WHO SAYS DREAMS AREN’T REAL?

That Time I Briefly Convinced Floridians That Dinosaurs Had Returned

Vivid Dream 15

This is a piece in a growing series of mine about dreams and lucid dreaming. In these stories, I give first-person accountings of some of the dreams that I have each night. Identities and locations can shift around with little to no warning and the narratives don’t follow typical plot structures. For more of these stories, click here.

Before going to sleep, I stumble on a video about a man who wreaked havoc on Florida residents for years by leaving dinosaur tracks along a series of Clearwater beaches.

Read that story here for context:

And suddenly, I’m him. I’m walking along the beach with shoes that are far too colossal to be managed. The prospect of making it more than just a few feet in these giant, metal dinosaur feet seems like more of a burden than I can bear. But as I teeter back and forth in the sand on this quiet Floridian shore, I try to gather enough momentum to leap forward.

The tracks need to be convincing if I’m going to persuade people that these are authentic dinosaur footprints. The sky is maroon and the sun is still hours below the horizon. The only sound I can hear is waves crashing gently on the beach as I bound clumsily forward in my giant T-rex feet. This is absolutely painstaking. But to terrify these uptight Floridians, it’s worth it. It’s worked for years — why would I quit now?

As I continue to leap maniacally forward in my homemade costume, my feet begin to ache. My silhouette rises and falls gracefully against the setting moon and the receding tide. At least the upper half of it does. The bottom half looks decidedly like the flailing legs of a prehistoric beast on a trampoline. Part man and part dinosaur — an abomination of nature. The hybrid that was never meant to be. Dinoman? Minosaur? Manodin?

I digress.

As I continue long jumping erratically up the beach like a defeated kangaroo, I begin to notice that my custom dinosaur feet have begun to show some damage. They’re already partially held together with duct tape; these 30 lb bricks of lead may not have much longer for this world. As I examine them, though, I hear a voice.

“I wouldn’t have picked such a humid night to take these things out.”

But I know it means no harm. The voice is warm and reassuring. It continues to speak about the shoes in a surprisingly professional manner — almost as though he’s built them himself… wait a minute. Is this the voice of Tony Signorini? The great “Clearwater Monster” in the flesh? The voice comes from out of nowhere. But it’s friendly enough that it hardly feels haunting.

“Always important to check the weather before coming out,” it continues. I wonder whether I’ve made a mistake in coming out here tonight. Disembodied voice or not, this benevolent prankster has some pretty helpful advice.

“These bad boys don’t always fair that well in certain conditions. I’d call it quits for now and just try again later this week.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say, hiding my defeat.

I prance meekly back to the rowboat that I’ve docked along the shore, supremely unimpressed by my encounter with the surprisingly good-natured spirit. As the sun begins to rise, I make my escape from this Floridian beach and back into the world of the waking.

That was an odd one.

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