It has been a delightful winter so far, a mixture of low humidity and bright sunshine, evolving into warm summery days with scattered rain, winds coming and winds dying down. And in the end one has no choice but to untie the boat and cast off. So we did.
The canal was empty of traffic for the most part but even when one meets the occasional boat it's wide enough to pass easily enough in our little 14 foot long skiff.
Flat waters, bright sunshine and a picnic with our goal in sight across Newfound Harbor from the entrance to our canal.
It's a five minute ride across the protected waters of what is in fact not strictly speaking a harbor but a large basin protected from almost all directions by land. In the middle of this boating pleasantness lies a small sandy island, the result of dredging to clear a deep water channel up the south side of Newfound Harbor.
The early hours of a Sunday morning are the perfect time to tie up at Picnic Island for the rest of the world is either on it's knees invoking God's favor or on it's knees trying to recover from last night's over indulgence. By the afternoon a few dozen boats, perhaps many more will be out here splashing anchors and playing loud disjointed music.
It's a popular spot, deservedly so with a fire pit, 
...and a grill and lots of shady sand to set up a picnic table and a couple of chairs and spread out with a thermos of something hot to drink and a newspaper to read. 
Some enterprising people have planted palms on the island and by dint of careful watering they have taken root. 
They are actually part of an elaborate monument to a former visitor.
Every dog is a bestest dog so the sentiments strike a universal chord.
Picnic island is a delightful spot, more so in summer when the waters are warm enough to swim. Right now they won't see 80 degrees again till late April, so we prefer to look at them rather than submerse ourselves in them.
Cheyenne's picnic is a dollar smoked ham hock from Winn Dixie. These things keep her occupied for a few minutes, time enough to eat the sandwich my wife prepared, Canadian bacon and egg for us humans.
This is my idea of heaven, no noise no obligations and the gratitude of a wife who had forgotten how pleasant this short boat ride is from our house.
Cheyenne needs a walk and she doesn't much like to go alone. I get to watch her cool off at the north end of the island, 25 paces from my tea cup.
The island can be made to look huge with a small angle on the camera.
There's not much going on at Picnic Island at the best of times but the waters around it are teeming with life even early on a Sunday. 
It's winter so sailboats are moving around more with the diminished threat of hurricanes and the cooler temperatures. Fishing is always a fashionable activity. 
This hovel craft has been hanging out by picnic island for a long time. Noise is a trade mark with a loud radio at every opportunity. It is possible to live on the waters of the Florida Keys and not be bothered by anyone. It is a rather aimless existence I should note, having done it myself.
I prefer traveling to vegetating when I am living on a boat. Highway One is visible in the distance, the northern perimeter of Newfound Harbor.
The southern tip of Ramrod Key is covered by a small island known to it's owners as Coupon Key. The Spottswoods have listed their slice of Paradise at 18 million dollars if interested. Power and water are piped to the island across the mangrove swamps but human access is by boat. The nice thing is we who live on their side of the canal get our power restored first on Ramrod after an outage. The Keys are nothing if not subservient to the moneyed class.
The residents on Ramrod on this side of the island, the eastern side of the main canal, get to run their generators a little longer than those of us on the western side. I had no idea when we bought our little tree house in 2005. Power outages define who we are I suppose. Mind you, this lot have pretty nice views out across Newfound Harbor.
Little Palm Island marks the entrance at the south side of Newfound Harbor.
And back around to the southeast we have another small mangrove island. Of the three island blobs in the water in the middle of Newfound Harbor only picnic island has sand. The others are just a mass of mangrove roots.
When my wife and I sailed back to Key West after our final cruise to the Bahamas in 2002 we stopped here for our last night before going home to Key West. We often remark we had no idea we would end up living in a house here. It was Emma's last sail before she sank into old age and illness forcing us off the boat and into a house. I had that SPCA yellow Lab for 12 years and together we crossed the country four times visiting 23 states and we sailed the length of Central America visiting every country between California and Florida from Colombia to Cuba. Her last night at anchor she spent here. Three years later she was dead, and I still miss her.
I have to confess I am not a great fan of black and white photography, not for the kind of pictures I take, but I was playing with the camera as Cheyenne sniffed around. It's not exactly Clyde Butcher.
Time to go; people to see, things to do. The water is quite shallow off the beach itself. 
Back to our channel. 
Cheyenne was ready to get home too.
Up the canal...
...past sunbathing neighbors...
...swimming iguanas...
To home sweet home.
The tide was high enough I could lift Cheyenne onto the dock. If the tide is out I nuzzle the boat into the mangroves alongside the dock and Cheyenne jumps out and runs up to the house under her own steam.
One last look down the canal and its off to do some chores. Laundry anyone?
The canal was empty of traffic for the most part but even when one meets the occasional boat it's wide enough to pass easily enough in our little 14 foot long skiff.Flat waters, bright sunshine and a picnic with our goal in sight across Newfound Harbor from the entrance to our canal.It's a five minute ride across the protected waters of what is in fact not strictly speaking a harbor but a large basin protected from almost all directions by land. In the middle of this boating pleasantness lies a small sandy island, the result of dredging to clear a deep water channel up the south side of Newfound Harbor.The early hours of a Sunday morning are the perfect time to tie up at Picnic Island for the rest of the world is either on it's knees invoking God's favor or on it's knees trying to recover from last night's over indulgence. By the afternoon a few dozen boats, perhaps many more will be out here splashing anchors and playing loud disjointed music.
It's a popular spot, deservedly so with a fire pit, 
...and a grill and lots of shady sand to set up a picnic table and a couple of chairs and spread out with a thermos of something hot to drink and a newspaper to read. 
Some enterprising people have planted palms on the island and by dint of careful watering they have taken root. They are actually part of an elaborate monument to a former visitor.
Every dog is a bestest dog so the sentiments strike a universal chord.Picnic island is a delightful spot, more so in summer when the waters are warm enough to swim. Right now they won't see 80 degrees again till late April, so we prefer to look at them rather than submerse ourselves in them.Cheyenne's picnic is a dollar smoked ham hock from Winn Dixie. These things keep her occupied for a few minutes, time enough to eat the sandwich my wife prepared, Canadian bacon and egg for us humans.
This is my idea of heaven, no noise no obligations and the gratitude of a wife who had forgotten how pleasant this short boat ride is from our house.
Cheyenne needs a walk and she doesn't much like to go alone. I get to watch her cool off at the north end of the island, 25 paces from my tea cup.
The island can be made to look huge with a small angle on the camera.
There's not much going on at Picnic Island at the best of times but the waters around it are teeming with life even early on a Sunday. 
It's winter so sailboats are moving around more with the diminished threat of hurricanes and the cooler temperatures. Fishing is always a fashionable activity. 
This hovel craft has been hanging out by picnic island for a long time. Noise is a trade mark with a loud radio at every opportunity. It is possible to live on the waters of the Florida Keys and not be bothered by anyone. It is a rather aimless existence I should note, having done it myself.
I prefer traveling to vegetating when I am living on a boat. Highway One is visible in the distance, the northern perimeter of Newfound Harbor.
The southern tip of Ramrod Key is covered by a small island known to it's owners as Coupon Key. The Spottswoods have listed their slice of Paradise at 18 million dollars if interested. Power and water are piped to the island across the mangrove swamps but human access is by boat. The nice thing is we who live on their side of the canal get our power restored first on Ramrod after an outage. The Keys are nothing if not subservient to the moneyed class.
The residents on Ramrod on this side of the island, the eastern side of the main canal, get to run their generators a little longer than those of us on the western side. I had no idea when we bought our little tree house in 2005. Power outages define who we are I suppose. Mind you, this lot have pretty nice views out across Newfound Harbor.
Little Palm Island marks the entrance at the south side of Newfound Harbor.
And back around to the southeast we have another small mangrove island. Of the three island blobs in the water in the middle of Newfound Harbor only picnic island has sand. The others are just a mass of mangrove roots.
When my wife and I sailed back to Key West after our final cruise to the Bahamas in 2002 we stopped here for our last night before going home to Key West. We often remark we had no idea we would end up living in a house here. It was Emma's last sail before she sank into old age and illness forcing us off the boat and into a house. I had that SPCA yellow Lab for 12 years and together we crossed the country four times visiting 23 states and we sailed the length of Central America visiting every country between California and Florida from Colombia to Cuba. Her last night at anchor she spent here. Three years later she was dead, and I still miss her.
I have to confess I am not a great fan of black and white photography, not for the kind of pictures I take, but I was playing with the camera as Cheyenne sniffed around. It's not exactly Clyde Butcher.
Time to go; people to see, things to do. The water is quite shallow off the beach itself. 
Back to our channel. 
Cheyenne was ready to get home too.
Up the canal...
...past sunbathing neighbors...
...swimming iguanas...
To home sweet home.
The tide was high enough I could lift Cheyenne onto the dock. If the tide is out I nuzzle the boat into the mangroves alongside the dock and Cheyenne jumps out and runs up to the house under her own steam.One last look down the canal and its off to do some chores. Laundry anyone?
There wasn't much there to recommend it, just dirt and mangroves:
Had I had the forethought to bring along my folding chair this would have been a fine spot to pause and check out passing boat traffic:
Or pick up some trash, though why anyone thinks an empty box of bait improves the nature of the place, I don't know:
So I tried to focus on the positive, and in my search I came across a stick, which juxtaposes the warped nihilism of nature with the geometric simplicity of the abandoned bait box. 
Then I saw the faintest trace of a trail through the bushes and I abandoned my artistic pursuits and got back to exploration.
I was wearing rather inadequate rubber shoes,highly suitable for walking the boat through the shallows- useless as snake protection. The reptiles were, happily, all in my imagination and the trail soon broke out onto a mysterious dirt roadway:
But then I saw a wooden board which had lost it's message but I'm ready to bet dollars to doughnuts it bore the classic Keys greeting: "No Trespassing!" so I withdrew, deciding as usual that discretion is the better part of valor.
Especially as I'm almost certain the road leads to the home of one reclusive homeowner with a commercial fishing boat docked close to Highway One. He's probably armed too, and all I had was my good looks. Besides it was hot. 
I would miss the Spottswoods, were they to leave. I doubt Keys Energy would reactivate the electricity on my street quite as promptly after a storm, if the Spottswoods weren't there to get the level of service they are entitled to. Noblesse oblige, I guess.
There is usually a whole mass of boats hunkered around the beach and as far as I can tell from my more peaceful perch it's a well behaved spot, drinking yes, but not crazy, no fights and at worst gruesome loud music which quite drowns out the peace of the natural backdrop. Yet a short distance away, upwind and in deeper waters one can still find protection from the prevailing southeasterly winds and hardly be disturbed by the party. On less windy days there are lots of private places to drop the hook...
...put up the dive flag and let out some anchor line...
...and go for a swim with nothing on the horizon to break up the view (in one's imagination) of the mountains of Cuba to the south. And in the fullness of time one returns home, a final ten minute leg in the skiff to the outdoor shower and a nap in the recliner on the dock, shaded by the mangroves:
There was a time I used to think I might like to try living in Alaska, but I'm too old and too tropical to put up with all that ruggedness. Besides I like to feel the evening air on my skin as I watch the setting sun across the salt flats, on those evenings when I'm not at work. This reminds me why I like to live well outside Key West itself, my own private Mallory Square:
Suburban living as it should be lived, rumpled bed and all.