"Key West Police" I answered the phone Thursday night in the usual way and found myself speaking with the US Coastguard Officer of the Day.
"I need you to run somebody," she said down the secure telephone line that confirmed her identity for me. I don't check wanted people for just anybody that calls, in case you were hoping... She spelled out the name for me, letter by letter and wasn't I surprised to realise I knew the guy. It was no surprise to me when he came back not wanted. Just a routine check was no surprise, Law Enforcement like to make sure felons don't slip through their fingers. What was a surprise was what the Coastie said next:
"We picked him up after he got lost at sea, twenty five miles out from the Dry Tortugas." And with that she hung up leaving me wondering what the hell I just heard. That's the nature of my job; even the most compelling stories usually have no ending. I first met Mike when I was working at Fast Buck Freddie's and he was weaving palm fronds on the planter in front of the Department Store on Duval. I liked talking to him, in between hauling boxes because he enjoyed his life, living on a boat and making enough money to do exactly as he wanted. He was comfortable, happy even, living on the edge:
And so it happened Friday afternoon that I was leaving my chiropractor's office and heading for a cup of coffee when I saw a familiar figure up ahead under his trademark straw hat. He crossed Duval Street ahead of me and got involved in a conversation. I was fiddling with my camera taking pictures when I got my second surprise in two days when he came up to me with a big grin on his face. "Hey," he said, "I lived through five days lost at sea." I don't initiate conversations with anyone which start with "I ran you for wants and warrants last night..." That kind of stuff is rather private, especially if I find a warrant! "I'm glad the Coasties found you," I said when I explained to him that his name had crossed my computer screen the night before. He grinned with the sheer joy of being alive, and I was glad to hear his story because I had been wondering.
The story was that Mike had decided he didn't need to be weaving palm fronds during bike week, the noise of the motorcycles was too much for him as he crafted his fronds on the sidewalk so he decided to take off for some sailing west of Key West. The problem came when the winds picked up and the seas got bigger and suddenly the mast,on his 24-foot Tanzer, came down and when he tried to get the stick back up with his halyard the bolts supporting the foot of the mast sheared and the stick went over the side. That left him rolling in seas he estimated at 18 feet, with the current dragging him out into the Gulf of Mexico. "Next stop the Yucatan!"
Confirming what a remarkable man he is, he chose not to panic. He saw a boat on his first day drifting but it declined to stop. He burned all his flares trying to get it to notice him but the boat kept going. "Smuggling Cubans or drugs," was Mike's estimation. "I got some rainwater in my poncho, funneling the water through the hood into my gallon jugs. I added hot sauce to make it taste good and sucked on mayonnaise packets for something to eat. "I grabbed seaweed from the water and shook it out over my frying pan. That got me a couple of large shrimp, and I ate them shells and all." His eyes gleamed at the memory. "You can survive weeks without food but I really needed that rainwater to stay alive." A National Marine Sanctuary patrol boat came alongside to rescue him after he was spotted drifting by some Navy jets training overhead. He was far out into the Gulf of Mexico by then, still not panicked, still working to stay alive. They fed him five meals-ready-to-eat to assuage his ravenous hunger on his way home.
Mike lost everything but his manuscripts (he's a writer of course!) so, unsolicited, I dug into my wallet and forked over all my cash. Mike was sucking down a beer but he grinned. "I'm gonna get me some Fausto's chicken ," he said. With my coffee money, and he was welcome to it.
Next time it rains I won't grumble, and when next someone else grumbles about Bike Week I'll tell them the story of the palm frond weaver and his Bike Week from Hell. We all need a little perspective from time to time.
