One of the pleasures of working half a shift of overtime is getting to ride home in the dead of night. I left the police station at midnight so there was still some traffic hurtling down the Overseas Highway as I left the bright lights of Key West behind me, but soon enough all I could see in the light of the full moon was the long shiny ribbon of black asphalt in the middle of the ocean. On either side of the causeway I could see a patchwork of black mangrove islands set among the silver gray waters shining in the moonlight. The air was warm on my skin and all was perfect with the midnight world.
Sugarloaf Lodge sits at Mile Marker 16, about half way between my house and my job. It's a popular enough place with a funky 1950's decor restaurant, the usual fish menu and water views. It's one of those places that in theory offers a commuter a stopping point half way home, an oasis, a moment to pause and rest. In reality all one wants to do in commute mode is get home, and in my case I'm riding home normally at six in the morning so this place is never open:
On this occasion I wasn't terribly sleepy and I felt I could waste a few minutes stopping here and poking around with my camera. The restaurant enjoys a cover of greenery that gives it the proper tropical look:
Sugarloaf Key is a weirdly meandering Key shaped in a U with the highway cutting across the tops of the arms. The bottom of the U doesn't join up as the old road just peters out in the mangroves, abandoned after the highway was rerouted. Thus it is that at the North (or west) end at Mile Marker 19 lies Mangrove Mama' s restaurant and the nearby school and at this end separated by water lies the Lodge with a private airstrip nearby and the famous bat tower I photographed previously. The Lodge itself sits next to a small marina:
You look at these places and wonder why people complain about the disappearing Florida Keys. This is as it always was, a little funky, perfectly serviceable and in no way fancy. Much like the vehicle repair shop next door which is part of a little strip mall that includes a bank:
There was still the odd car passing by on the Highway and I wonder if they even noticed me contorting myself on the ground with my camera and tripod trying to get the pictures the way I desired them with the exposure levels I wanted. When the cars disappeared into the distance the silence was complete, not even the sound of an air conditioner humming, just me, the Bonneville, the camera and the night:
Before leaving I paused one last time in front of the Volunteer Fire department, all square and solid with the flag properly illuminated and flapping steadily in the fresh night breeze:
Small town America, asleep in the middle of the night as all good people should be. I didn't feel bad myself, being awake in the middle of the night, I felt rather good actually sneaking some pictures when all about me were sawing Zzz.
Sugarloaf Lodge sits at Mile Marker 16, about half way between my house and my job. It's a popular enough place with a funky 1950's decor restaurant, the usual fish menu and water views. It's one of those places that in theory offers a commuter a stopping point half way home, an oasis, a moment to pause and rest. In reality all one wants to do in commute mode is get home, and in my case I'm riding home normally at six in the morning so this place is never open:On this occasion I wasn't terribly sleepy and I felt I could waste a few minutes stopping here and poking around with my camera. The restaurant enjoys a cover of greenery that gives it the proper tropical look:Sugarloaf Key is a weirdly meandering Key shaped in a U with the highway cutting across the tops of the arms. The bottom of the U doesn't join up as the old road just peters out in the mangroves, abandoned after the highway was rerouted. Thus it is that at the North (or west) end at Mile Marker 19 lies Mangrove Mama' s restaurant and the nearby school and at this end separated by water lies the Lodge with a private airstrip nearby and the famous bat tower I photographed previously. The Lodge itself sits next to a small marina:You look at these places and wonder why people complain about the disappearing Florida Keys. This is as it always was, a little funky, perfectly serviceable and in no way fancy. Much like the vehicle repair shop next door which is part of a little strip mall that includes a bank:There was still the odd car passing by on the Highway and I wonder if they even noticed me contorting myself on the ground with my camera and tripod trying to get the pictures the way I desired them with the exposure levels I wanted. When the cars disappeared into the distance the silence was complete, not even the sound of an air conditioner humming, just me, the Bonneville, the camera and the night:Before leaving I paused one last time in front of the Volunteer Fire department, all square and solid with the flag properly illuminated and flapping steadily in the fresh night breeze:Small town America, asleep in the middle of the night as all good people should be. I didn't feel bad myself, being awake in the middle of the night, I felt rather good actually sneaking some pictures when all about me were sawing Zzz. 
4 comments:
Great essay (I like the term essay much more than post). Do you use the term Diary instead of calendar? I have to ask, are you from the UK or at least schooled there?
The dark of night on highway one always was intriguing. One Christmas season we made the trip from Fort Myers to Big Pine 3 times on that thin strip of pavement, usually at night. It always amazed me how amazingly dark it become once you got out of Miami and then into the smaller Keys (Marathon was lit up like the Fourth of July). Knowing you were surrounded by those black waters actually didn't give me a sense of comfort.
All and all, the dark of night there reminds me of 4AM in the small town from my misspent youth in rural Ohio.
I grew up in Italy and spent my childhood in English boarding schools. I ran away to live in Australia as soon as I could, but I never got further than California. I was glad to spend my youth in Santa Cruz but I never felt as at home there as I do here.
Personally I get creeped out by forests. I'd rather be on the water than in a wood alone at night. A campfire alone would freak me out, too many boogeymen in my past I suppose.
I live in a rural area of northern Canada, as you may or may not recall. You should hear the coyotes "singing" at night. One or two will start, then the whole chorus of what sounds like 1-2 dozen more will chime in, all yipping and howling afterwards. Makes the hair on your neck stand up. They'd never approach a human though. You never see more than a single individual at a time. I have thought several times to record them on the audio track of my camera, but never have it handy when they strike up their ghostly chorus. Someday.
D
Yes well, I'd probably not be wandering so much. One of the nice things about the Keys is that humans are more or less at the top of the dry land food chain. I insist on not believing rattlers lurk under rocks as rumors suggest.
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