CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT: MARCH REEF MADNESS

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT: MARCH REEF MADNESS

Brad Bertelli wrote a little history about the reef near Key Largo, and it was posted April 6, 2012 on KeysNet.com. It is very similar to the Lighthousefriends.com article (with photos) about this reef and its lighthouse. One of the coolest parts of this cruising adventure with the Admiral has been learning about the history of the people and places we are visiting. So here is a summary, thanks to Mr. Bertelli and Lighthousefriends.com, of the history of Carysfort Reef. According to Bertelli, “Carysfort Reef is the single most dangerous tract of coral” in the entire chain that forms the reef all along the Keys. Lots of ships wrecked on this part of the reef, which is four miles long. In his dramatic fashion, Bertelli writes “Once upon a time, verdant forests of elkhorn and staghorn corals were reaching up with limestone daggers.” Oh yeah, that’s where I would want to go snorkeling, wouldn’t you? But read on – it just might be worth it.

Carysfort Reef is six miles off the coast of North Key Largo. It has claimed the lives of many who wrecked on its coral, starting with the first recorded North American shipwreck, according to Bertelli. This first ship that wrecked, the HMS Winchester was heading from Jamaica to England in September 1695. It was a 60 gun battleship. Most of the crew had scurvy, including the first captain, Edward Bibb. He was replaced by Captain John Soule, who has the misfortune of guiding the ship when a storm arose and blew the ship off course right into the reef, where it was “impaled by the coral.” Bertelli has a way with words. It wasn’t until 1938 that some cannonballs from the Winchester were located just one and a half miles southwest of the Carysfort Reef. They must have been pretty heavy to have stuck around in the same area – through hurricane force winds and churning tides – for nearly 250 years. This last tidbit about the cannonballs discovery is from Wikipedia, which by the way called the Winchester a “fourth rate ship of the line of the English Royal Navy.” In the book, Famous Shipwrecks of the Florida Keys (Bob Weller), it is reported that the cannonballs had certain markings (like fingerprints, I guess) that matched them to the Winchester. Also found was a prayer book, along with some silver coins, anchors, musket balls, and cannons. Twelve years later, there was a second effort to find remains from the Winchester, and the salvagers found a bunch of stuff, including pewter ware and a gold watch. (Hey kids, what time is it? Time to plunder more valuables from the Winchester!)

Remember that the crew was suffering from scurvy? The original captain, Bibb, had been dropped off in Jamaica. The other scurvy-infected crew members were not so lucky. By the time the storm hit the Winchester, according to one historical source, there were only 8 healthy crew members left to try to prevent the impalement on the coral. Only a few of the 400 strong crew members were rescued, including Captain Soule, but most of them were “lost at sea”.

You may ask: “How did the Reef get its name?” I can answer that. A ship called the HMS Carrysford, a 28 gun British frigate (“sixth rate”), was punctured by the coral in its hull in 1770. She was used in the American Revolution, the French Revolutionary and the Napoleonic Wars. She was one tough bird. She was cut open by the Reef, but she did not sink, miraculously, and ultimately sailed away from the Reef and on to her illustrious history – even though she was 6^th rate. There must have been some remarkable hull repair people on board (and a lot of duct tape). At any rate, “Carrysford” became “Carysfort” over time. What a great idea – to name the Reef for the one that got away! There are some sources I have found that call this ship the HMS Carysfort, so either the Reef was named exactly for the frigate or it changed slightly over time. Small matter, she survived, and ended up on the wrong side of the War for Independence, but survived all of her war time encounters and captured at least one privateer during that War.

With lots of ships crashing on the coral of the Carysfort Reef, someone came up with the grand idea of putting up warning lights around the reef. At first, those warning lights were attached to ships stationed next to the reef. The first “light ship” was the Caesar, a two lantern schooner out of New York. Ever the profligate spender, in 1824 Congress gave $20,000 to light the reef, and the Caesar left New York Harbor to do just that. The lanterns on this ship were supposed to be visible for twelve miles. In addition to the lanterns, which were attached to the schooner’s masts, the Caesar had bells that rang every time the schooner was moved by the currents. The Caesar did not make it to Carysfort Reef on the first try. She was forced ashore near Key Biscayne, and her crew abandoned her. Wreckers took her to Key West and got a high price for the salvage. She was repaired and then set sail under Captain Whalton and a new crew, landing at Turtle Harbor, which is near the Carysfort Reef. Turns out she might have well have stayed in Key West. She anchored next to the reef and lit the lanterns, but they were a bust, apparently. Ships could not see them, even as they got really close to the Reef, never mind the manufacturer’s representation that they were visible for 12 miles.

One of the hapless ships that failed to see the lights or hear the bells was the Guerrero, a Spanish ship with 561 Africans who were captured and being brought to the “New World” as slaves. A British warship, aptly named HMS Nimble, tried to run down the Guerrero, and when Guerrero could not outrun Nimble, a battle ensued. Captain Whalton on the Caesar heard the exchange of cannon fire. So the ships were pretty close to the Reef, and sure enough, the Guerrero crashed into the Reef on December 19, 1827, breaking her two masts. The captured Africans were in the hold, and forty of them drowned. The Nimble hit the Reef too, but was able to extricate herself and sail away. You can probably hear the Congressmen during their inquiry: “What did $20,000 get us? Lights that can’t be seen, bells that can’t be heard?” I didn’t find any records of an inquiry, but there should have been one.

Despite her dismal performance, the Caesar maintained her post and kept the lights burning along the Carysfort Reef for about six years, before she was taken back to Key West for routine inspection. It turned out that it wasn’t just the lights which were inferior. The timbers used to build Caesar had all rotted and were full of fungus growth. She was useless. And so, true to form, Congress appropriated another $20,000 for another lightship (the first one had been sooo successful). The next ship, the Florida, was – you guessed it – built by the same guy who built the Caesar, using wood that rotted easily. This time, it was reported, that he used rot-resistant live oak. And Captain Whalton, never one to give up a cushy job, took command of the Florida and sailed it to Turtle Harbor, where he tried again to provide a warning to ships that sailed near Carysfort Reef. In his spare time, he and his crew members started a garden of fresh fruits and vegetables on a piece of land in North Key Largo, because his supply ships were not reliable.

Enter the Seminoles – not in a good way. On June 26, 1837, Captain Whalton and four of his crew went ashore to tend their garden. When they touched land, they were shot at by Seminole warriors. The captain and one of his crew were killed. The other three escaped, but two of them were wounded. This next part is not for the faint of heart. Captain Whalton and the other crew member were scalped, their bodies were stripped and they were stabbed several times. One of Captain Whalton’s fingers was cut off to get his ring. The Seminoles left the area, and two other crews, from the Pee Dee and Brilliant, went ashore to rescue the remaining crew and take the remains of Captain Whalton and the other man for burial. This was during the Second Seminole War. One source says this incident may have provoked the Second Seminole War. But at that point, neither the Seminoles nor their would-be subjugators needed much provocation to go after each other. The location of this attack, which is at Mile Marker 106, is called Garden Cove.

Back to the Reef – between 1833 and 1841 there were 324 shipwrecks reports on the entire Florida Reef. Sixty three of those wrecks, or 20 percent, occurred around the Carysfort Reef. Something better than the lightships was clearly needed to ward off unsuspecting ships. So in 1948, the great spendthrift, Congress, allocated money to build a permanent lighthouse. The lighthouse was not completed until 1852, so ships were still dealing with the less than helpful lightships until that point. Lt. David D. Porter, USN, commander of the mail steamer Georgia, wrote in 1851:”the floating lightship, showing two lights, intended to be seen twelve miles, but they are scarcely discernible from the outer ledge of Carysfort Reef, which is from four to five miles distant. On to [sic] occasions I have passed it at night, when the lights were either very dim or not lighted.”

About the lighthouse, it was started by Captain Howard Stansbury of the U.S. Corps of Topographical Engineers, who set it in place, then left the project. It had a 112 foot tower. The job was finished by none other than Lt. George Meade in 1852 – the very George Meade who was one of the Union generals to defeat General Lee at Gettysburg in the next decade. It was the first such lighthouse in Florida. It still stands to this day. Up until 1960, when it became automated, light keepers lived at the lighthouse. The U.S. Coast Guard was given jurisdiction over the lighthouse in 1939. One of its light keepers, Frank Taylor, when assigned to the Carysfort Lighthouse, said “it was almost like I was being taken to Alcatraz.” Still, he learned to snorkel while in this assignment, because, in his words, “there was really nothing to do.” He had a black and white TV with poor reception and a few books. Poor baby – no IPhone or I Pad or 24/7 satellite TV. Talk about your complainers! So the trade-off was that he learned how to snorkel and catch fish with a spear gun, on government time. Never mind that this Reef is actually one of the best places in the world for snorkeling. And it’s only six miles off the coast of North Key Largo. The Reef itself is supposed to be magnificent, with its various coral structures, which play host to tons of colorful fishes and turtles and rays, so I’ve read.

The last major shipwreck on Carysfort Reef occurred in 1989, when a 155 foot long, 244 ton ship, the Alec Owen Maitland, impaled itself on the reef. The captain exacerbated the situation by putting the ship in reverse to try to power off the coral. In so doing, he destroyed a lot of coral, jeopardizing the integrity of the entire reef. Fortunately, there was a “Reef Doctor” named Harold Hudson, who knew what to do to make repairs. He used concrete slabs to rebuild the reef. Not pretty, but apparently effective. The Reef remains relatively healthy today, as it is not frequented on a daily basis by the myriad tourist dive and snorkeling boats that leave the canal where we are docked at Marina del Mar in Key Largo. Parts of the reef are as shallow as five feet and the deepest parts go to 25 feet. I would like to go out there to see the red and white lighthouse and to snorkel, but so far we have had only one calm day for snorkeling in the month we have been here. There’s still time, and once the spring breakers return North, it will be easier to find a snorkeling boat willing to make the trip out there. With any luck, I will see Carysfort Reef up close and personally, but not so close as to get stuck on one of its stalagmites. I’ll keep you posted.

With the title, “March Reef Madness”, were you expecting some roundball too? The best game I saw this year was Baylor thumping on Kansas, with Pierre Jackson having his way up and down the court, destroying whatever there was of a Kansas defense and shooting with impunity. This was before the Men’s NCAA Tournament began. I think Baylor’s still in the NIT, and I know that Kansas was lucky to make it to the Sweet Sixteen. Michigan put them out of their misery last night – in overtime. FGCU, the 15^th seeded upstart from Fort Myers, succumbed to the greater depth of the Gators. On the up side, this means no more stupid stories about the lucky FGCU coach who “bagged” a “top model” for his wife. Really! If you want to see some women at the top of their game, tune in today and tomorrow for the semifinals of the Women’s NCAA Tourney. UConn looks unbeatable, but so do Baylor and Stanford. I used to avoid women’s basketball, because it appeared so much slower – and who shoots free throws underhanded anymore? Anyone?  Rick Barry? But watching UConn and Maryland today, the action is riveting. The officiating stinks – women are being clobbered and no fouls are being called. Hmmm – maybe it’s getting to be a bit too much like the men’s game.

Speaking of fouls not be called, what’s the deal with Antonin Scalia being able to shoot his mouth off, spouting untruths during the arguments before the Supreme Court this week on same sex marriage – and getting away with it? I cry “Foul!” He absolutely lied, lied, lied that sociologists are divided about whether children of same sex partners are “damaged”, when in fact, the American Sociologists Association had filed a brief with the Court stating unequivocally, based on years of research, that children in same sex marriages are NOT damaged – in fact, they are in very good shape, thank you very much. Which is worse, the Scalia did not read the brief before taking the bench, or that he read the brief and simply outright lied? Personally, I think he lied. Remember his comments in his 1996 dissent in Romer v Evans, which challenged Colorado’s statute prohibiting local jurisdictions from outlawing discrimination based on sexual orientation? He compared homosexuality to murder as two moral issues he was entitled to be repulsed by:

“Of course it is our moral heritage that one should not hate any human being or class of human beings,” Scalia wrote. And then he dropped the hammer: “But I had thought that one could consider certain conduct reprehensible – murder, for example, or polygamy, or cruelty to animals – and could exhibit even ‘animus’ toward such conduct. Surely that is the only sort of ‘animus’ at issue here: moral disapproval of homosexual conduct[.]”  

So the big question is: Why didn’t this bigoted bloviator recuse himself for the same sex marriage cases? There is no doubt that he finds homosexuality morally reprehensible. He would probably recognize the right of a murderer to marry before he would ever recognize the rights of two homosexuals to marry. His mind was already made up about this issue when he was an altar boy, no doubt. Does he not see the conflict of interest that exists when a judge is totally close-minded and PREJUDICED on a major civil rights issue before the Court? This is quite different from the judge who presided in federal court over the trial in San Francisco on the constitutionality of Prop 8, which violated the basic rights of gays to marry. That judge was, oh my God, gay, and according to the far right, not capable of being fair in ruling on this civil rights issue. Oh really, I guess that excludes all fair-minded Black judges from ruling on an issue involving discrimination against Blacks. The difference is that gays and Blacks, unless they are bigots like Scalia (read: Justice Thomas), do not have a conflict of interest in following the law, particularly the constitutional right to equal protection of the laws. Scalia, by virtue of his bigotry, is incapable of following the law. He wants to deny equal protection of the law to homosexuals because he hates them, just like he apparently hates murderers, polygamists and people who are cruel to animals. Justice Scalia, you are out of order! Recuse yourself! Hold on to your “animus”, your intolerance; just don’t impose it on me and the rest of the citizens who expect enforcement of the constitutional right to due process and equal protection. Shame on you! If Ruth Bader Ginsburg was ever your friend, it’s time for her to step away from you now. You are beyond the pale. You are a throwback to Plessy v. Ferguson and Dred Scott. And you are a disgrace to the Supreme Court.

Baseball starts next week. GO GIANTS! Remember Sergio Romo’s victory T shirt – “I just look illegal”? You gotta love these guys. Word of advice: Put Tim in the bullpen. Anyone remember Dennis Eckersley’s stellar career first as a starter and then as a closer? Tim Lincecum – Cy Young for outstanding middle relief work. It could happen. Let the season begin! Beat L.A.!

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN: WHAT A REEF!

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN: WHAT A REEF!

First, a shout out to my homegirl, Tammy, who is recovering and rehabbing from hip replacement surgery. We’ll all be there someday. Our bodies are just like boats. Everything’s broken. We just don’t know it yet. And as long as we can walk and bike and swim and hike, we better grab at the opportunity to exercise the joints and muscles and tendons and ligaments. I remember when Chuck broke a bone in my foot when he was losing at racquetball (just a coincidence that the bone break happened when he was losing), and I had to wear a cast and use a crutch for a while. I promised, promised myself that when I got rid of the cast and crutch I would walk long distances every day to make up for the time I had to sit and lie around and heal. I still have to remember those days of forced inactivity whenever I slouch through a day without exercise, with a trail of lame excuses dragging behind me: “If I had a walking buddy, I’d go;” “It’s too cold;” “It’s too hot;” “I’m tired;” “Tomorrow I’ll walk AND ride, but not today;” “The best time is at 8:00 a.m. and now it’s too late.” I bet you have some favorites too – oh, here’s another one: “the house cleaning tasks are exercise, so I don’t have to walk today.” But just go back to that time when you couldn’t walk – foot in cast or whatever disability – and suddenly walking seems like the most important thing in the world – the ONLY thing you ever wanted to do. Okay, that takes care of the legs and the cardio system. Anybody got a good daily exercise for the upper arms? Let’s assume you’re not always next to a pool, so daily swimming is out. Any suggestions? Send them my way.

Speaking of swimming, yesterday, March 20, I went swimming in a wet suit for the first time. And while I was swimming, I was snorkeling over the most incredibly fragile reef filled with colorful fishes, a gorgeous brown and white turtle doing dog paddle, and according to other snorkelers, an octopus that changed colors like a chameleon. Yesterday was the first day when conditions were perfect for a snorkeling expedition at the reefs off Key Largo. The Admiral played a key role in getting me to take full advantage of the sunny day with a wind of 1 knot and dead calm waters. I was just lounging around in our stateroom. It was about 9 a.m., and I took a desultory look at my IPhone to check for emails. The Admiral had emailed me sometime early that morning that this was going to be the best day for snorkeling ever – the first day of its kind since we arrived in the Keys on February 24. As I read this email, I jumped out of bed and hustled through breakfast, then headed out to ticket booth for the catamaran Reef Roamer and signed up for their 12:30 p.m. snorkeling cruise. I was stoked! This was a day like no other – not like the day I went out in the Glass Bottom boat on choppy seas and returned chilled to the bone.

Every snorkeling concession is a world of its own. The Reef Roamer concession had a smokin’ (as in “Yecch! Haven’t you got the word about cigarettes and cancer?”) ticket taker, who loved the brevity of my name. It had a First Mate, Alan, who is charming and personable, fortunately, because he works for tips. It had a Captain, John, who had maneuvered his “Cat” through the channel past Crash Corner and out into the ocean just a few thousand times before. And it had us, the paying customers, from Vancouver, B.C. to Westfield and Barnstable, Massachusetts, and south to Argentina. We ranged from the skinny little 8 year old, for whom the 74 degree water was way too cold, to the Argentinian lovebirds, to the cops whose wives checked their breaths for alcohol, to the woman from Cape Cod, who with her husband ran a kayaking rental service on the Bass River on the Cape and came to Florida to snorkel for a vacation away from vacationers. Seventy four degrees sounds warm for water, but it was not. I wore a wet suit and shivered just about as much as the 8 year old boy. But once I was in the water and started looking down through my mask, the sense of coldness was overwhelmed by the magic of entering another world – one of wafting moose ears ( I think they’re called elk ears), lacy-looking leaves that could cut you up, and large schools of fish everywhere. I was so close to the coral reef at our first stop, Sea Garden, that I was afraid I would brush the reef with my legs. So I swam for the canyons between the reefs and ran into that brown and white turtle. The Cape Cod kayaker let me buddy up with her and another woman, so I felt pretty safe, despite the fact that I had not been swimming for months – and I had not been snorkeling for years.

After visiting the Sea Garden, we cruised over to another mooring ball next to a reef called White Bank. The water was colder there, except for a few warm pockets. The sergeant majors, black and yellow striped fish, were in abundance. However, I was getting cold and winded. This is what I mean about daily exercise and staying in shape. The Cape Cod woman was the first to leave the catamaran and the last to return at both stops. She was obviously in good shape. I was not. So she had the distinct pleasure of witnessing an octopus come up from the bottom and swim around in front of her, changing its color and changing its “skin” over and over again. She also saw a sting ray. That’s the fun of snorkeling – you never know who among the ocean dwellers will come out to greet you, if you stick around long enough. This means that I have to go snorkeling again and I have swim around the reef longer, until the exotic denizens of the sea decide to take a look at me. I just saw the Reef Roamer returning today from its 12:30 snorkeling trip. I heard laughter coming from the catamaran. That was me and my world yesterday. Alan earned his tips. He and Captain John made this a memorable experience, sharing what they knew about the two sites we were visiting, warning us about the jelly fish, and expressing their happiness with our “discoveries”. They said they rarely saw turtles and that ours was the first trip where snorkelers saw an octopus. They also said this was the first day in more than a month that the conditions were right for snorkeling. So, thank you very much, Admiral, for watching the weather, winds and currents and spurring me on to a day of adventure on the reefs.

A day of exploration is often followed by a day of mundane chores here at Key Largo. And today was no exception. It was laundry day, which means getting lots of quarters and heading with two bags full of laundry to the machines in the Courtyard Marriott parking garage. Somehow this particular duty has fallen upon my shoulders. I’m not complaining. Who could, when the Admiral himself prepares most of the meals, and keeps Slow Motion shipshape, and rides the bike to the store for supplies? And there are good parts about doing the laundry – like clean towels and underwear. Here in Paradise, it also means that I don’t have to sit or stand in some dingy underground laundry room while the washer is rinsing and spinning. Instead, I can take my murder mystery up to the pool and slather sun screen on, then soak up the sun on a lounge chair. Don’t hate me because I’m living in Paradise. Get the best revenge – come visit, and you too can sit by the pool and read murder mysteries with me. I’ll even throw in a box of bon bons for munching on, while we’re lounging. And we’ll do that, whether it’s laundry day or not. Or we’ll go snorkeling together. I’m sure the next perfect day for snorkeling is waiting for your arrival. So come on down! We’re staying until the third week in April. There’s still plenty of time to visit us in the Keys.

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX: THEATER FOR ONE, PLEASE

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX: THEATER FOR ONE, PLEASE

I was sitting outside the Winn Dixie on Monday and decided it was time to see a movie. So I punched in “movies near Key Largo” on my IPhone and came up with Cinema 5. I asked for directions and found out it was 472 feet from where we were parked. So I looked up from my IPhone and there it was! Then the IPhone, which usually tells you how much time it will take to drive to a location, simply said: “You can walk”. No kidding. Next, I called the Cinema 5 number and, miracle of miracles, got a real voice! Haven’t they heard of the robo-voice for movie theaters, a rage that spread throughout the country more than 10 years ago? Apparently not, thankfully. So I took full advantage of this real person and asked about each movie that was showing and at what times, on how many screens. That last question about the screens drew a laugh. I didn’t know why at the time. Aside from the usual blockbusters and teen vampire movies, Cinema 5 was showing “Quartet”. I had just seen Maggie Smith on 60 Minutes the week before, so I knew about this movie and her famous “F--- you!” line in it. But that wasn’t the attraction. I knew this was a movie about retired opera singers, and I expected it to be full of lovely music. So I planned to go see it Monday night.

At about 7 p.m. on Monday night I drove into a nearly empty parking lot by the movie theater. But it was twenty minutes before the movie started, so I figured I had beaten the crowd. I walked up to the theater, and there were two guys heading into see “Oz”, which started at 7. Behind the counter were three people, one clearly in charge, using big words to dominate his teenaged help. I didn’t even have to say “senior” – actually, I haven’t had to say “senior” for a while now. The face wrinkles give me away. That, and my request for “one” for “Quartet”. I think there’s an age requirement for that movie – you have to be at least sixty to want to see it and sixty two to want to see it bad enough to pay for it. While loitering around the popcorn/candy display I noticed the largest box of Dots I had ever seen, so I indulged. They had Big City prices for the candy. Armed with my Dots, I entered the theater for “Quartet”. It was empty. Okay, it was 7:05, plenty of time for the rest of the audience to show up. After all, “it’s the Keys, Baby.” One guy had just rushed in at the last minute to see “Identity Crisis”, after he was assured that it was laugh-out-loud funny. My empty theater held about 75 seats or so. And I had my pick. I knew wherever I say that someone with a big head would sit right in front of me, but this time I figured I could move if that happened (as it always does).

I sat down in the best seat in the house, and the screen came to life, as if I had sat on an activation button. There was a least five minutes of drivel, then the previews started coming. I saw Harrison Ford looking avuncular in the upcoming movie about Jackie Robinson (can’t picture him as dashing Han Solo any more). As 5 previews appeared before my eyes, I also noticed that no one else had entered the theater. Then the screen announced that the feature was about to begin. Still, no one else. I went to the door and closed it – this appears to be a do-it-yourself kind of place. No one barged in as the film began. So there I was at a private screening of “Quartet”. No sounds of plastic wrappers, popcorn eating or cell phones beeping or singing. Just me and Tom Courtenay (dreamy!) and Maggie Smith and Billy Connolly (droll!) and the woman who played Cissy – and the sounds of classical music – for one hour and 48 minutes. It was delightful. As I left, I thanked the big boss for the private viewing, and he said “No extra cost either!” I asked about movies for the rest of the month, but he only had for the next week. This is my newest “go to” place. And the price is right: $7.50. The Admiral and I were looking at concerts in the Miami area this weekend, and the few tickets remaining for a classical concert are going for $400 – per person! No thanks, I’ll enjoy my neighborhood theater many times over for a lot less. Hope they’re planning to show some more indie movies. The schedule changes today, Thursday, so I’ll find out soon. This is just another service I can offer you on your visit to us in Key Largo – private showings of relatively new releases. Yowzah!

Key Largo is the Dive Center of the world. There are at least 10 commercial dive boats in our canal, and they go out to the reef every day filled with shaking, quaking wannabe divers. Mostly, they’re shaking and quaking because it is been unseasonably cool during this Spring Break, with temps in the 60’s and 70’s and winds at 20 mph. But they have just this one week, and they came here to dive on the famous reef that is five miles off the coast and stretches the length of the Keys. Snorkelers are also welcome, but diving is what draws the big herds of college students. Having developed a small case of cabin fever in the past few days, I scheduled an afternoon of snorkeling yesterday, Wednesday. But when I awakened, the day greeted me with the same wind that’s been tearing through the palms all week. Snorkeling in very choppy water is not my idea of fun, especially when it’s also relatively cold. So I cancelled that reservation and bought a ticket for the glass bottom boat that also leaves from this canal. The glass bottom boat goes out to Molasses Reef and spends about a half hour slowly cruising over the top of the reef. During that period, you can sit on the floor in the salon and look down through the large glass frames on the bottom of the boat. I did that. It was cool, and except for the excessive air conditioning on the boat, it was a comfortable way to watch the coral swing and sway and follow schools of colorful fish – sergeant majors (yellow and black) were the most abundant. There were also a lot of barracudas. Much as the fish were beautiful, it was the coral that hypnotized me. There were so many different varieties, and they each had their own distinctive graceful movements. But the sea was angry, my friends, and the winds were strong, so we rocked and rolled back to home base. This was a surefire cure for my cabin fever. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and get warm.

The glass bottom boat attracted some students, but it was a much more mixed group of tourists on the trip I took. There was the family from Galveston, Texas, whose dad wore his Oshkosh overalls and hefty mom wore her Daisy Dukes. They were headed to Key West, but stopped on the way to take this two hour cruise. They had also stopped at a cousin’s in Louisiana for the weekend, and according to the dad, he had gotten drunk all three days. What a vacation role model for his son! There were the two guys from Jersey, one a pro wrestling fanatic who ran down the history of this “sport” from the Rock to Steve Austin to names I’ve never heard. There were the three Latinas, who huddled with their drinks in the bow of the boat, as the one in the strapless dress and leopard print shawl, reported that her husband or boyfriend had hacked her email out of jealousy. Damn that wind! I could have overheard so much more, if it had just been a little quieter. There was the lovey-dovey Aussie couple; again, damn that wind! And there were the two college guys, one who appeared to be a complete dork, who shepherded around seven lovely college girls – the guys were in heaven. Especially the dork, who carried a huge old fashioned looking camera and kept snapping photos for his memories years later of the best day of his life.

I don’t want to bore you with more about the Admiral’s culinary skills, but last night he served fajitas, one of his signature dishes. The tortillas were so fresh, the sirloin steak was marinated to a “T”, the green and red peppers from the produce stand were delicious, and mixed with sour cream, shredded cheese and salsa, this was a feast for the eyes and the stomach. This spectacular dish came after a delicious shrimp stir fry and a meal of fresh lobster meat, fresh from Gary Sands’ lobster boat. The Admiral had brought the lobsters on to the boat, while they were still alive. These spiny lobsters are kind of scary looking. But with 15-20 years of lobster fishing experience in his background, the Admiral knew exactly how to cook them. The meat was so tender. Just a small footnote to this dinner: It is very strange to me to eat an animal, which I personally saw live just an hour before eating it. This happened with the fresh crab, and now with the fresh lobster. The experiences have not made me a vegetarian, but I am ever mindful of this fact, as I am dipping the crab or lobster in butter and savoring their flavors. Moving right along, the Admiral’s breakfasts, oh my God, the breakfasts are a very tasty mix of eggs, fresh green peppers, various cheeses and some kind of meat (bacon, sausage or ham) mixed with seasonings concocted by the Admiral and served piping hot. I can’t forget the blueberry pancakes that started off this week – flipped to perfection, and full of blueberries. Yummy.

So now you’re pretty much up to date on the exciting times we are living in Key Largo in mid-March. Movies, coral reefs and fabulous eats. Beware the Ides of March tomorrow.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE: HAIR WE GO, ADMIRAL!

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE: HAIR WE GO, ADMIRAL!

It’s Sunday afternoon, March 10, and I’ve just finished my first Laura Lippman mystery (protagonist Baltimore PI Tess Monaghan). It’s windy, not a great day for a walk or a bike ride. What to do? What to do? Not a very good day for swimming or lounging by one of the four pools. What to do? What to do? There was something the Admiral wanted to do – what was it? Oh yes, the haircut. For the past two weeks, every time we passed a barber shop, I suggested it would be a good time for a haircut. As you may know, that’s not the way to get the Admiral – or perhaps anyone with a mind of their own – to do something, even if he himself plans to do it. And so, more weeks have gone by and the Admiral’s healthy head of hair has grown – ever since his cut at the red, white and blue striped barber cottage near Thunderbolt, Georgia in November. He can be mistaken for any Ivy League professor at this point and he’s heading to hippiedom.

I turned to the Admiral and said innocently “How about a haircut?” I fully expected a look of horror at the thought that he would turn his beautiful strands over to me, who has never, ever cut anyone’s hair (dolls don’t count). But he said, “Get a couple of sheets. I’ll get the hair cutting kit.” Yes, the Admiral has a hair cutting kit, replete with precision scissors and an electric cutter/razor with about 12 different size combs. It also has an instruction booklet. The Admiral said: “Here, read this booklet and learn how to use these tools, before you start cutting.” What just happened? Now I’m headed down a path I thought I would never take, and the stakes are really, really high. If I blow this, and the Admiral becomes the laughingstock of the marina, what does this do to our relationship? The Admiral mentioned in passing that he can always go to a barber tomorrow to clean up the mistakes I make today. THAT’S encouraging. As I read the booklet, I learned that each of the combs is for a different purpose, when you are shaving/cutting a guy’s hair. There is even a left ear comb, and there is a right ear comb. God help me, these things exist – and they’re in this verdammte hair cutting kit.

I had read the first few pages of the booklet, and the Admiral had laid out the sheet under his chair and put the plastic protective robe over himself. There was nothing left to do but tie the coverlet and commence with the cutting. I have rarely been so nervous in my entire life. The Admiral was supportive, suggesting that I start at the back and work my way up. I took the largest comb and attached it to the electric cutting device, hoping that whatever mistakes I made would be small and fixable. But I found out quickly that even with the largest comb, that electric cutter removes a lot of hair quickly. No, the Admiral was not immediately turned into a skinhead. But I saw an awful lot of hair falling on to the sheet. The Admiral said it felt “good”, and he urged me to start on the sides. Meanwhile, he was in such a good mood, at that point, that he sent out an SOS to family members on both sides. My brother emailed back that it was “too late”. Now I’m here to tell you, the sides are tricky, especially when you’re dealing with 4 to 5 months of growth. Every time I thought I got one side looking pretty good, and I would turn my attention to the other side, when I returned to the first side, there were long hairs sticking out that didn’t belong. You’re right, this was beginning to sound like a disaster.

But the Admiral thought the sides “felt okay”, so we moved on to the hair on top. The Admiral has a part, and on one side of this part are his longest hairs, I mean, really long. I turned on the electric cutter and went to the precision scissors to try to get more control over how much I was cutting at one time. The scissors were great. They would have worked better, if my hands had not been shaking. The front was looking pretty good, but the back, that darned cowlick that sticks up even after the Admiral leaves a professional barber’s chair, that thing was driving me crazy. I had visions of Alfalfa, if I cut off too much of this cowlick, and so I left it long. Then we seemed to be done. I was done, that’s for sure. We took off the coverlet, and shook the hair on to the sheet, we folded up the sheet, and plan to take it to a large field to release the hair tomorrow. The Admiral took a comb to his hair, and, lo and behold, he gave himself a different part than I had given him. And so, instantly, the hair on the down side of the part was too long for that side, way too long. The other thing that “stuck out” to the Admiral was that, in his words, I had given him a “bowl cut.” Oh no, not a bowl cut! Those are the cuts my mother gave to me and my sister, Sue, for years, when we were in elementary school. And when you have a bowl cut with fine hair, there is no mistaking it for anything else. I couldn’t believe that I had channeled my mother, while I was cutting the Admiral’s hair. But he was right! The sides read “soup bowl”.

We put the sheet back down on the floor, covered the Admiral with the plastic once more, and went back to work. The Admiral became more actively involved in the work, directing me to cut each layer a different length as I went up the sides of his head. I was worried that perhaps the only cut I was capable of giving was a bowl cut, based on my genes. But I gamely tried what the Admiral suggested. And, miracles of miracles, the bowl cut look started disappearing before my eyes. I get it! Don’t cut everything the same length – how simple is that? Once I turned the sides into a “man’s haircut”, I decided to tackle the cowlick. It was the only really long hair left on the Admiral’s head, and it was clearly out of place. So with the precision scissors firmly held in my right hand and a comb in the left hand, I combed out the cowlick and snipped the ends ever so delicately. Whew! That wasn’t so bad, and there was no “Alfalfa effect.” Still, I was haunted by my brother’s “It’s too late” comment, and so I took one slow turn around the Admiral’s head, snipping away at any hairs sticking out, and refining the hair cut over each ear and at the base of the Admiral’s neck. It’s not that I was feeling confident at this point. But I was just too scared to stop and have to look at the results of my handiwork.

When I could not find any more stray hairs, I put the scissors down. I undid the plastic coverlet, and the Admiral stood up. We shook the hair on to the sheet, rolled the sheet up again. And I just kept staring at the Admiral. He had no interest in checking out his image in a mirror. He said it felt a lot better. I know that hair grows about ½ inch every month, and I know that we are very close to a lot of barber shops. However, for now, as I look at the Admiral – and I can’t stop looking at him – I see a pretty good, if tentative, haircut. The cowlick is not exactly tamed, but somewhat under control. The Admiral does not look shorn. Nor does he look like I put a bowl on his head. He went to the store afterwards, and he came back without any tales of people pointing and laughing. That’s a start. Do I want to ever cut the Admiral’s hair again? My answer tonight is a hearty “No way!” We’ll see how his new “do” looks tomorrow morning as we head out on a number of errands around Key Largo.

Now my brother in law has weighed in, with the strongly stated opinion that “women can’t cut men’s hair”, because they “leave a mop top” on top and they don’t understand the “concept of shaving around the ears.” He is so right! Fortunately, the Admiral pointed out the mop top cut I had done, and I firmly believe that we have corrected it. And the Admiral was adamant from the start that I shave thoroughly around his ears. So he was prepared for a potential gender weakness in that area. All I can say, Butch, is that with proper supervision by a very involved victim, I mean client, we seem to have avoided the mop top and the unshaved areas around the ears. But thanks so much for your trenchant insights. They were right on.

I’m not quite confident enough to start sending out photos of the Admiral with his new cut. But once he’s washed his hair and we comb it into submission, I’ll take some photos and you’ll see for yourself. Even if you like the results, please, please don’t expect me to do this for anyone else. There is way too much room for error. I always respected the skills of a professional hair cutter, but as of today, my respect is boundless. My hat is off to the hair stylists and barbers of the world who fearlessly and meticulously cut the hair on many heads each day. This work should be elevated to an art form. No tip is too big for a great haircut! Remember that the next time you sit down in the chair at your favorite salon or barber shop. As for me, I’m retired. If the Admiral’s cut is a good one, then this was beginner’s luck at work. That’s good for just one cut. I can spend the next few months getting used to the Admiral looking like a Yale professor and the next few months after that watching him revert to his inner hippie. Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow!

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR: KEY LARGO OR BUST, AND THE AMAZING ALAN VISIT

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR: KEY LARGO OR BUST, AND THE AMAZING ALAN VISIT

He’s back! The Admiral is back in Key Largo. Spiny lobsters, be afraid, be very afraid. The Admiral knows where you live and he spent years honing the skills to trap you. And if he doesn’t get back into the game, Gary’s “Take It or Leave It” is still prowling the reefs, putting down 3500 traps on the ocean floor to entice you into a life of blue plate specials. We’re in lobster country, so of course for dinner the Admiral had clams, I had crab cakes and Alan had the fish special, hogfish. We dined at Mrs. Mac’s Kitchen in honor of Alan’s first visit to Key Largo. But I get ahead of myself. Let me back up to Sunday, the day we left Marathon at 7 a.m., looking at a stormy sky, both behind us and in front of us.

Sunday was not the ideal day to be traveling on the Atlantic Ocean in Hawk Channel between Marathon and Key Largo. The NOAA weather report kept getting worse for that day, starting with mildly choppy seas near the coast to very choppy seas and small craft warnings throughout the day. Almost as soon as we left the Marathon Marina, we heard: “Securite, securite, securite – small craft advisory for Hawk Channel, winds up to 30 knots from the northwest. Oh my. This was not looking good. Monday looked just as bad, but Tuesday looked great with no wind, no chops, just smooth cruising. However, there was the economic imperative driving us out of our safe haven next to the fuel dock at the marina. Other boats – bigger boats – more $$$$ boats—were arriving Monday to take our coveted place on the face dock. Never mind that we had been told we could extend our reservation until Tuesday and that WE WOULD NOT HAVE TO MOVE. Turns out that when you get this guarantee from a mere employee of the dock master, who is looking directly at the reservations calendar, that is not good enough for the dock master. The employee had apparently on been working at the marina for two weeks. This is something I was supposed to divine from talking with her. How foolish I was to accept her guarantee of the face dock until Tuesday. Oh well, that is now water under the 7 mile long Marathon Bridge. We moved on into uncertain waters, so that the dock master could get her windfall from the bigger boats.

As it turned out, the gods were smiling upon us on Sunday, for the dire predictions of strong winds and very choppy seas did not come true. The storm clouds behind us stayed behind us and the storm clouds in front of us appeared to melt away before our eyes, as the mighty sun came out and blasted them into next week. It was a very lovely day in Hawk Channel. The waters turned turquoise. You could see through the clear water to the bottom of the ocean. It was a Caribbean cruise all day. This was my first full day on the Atlantic and, once I realized that it was going to be an enjoyable 50 nautical miles to Key Largo, I was stoked. The Admiral and I had independently charted our course to the same waypoints, and our calculations matched. So we were pretty darned sure that we would stay on course. Every marker was where it was supposed to be, and there were no course deviations necessary. This navigation gig is growing on me. There is no greater thrill than seeing the next marker exactly where you had expected to see it, after traveling 10 nautical miles without any markers whatsoever. This used to be magic to me, but now I get it: plot the latitude and longitude of a waypoint, calculate the course, and it’s no longer magic, it’s simple math. Yes, I still have plenty to learn, but it’s nice to celebrate any progress I make in my tortuous path to captaincy.

I have not yet had the pleasure/pain of bringing Slow Motion into a marina and docking her. Thank God that was not my assignment on Sunday. We had put off our arrival at Key Largo for a week, because high tide was early in the day, and we needed high tide to make it through the shallow channel to the Key Largo Resorts Marina. High tide was about 1 p.m. on Sunday, and we planned to arrive around 1:30 p.m. The Admiral called Candi, the dock master at Key Largo, and she instructed us to wait until all the commercial vessels had left the channel and headed out to the ocean. She said they would all be gone by 1:30 p.m. We did as instructed and did not enter the channel until 1:30. We had seen the Princess (a big glass bottomed tourist boat) leave and we saw a diving boat leave. There was another boat in front of us, so we announced our presence in the channel at the jetty and said we were coming in. No one shouted “Wait!”, so we kept on heading into the channel and into the canal that leads to the marina.

There is an aptly named “Crash Corner” in the canal. The boat in front of us made the turn without crashing, and as we started to make the turn, one of the engines stalled. The sea wall was getting closer and closer to us, but the Admiral was up to the task and was able to make the turn with one engine working. Whew! I thought for a moment that the worst was behind us, until I saw a large commercial fishing boat with paying passengers coming straight at us in the narrow canal. There was a place for the commercial boat to pull over to let us get by. For some unknown reason – perhaps hubris – the commercial captain disdained the pull-over courtesy and kept coming at us. We pulled to the starboard side as far as we could without hitting another boat tied up in the canal. And Slow Motion and the commercial boat passed without touching, although I think I could have pulled a few of the passengers off the boat – we were that close. Then we were in the clear, for a Key Largo minute, because the next challenge that loomed was turning and backing into a narrow slip without hitting the boats on either side. This is where an experienced dock master like Candi is worth her weight in diamonds. She jumped on the boat on our starboard side and directed me to “make sure” that the boats did not touch. We both kept the boats apart, as the Admiral backed into the slip. Then Candi told me what lines she wanted and where she wanted them. Our lines were not where they needed to be.  But Candi patiently and calmly talked me through getting the lines to her and helping her to get Slow Motion back into the slip. This was a very rewarding experience. Sure, I felt really incompetent for not knowing what lines to use to get into the slip. But that’s where the kindly dock master, who has an interest in getting boats into slips without any damage to property, excelled. She did not treat me as incompetent. She did not raise her voice, roll her eyes, or complain about me. She just told me what to do – twice if necessary – and we got it done. Hurray for experienced, humane dock masters like Candi!

We are now in the land of the African Queen, the original Bogie/Hepburn potboiler, which is docked right across from us. Several times a day we relive one of the movie scenes as the captain takes a couple of tourists out the canal to the ocean. He says a line of dialogue as he passes by, and it hearkens back to the scene when Bogie has fallen into the drink and arisen with leeches all over his body. Believe it, this was one of the most romantic movies of all time. I don’t think I can get the Admiral on the African Queen. After all, once you’ve starred in your own romance movie, Slow Motion, it’s a step down to join somebody else’s movie set as an extra.

I’m surprised there hasn’t been a reality show yet about a cruising couple or a cruising family, or better yet, a cruising family with dogs. Sure, you have The Deadliest Catch and Swamp People, but where are The Cruisers? Can’t you see these blogs being turned into episodes for a television series? People would turn on just to see the latest repairs to the boat and to catch sight of the omnipresent “plumber’s crack” in the repair person, as he bends over the engines to fix the latest hose problem. Imagine what a thrill it would be for a viewer to ride along through dense fog, not knowing if a boat is coming from the other direction and is about to hit you head on. This would be an incredibly instructional show for all budding meteorologists, since at least half the time we’re checking on the weather patterns, talking about the tides and currents, and planning our departures around the winds, or the rain, or whatever storms are brewing on the horizon. There would be abject tragedy, with the loss of a boat in a tropical storm in St. Augustine, and sheer ecstasy, from learning how to tie a bowline and a clove hitch. And don’t forget the history aspect – touring the Revolutionary War and Civil War coastline forts and re-visiting the South’s inhuman, slave-driven way of life by touring the plantations that still dot the countryside. In these environmentally sensitive times, people would be glued to the screen watching the rivers in Florida get more and more polluted, as the major businesses – sugar, citrus – keep rolling along.

The reality show idea is not mine. I have to give credit to Alan, who visited the lobster fishers’ hangout with us last evening and upon leaving “the most chaotic gathering ever” (words of one of the guys hanging out), suggested that Gary and his merry band of lobster fishers and Keys personalities were just waiting to be discovered by a reality show. He’s right. As soon as the Admiral learned that Alan was going to visit, he knew he had to take him to Gary’s, three lots along a canal next to the Pilot House Marina, about a half mile from the marina where Slow Motion is tied up. The Admiral has taken me to Gary’s on many occasions. The best times are when the work day has ended, and everyone is sitting around drinking his beverage of choice on a broken down stool, chair or couch (it has to be broken down, or it won’t be on the lot) and telling stories. Like the day that Mac’s son fell out of the lobster boat, and Mac told the Admiral: “Look at him. He looks just like a baby whale.” It’s just not good form to fall out of a lobster boat when you’re working on it, especially when you are a tad overweight and it takes three crew members to haul you back in. Or when Mac’s son came in with the crew at mid-day, and the crew was going to empty the boat and go right back out, but Mac’s son started walking away. Mac asked him where he was going, and he said he needed to take a quick shower. I guess you had to be there, but that was really, really funny to Mac and the rest of the crew.

On the not so funny side, but classic for this odd mélange of incredibly hard workers and Keys wannabes, was the day that friends of Gary’s son wanted to help him out (he needed surgery) by taking his boat out to the ocean to pick up his traps. The boat had not been started for five months, so it behooved the would-be do-gooders to check the fluids. No matter, they just turned on the engines, and guess what – the boat was in gear. And guess again, they didn’t know how to take it out of gear. And they didn’t know how to stop it. So the boat started moving very rapidly across the water. One guy managed to turn it toward the canal, but as they headed down the narrow canal they crashed into one boat and totaled another. Bad Samaritans. Today Gary’s son is getting surgery, and he’s out of commission, so someone who knows what they’re doing has to get his traps out of the water before the end of the spiny lobster season, March 31. This is where the Florida law becomes oppressive. There is a strict law against anyone taking the traps of another fisher out of the water. However, there is an exception, when the owner of the traps becomes disabled and needs help. Double however, the exception allows just one person to recover the disabled person’s traps, and, here’s the kicker, the law allows him only five days to do it. Take it or Leave it. Now I finally understand why Gary gave his boat that name.

As we took our leave of this reality show waiting to happen, the Captain was telling a young guy that he would be allowed to work as crew tomorrow if he showed up at 8 a.m. sober. “If you’re drunk, you’re not going with us.” It’s the Keys, Baby. Just to paint a little picture of the gathering: You had Sam, the sandy, short-haired lab mix (Gary’s dog, a real peach) and another lab mix (black) fighting over a wool glove, which Alan was throwing in the air for them to catch. You had a little five year old girl in ringlets a la Shirley Temple, who arrived with a guy (presumably her father) in a pickup. You had the guys who wanted to work tomorrow. You had the regular crew, a guy with long gray hair braided down his back who rode away on his bicycle. You had Gary in his woolen blue and red Gators beanie and white rubber boots. You had Fred, the former captain of the Princess glass-bottomed tourist boat. I don’t think Omar and the Cubans were there, but they might have been. All the seats were taken, and the number of seats had grown to 10 at least. More than three conversations were going on at once. The little girl, like Goldilocks, was trying out every chair. This gathering is held every work night under a “roof” held up by poles. You don’t really need a newspaper in Key Largo, if you attend this group every night. Everything that is newsworthy works its way into the conversation, along with the most incredible tales of the spiny lobster fishing industry. So, yes, Alan, this would be a great reality show. In fact, it IS a great reality show. Maybe someday television will discover it.

As part of his immersion into the culture of Key Largo, Alan drove us to Mrs. Mac’s Kitchen, which has been in business since 1976. This is longevity for the Keys. Mrs. Mac’s has every vanity license plate from every state and Canadian province nailed to the walls and the ceilings and on the outer walls as well. Have you ever seen "TBDMN" on a license? Well, Mrs. Mac’s has it – Tight Butts Drive Me Nuts. Go figure. But the essence of Mrs. Mac’s is her cuisine, not her license plates. Our 19 year old waiter, who grew up in Key Largo eating at Mrs. Mac’s, was extremely exuberant about the things the kitchen had to offer last night – from the prime rib roast beef (the Tuesday night special every week) to the hogfish dinner, and of course everything on the pink menu page of Mrs. Mac’s daily specialties. The Admiral ordered his usual clam basket, I ordered the crab cake basket and Alan ordered the hogfish special with salad and baked potato. Alan noted in passing that his desire to visit us was so strong that he passed on a Cadillac sponsored “all you can eat” stone crab feast at the Doral PGA tournament just to come to Key Largo. We knew Mrs. Mac’s would make him realize that he had chosen wisely. The hogfish was fine, but Alan opined that he might have enjoyed the crab basket a little more, once he tasted the crab cake and the scrumptious silver dollar sized Fried potatoes that come with it. It was when the key lime pie, the signature dessert of Mrs. Mac’s, was delivered – and devoured – that Alan KNEW he had not sacrificed a thing to be with us. In his words, the key lime custard was dense, rich, piquant and ever so cool to the lips and mouth. It was, in a word, refreshing. But the crust – THE CRUST – never has there been a richer Graham cracker, certainly not at Costco, crushed into a thick, but crumbly and moist, cushion for the custard. The result was an extraordinarily satisfying key lime pie, one to write about in blogs and elsewhere. Once again, you did it, Mrs. Mac, you earned a new devotee.

We sent Alan back to the Big City with a smile on his face. All in all, it had been a good day for him, with the news that he had been awarded another “Golf Oscar” from the Golf Writers Association, with interviews with the two Masters playoff contenders from last year recreating their stunning last round, and rounding it off with a Taste of Key Largo. About this latest golf writing award, it is Alan’s sixth, putting him one behind my hero and his, Rick Reilly. All of our plans in the Warriors Oakland Coliseum parking lot when he was ten years old about his writing for Sports Illustrated when he grew up have come to fruition, and I’m so proud of him and his continuing success. Now if we can only get his equally accomplished sister, Louisa, to come visit us, I’m sure we can send her away with a smile too.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE: IT'S THE KEYS

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE: IT'S THE KEYS

Yesterday and today I set out to learn some history about “the Keys”. What I now know from the Crane Point Museum and Nature Center in Marathon is that Native Americans lived in the Middle Keys – Marathon and Key Vaca – since at least 2000 B.C. They were hunters, gatherers and fishers. And they loved their sea cows, or manatees. There were plenty of them, so they were fair game back then. Today, you can’t even pour fresh water off a dock to slake their thirst – it’s verboten. I don’t think you are even supposed to look at them too long, lest they attach to a human being and become less wild. “Cow” in Spanish is”vaca”, ergo “Vaca Key”. “Key” is taken from the Spanish for “cayo” or islet.

The Keys Native Americans, identified as the Tequesta and the Calusa tribes, traveled all over the South Florida coast and islands fishing and hunting. The Calusa lived on the lower Gulf Coast. The Tequesta lived on the lower east coast starting around Biscayne Bay. The first Europeans to disturb their culture were the Spanish, perhaps Ponce de Leon, in the 16^th century. He sailed by the Keys in 1513 and named them Los Martires – The Martyrs – no one knows why. Even though Spain claimed dominion over Florida for 250 years, it did not try to colonize most of the area, because Florida was not rich in gold, silver or all the other riches that Spain was hauling out of Central and South America. Their ships had to sail past the Keys, and when they wrecked with their cargoes of gold and silver, the Keys Native Americans got involved in the “wrecking” trade, salvaging what they could find from the wrecks to help survive.

In 1575 Hernando d’Escalante wrote of the Keys Indians the following: “Indians are on these islands, who are of a large size…these Indians have no gold, less silver; and less clothing…the common food is fish, turtle and snails. The Indians of Florida are great anglers, and at no time lack fresh fish.” At age 13 D’Escalante had been aboard a Spanish ship that wrecked, and he was “captured” (rescued?) by a Native American group, which whom he lived until age 30. Fortunately, he did not give his foster family any decimating European diseases. And the Keys Native Americans continued to live rather peacefully for another century or more. However, they were not immune to the diseases brought to their country from other Spanish visitors, and many of the Keys Indians died of those diseases in the 1700’s. Add to that the migration south of the Creek/Seminole tribes who were being pushed out of Central Florida, and who in turn pushed the Tequestas and Calusas further down into the Keys and ultimately, to Cuba. A report from 1775 reads in part: “Cayo Hueso (Key West) and Cayo Vaca (Key Vaca) were the last refuges of the Culoosa nation; but even here the water did not protect them against the inroads from the Creeks and in 1763 the remnant of this people, consisting of about 80 families, left this last possession of their native land and went to Havannah.”

In the early 1800’s, even before the United States took possession of Florida, fishers from New England traveled to the Keys and built settlements, while they fished the waters around the Keys during the winter. Fishers from Mystic, Connecticut established a settlement on Key Vaca in 1818, but then moved further down to Key West, because it had a better harbor. The next group to migrate to the Keys were Bahamians, who had made a lucrative business from salvaging wrecks in the Keys. But when they were prohibited from doing any salvage work in the Keys in the 1830’s, many of them simply moved to the Keys, took up residency and continued to do their salvage work as residents of Florida. Their 1840 settlement was called Conch Town. They were driven away that same year by Indian raids, according to the history posters at the Crane Point Museum, and they headed to Key West.

How did the people of the Keys fare during the Civil War, you may ask? From the beginning of the Civil War until the end, the Union troops were in control of Key West. The United States had started to build Fort Zachary Taylor in Key West in 1845. It was not completed by the start of the Civil War, in part because the thick brickwork that the builders thought would prevent penetration had turned out not to be strong enough against the newest weapons that were being developed. We visited Ft. Taylor today, and I can report that the brickwork is beautiful. It’s still there, and there’s not a cannonball dent in any of the 5 foot thick walls. Ft. Taylor is primarily a museum of art and history, although you can also get one of the most splendid ocean views by climbing to the top of the adjoining citadel. The view is not what Captain John Brannan was interested in on December 11, 1861, when he and his 44 Union soldiers secretly marched through the streets of Key West at night to get to the fort and take control for the Union. There were no Confederate troops whatsoever in Key West, but a lot of the Key West residents were Confederate sympathizers and had relatives in the rebel army. The sympathizers concerned the Union Army to the point that on February 17, 1963, Captain Joseph Morgan issued General Order No 10 which ordered the families “(white)” in Key West who had sons, brothers or husbands in “Rebel employment” to get on board the first available boat to be taken to Hilton Head, South Carolina, so they could be “placed behind rebel lines.” What a treat! The Order actually put “white” in parentheses, like any Black families were going to go behind rebel lines?

In the 1890’s and early 1900’s Bahamians settled again in the Marathon/Key Vaca area, and the home built by George Adderley around 1890 still stands on the Crane Point acreage, known as the Crane Point Hammock. I saw that home yesterday, as I took a mile and a half walk around Crane Point. The walls still stand. They were made of “tabby”, that mix of rocks, shells, mud and sand which has held together for more than a century. Adderley was a farmer and a fisher, and he also sold sponges and charcoal to buy the things he did not produce himself. He made the charcoal from burning buttonwood that he had collected and burned in huge smoldering piles 24/7.

What really opened up Marathon and Key West to a whole horde of tourists, who still cram themselves on to Route One every weekend to head to the Keys was the Overseas Railroad, first known as “Flagler’s Folly.” Henry Flagler had founded Standard Oil with a guy named J.D. Rockefeller. He had made his millions in the oil business, but he also liked to build railroads. He had already built a railroad down the east coast of Florida from Jacksonville to Miami and, of course, he also built Flagler hotels alongside those railroad tracks. At the age of 75, in 1904, he was far from done with his railroad empire. He decided to build a railroad from Miami to Key West. He thought the railroad would stimulate trade between the U.S., Cuba and the other Caribbean nations. It took 8 years to complete this 156 mile railroad. In fact, one of the workers, who was being pushed very hard to complete the railroad, exclaimed: “Building this railroad has become a regular marathon!” You guessed it – that’s where the name, Marathon, came from. Building the railroad was extremely hard – and dangerous – work. Over 200 workers died during the eight years of railway construction. But on January 22, 1912, Flagler himself rode the first train into Key West. Yep, he was 84, and he died a year after that. But his railway workers died at much younger ages, as they suffered from lack of fresh water, insects, disease, and three horrendous hurricanes during the building of the railroad to Key West.

The railroad itself did not have a very long life. A hurricane with nearly 200 mile an hour winds came directly at the Keys in 1935, killing more than 500 people in its path and putting an end to the Overseas Railroad as well.  

According to the historical sketches at the Crane Point Museum and the Fort Zachary Museum, not much happened in the Keys until World War II. But these little islands went “Boom” during the war – the overseas highway was rebuilt, electricity came to the Keys, a water pipeline came all the way down, and they built an airport. If you do all of that, what do you get? A population “Boom” too. And it’s been booming ever since. Yes, some parts of the Keys look pretty rundown. Even some formerly cute little cottages on side streets in Key West are boarded up. But check out Duval Street – teeming with touristas. That’s why it’s such a treat to visit the museums in Marathon and Key West. Sure, a few other people visit them too, but that’s not where the tourist action is. It’s not by the bird hospital at Crane Point, where lots of pelicans, a kestrel and other exotics are getting well enough to rejoin the wild. It’s not on the second floor of the citadel at Fort Taylor, where the welding wonders of an underappreciated artist name Stanley Papio are on display. Funny story – the Admiral recognized the artwork as reminiscent of the Key Largo artist, who had been arrested many times for filling his yard with his art work. His house and yard were very close to the house of Jimbo, the lobster boat captain for whom the Admiral worked in the 70’s and 80’s. To the municipal leaders of Key Largo, Papio’s art looked like “junk” and he was arrested for not cleaning it up. So he declared his house a museum, and they couldn’t arrest him anymore. In addition, his work is really good, so now the Key West Museum has grabbed up a lot of it and they’re getting a federal art grant to maintain it. Too bad Mr. Papio died in 1982, but he was already getting some acclaim before his death. Check out some of his pieces on the internet, if you can find them.

Note to Royal: Have you thought about declaring your yard a museum?

The other part of Crane Point is the natural part, the birds, butterflies, reptiles and tree hammocks. Crane Point has one of the few remaining palm hammocks, which is a “low hammock”. I haven’t looked up the origin of this word “hammock” for a grove of trees, but it appears that every hammock I have visited has trees whose branches bow into arcs and form a curved branch ceiling above you. The Keys also have some “high hammocks”, which are not common anywhere else, and they include mahogany, wild tamerind, willow bustic, pigeon plum and white stopper. I would not recognize any of these trees if I bumped into them. And yesterday apparently I walked under them for about a mile.

The 63 acres that comprise the Crane Point Nature Center were bought by the Florida Keys Land and Sea Trust in 1989, in their words “saving this …ecological and cultural treasure from being developed into private homes and shopping malls.” Hear! Hear! As we drive up and down Route 1 in Marathon, we see the ravages of no zoning laws. It’s heartening to know that there are conservationists here who have been working to protect some of the jewels of the Keys. Just keep Governor Scott and his business cronies away from here – the water in the ocean and the bay still looks pretty clear. I’m sure they could figure out a way to muck it up. It still amazes me that when you live in an area that is endowed with exquisite natural resources, you don’t set as your number one priority the preservation of those natural resources.

“It’s the Keys”. That’s the statement that is made at least five times a day to explain why things aren’t running efficiently, why everyone is late for appointments, why people don’t follow through on what they say they will do, why people are here one day and disappear for the next three, why people in their fifties are working 20 hour a week dock jobs and not making ends meet, why everyone says “no worries” and really means it, why one day starts blending into the next and repairs don’t get done and nothing moves forward. You get it, “it’s the Keys”. Well, I just hope there are still enough people in the Keys, no matter how laid back they appear to be, who actually love this place and want to preserve the beauty that remains. Because the Keys are nothing without their natural beauty. You can keep your Stevie Nicks tribute bands and your tiki bars and your sandals and t-shirt stores – just make sure the pelicans, egrets, herons and eagles can continue to thrive here – under the hammocks. That’s the Keys, Baby. That’s the Keys.