You can’t make this stuff up, can you?” I asked the captain.
Concerned, he said, “Can she swim? And what is he doing?”
“No,” I replied. “And he is damaging the water.”
“There won’t be any fish left if he keeps that up.”
“At least the bag of sunscreen floats,” I said, before hopping in with my apparatus.
Underwater, the six of us were overcome by the hues of transformative, striped reef fish. I recognized a few: the sergeant major, with its yellow sheen, silvery gray, and oftentimes darker shades of blue; the flat, disk-like angelfish with colorations that boggle minds; and the Atlantic porkfish, with its solid yellow forehead and two black vertical bars.
I read the shallow, rocky Peanut Island coastline has some of the best snorkeling in South Florida. The water, as advertised, was waist-deep, and we played among the lime-rock boulders near the southern edge of the island.
We mainly encountered smaller, schooling reef fish, but I had read and was certain that barracuda, sharks, tarpon, and green moray eels often made an appearance in these waters. I intermittently studied the fish and watched the kids marvel at the welcome assault on their senses. When I wasn’t absorbing the marine life, I studied my children’s scuba masks, which were half-full of water.
We practiced clearing the masks, both underwater and above water, but the basics of snorkeling were too difficult to teach that afternoon. My kids did not understand the dynamics of the shaped tube; typically it should remain above sea level. Nevertheless, they breathed through their contraptions, partially drowning, always wanting to get closer to fish.
After an hour or so, we swam to the beach and walked around the island. Lighthouse noticed my shoulders were red. He offered sunscreen but I refused on principle. I enjoyed the burn.
We walked past families picnicking under the shade of palm trees. Kayakers beached their crafts and ate their lunches on the sand. A man cast his fly rod; the clouser minnow sailed through the air as his children flew kites from atop a hill. We passed JFK’s bunker and the museum and came full circle to the artificial reef.
Captain Ron waved and it was time to go. The yacht looked very far away.
Clouds moved in and blocked the sun. Lighthouse and The Girlfriend reapplied sunscreen. I ventured into the water first and raced to the channel, testing the current, looking for careless boaters, and searching for sharks beneath the sea. In the absence of sunlight, the visibility we previously enjoyed had deteriorated.
Halfway to the boat, at an uncertain depth in 20 feet of water, I turned and watched as three dark forms swam towards me. Rays of sunshine suddenly broke through the clouds, penetrating the water. The light illuminated the creatures with stripes and brilliant colors my eyes could no longer recognize.