picinic island park BY EDWARD C. WOODWARD

Picnic Island Park is a Richard Scarry book come to life. Standing on the park shoreline overlooking Old Tampa Bay, Sam and I watched boats, coasting pelicans, and cars and trucks on Gandy Bridge. “Whoa,” he said seeing airplanes bank towards Tampa International Airport. Across the bay, downtown St. Petersburg resembled a Little People metro playset. Dome baseball stadium shown, but not included.       Wide open spaces like Picnic Island quiet the voices of the-sky-is-falling talk radio with its rants about the stock market’s demise and the ills of socialism. When you marvel that you couldn’t feel a cloud you could touch were you tall enough, people on the world’s stage seem comical. And being with a toddler reminds me to play.       Underfoot on the shore Sam found pink and white rocks and shells that he hurled into the bay as boys with objects near water will do. If our e-mail updates about developmental stages were baseball specific, Sam’s might read: “By now your 22th month old might paint the outside corner with low heat. Duck at close range.” We try to throw soft objects inside, but Sam mixes in the misplaced golf ball or hard toy. If you’re within a few feet and see his arm retract, you’ve got about a second to stop him. Otherwise, his quick release tests your agility and threshold for pain; it takes Matrix skills to escape. _______  The canopied mangroves intertwine, their limbs filtering the sunlight so shadows dance on the sand.  _______       Sam could have stayed on the shoreline the whole time. And I could have written a column on the nuances or randomness of objects found and hurled by a toddler, but there’s more to Picnic Island than its Zen-like training ground for major league pitchers. So I scooped Sam up and took the mangrove trail bordering the bay that winds north east to a quiet inlet. The canopied mangroves intertwine, their limbs filtering the sunlight so shadows dance on the sand. It’s a mysterious tropical Sherwood Forest. And since mysterious forests house literary legends, this one is home to a modern day Robin Hood, Florida style. Here, the stealth Hawaiian-shirt-clad hero pilfers gas from Port Tampa tankers to relieve recreational boaters in need. And since many Florida literary characters require quirks and kickbacks, our Robin Hood, torn by a fear of water yet an insatiable appetite for mullet, demands food for gas; preferably fried and served with cheese grits.       Out of the woods and back to reality, Sam and I watched a large jet land at neighboring MacDill Air Force Base. If your little one’s an airplane aficionado, Picnic Island joins Ballast Point Park, and Weedon Island Preserve’s 45 foot tall observation tower as easy-to-reach places to watch noisy metal objects improbably stay afloat in the sky. As the MacDill plane landed, its tail remained visible, a shark’s fin slicing through mangrove tops. The setting reminded me of “Airplane,” the movie, where a jet’s tail mimicking Jaws’ fin ominously tracks through clouds. _______  You deserve a break from fairies, rainbows, and giggling shag-carpet puppets. _______        If you’re a 1980s movie buff, here’s your chance to tangentially shape your younger set’s cinematic tastes and relive a fine decade for film. You could segue from “Airplane” to more family friendly movies such as “The Goonies,” “E.T: The Extra Terrestrial” and “A Christmas Story.” You deserve a break from fairies, rainbows, and giggling shag-carpet puppets. If you need to meet in the middle, I recommend “The Backyardigans: Tale of the Mighty Knights,” with its wicked guitar riffs, radio pop-worthy melodies, and quirky characters. My favorite? A kleptomaniac goblin with a soft spot for manners: he repents when he hears “please.”        As we reentered the mangrove forest, Sam squatted, grabbed a shell, and intently drew lines in wet sand. Reflecting on that moment now, sitting in my office overlooking our Sanford and Son version of a toy junk yard, I’m baffled by the amount of plastic manufactured for play. I don’t want to live in a mud hut and wear palm frond pants, but seeing Sam play with found objects reminds me that an ever changing, undiscovered world is literally at hand. And fascinating, judging by Sam’s concentration.       If our economy implodes, at least we’ll still have free public parks with sticks, rocks and other makeshift toys. Let the kids run wild and we’ll gather around our portable DVD players for a 80s flick marathon. I’m bringing “Real Genius,” so bring something else.