If you stare deep enough into the Hillsborough River at night, he reflection of downtown Tampa’s city lights will play tricks on your mind: it feels like you are falling down.
The buildings are at an angle, the lights dance with each gust of wind propelling the waves and the night’s coy mistress blows you a passionate kiss.
She’ll tempt you to enter the abyss as you sway your feet over the crookedly cracked seawall, like a siren daring you to let yourself fall in an attempt to physically obtain the beauty of the night.
Your breath will catch as you hold tighter onto the ledge, doubting the whiteness of your ten knuckles to hold your weight.
You start to subconsciously lean in and stare further into the depths of the river.
The discoloration of the water is mysterious.
At times it seems brown or almost black, but I have finally settled on calling it green: a color representing youth and beauty.
This river is eternal and regardless of the seemingly continuous flow of trash and its unique odor that has yet to be named, I still manage to see the beauty in the green. There is no other place like the Hillsborough River. It’s the perfect escape.
Looking at the river, I feel safe and at ease.
Regardless of where I stand beside the river, I always feel at home.
Sitting on the river’s ledge triggers childhood nostalgia of times when I would sit on my seawall at home in Charlotte County and throw broken branches and skip weathered rocks into the canal.
I smile at the thought of making mud pies out of weeds and tainted river-mud.
Pieces of mangrove would be my spoons and I’d fish out broken shells and clams for extra decoration.
Beside you, I’ll continue to dangle my shoeless feet over the edge with toes daring to poke the surface.
Each time I break the surface I’m be reminded of home. I flash back to times of making mud pies beside the Charlotte Harbor. It’s like time travel.
I take comfort in the fact that no matter how far I walk, if I can still manage to stay beside the river, I am reminded of home.
It is my northern light. It is the moon that refuses to abandon me as I get lost in the sometimes heartless city of Tampa.
But every man’s ideal may be another’s dystopia. I often joke about how only fools play in such a contaminated flow of water, that the water is radioactive, that it’s a place where pink dolphins gather to play with three-headed fish.
The soul of this river arises from the Green Swamp; the name itself speaks to the pH level of this hazardous body of water. Its 54 mile extension from Pasco to Hillsborough counties provides me with a level of familiarity.
I often try to walk this hazardous stretch, but always seem to stop when the smell gets unbearable.
It’s like a unique combination of red tide, salt and body odor.
The plastic bags intertwined with dead fish and styrofoam cups doesn’t help the experience.
But the man standing on the surf board with a single paddle, the random jet skiers and the crew teams paddling at sunrise lighten my heart.
The traffic on this river is calm, yet choppy.
The pontoon ferries escort eager tourists to the museum as the oblivious locals zip by in speed boats filled with half-naked women nestling twelve ounce cans of Bud Light.
With Tampa-local pride, I sit beside the “tokers” of UT and watch this notorious river come to life.
As they giggle away about how “Batman totally lives in the house above the Regions Bank,” I simply nod in agreement.
They are completely relaxed. The idea of getting caught is not an issue.
They stare out into the river and rhapsodize about random topics as they relish in the 100 percent cotton softness of their sweaters.
This is a place where anything goes. The seemingly endless flow of water encourages peace between people and nature.
Its soothing waves, vivid reflections and weathered banks of rock and sandbar add character to the scene.
I calmly sit beside these modern day hippies and mimic their ultimate state of relaxation.
Each time I venture over to Plant Park, I see a new aspect of the glorious river. For me, this river represents the beauty in what is seemingly hopeless.
Now if only people would stop using it as their trash can.
It seems like the water gets darker each time I visit and the romantic qualities are slowly withering away.
Regardless of its inhospitable reputation, this tainted river of green is the foundation of my utopia, my designated “safe zone.”
Let’s hope it’s still here in the future for our grandchildren to enjoy.
Narisa Impraset can be reached at nimprasert@spartans.ut.edu
Beautiful imagery, Narisa.
Beautiful imagery, Narisa