A Midnight Clear

Once upon a time on an island long, long, ago a crisp clear night fell across the land and the residents trembled. For they had no heat; there was no heat upon the scraps of land and over the water neither was there heat. And the residents trembled for they saw temperatures had dropped to an all time recorded low of 41 degrees, and across the islands there was bugger-all heat. That was the coldest low ever recorded and the residents noted it, and it was not good. Absolutely no good at all.The Christmas Season in the Florida Keys is different. Obviously there isn't any snow on the ground and never will be, but there's more to it than that. Christmas comes not with attitude, like there comes across the rest of the land as normally level headed people become ravening shoppers, but these islands enjoy a leavening of humor. The three homes on Sugarloaf Key ho ho ho'ing always make me smile as I ride past Mile Marker 16 on my way home in the dark of evening.

I don't much care for Christmas and I never have. When I was a child Christmas was a time of extra family tension and when I left home all that got left behind as well. Then when I got married I told my wife I had an aversion to Christmas and she replied by pointing that she was a Jew, so that solved that. And then we moved to the Keys nearly a decade ago.

The first few years one lives in the Keys it is a constant source of amazement to see people dressing warmly for winter- long pants, boots, fall fashions are everywhere, and then slowly one acclimates and a sudden plunge to 72 degrees finds oneself also covered in long sleeves and long pants, Just like the Conchs. Luckily the temperature plunges don't last and one can tentatively resume short sleeves and short pants when out and about. And those warm winter nights between cold fronts are perfect for wandering the neighborhoods looking for: It surprises me but I like Christmas in the Keys, not least because there is, against the odds, a community down here and holidays are holidays and if your's is Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, its all the same thing. Key West is the first place I've lived where tolerance and diversity make halfway decent bedfellows, so if someone else's Christmas tree is my wife's Hanukkah bush that's okay too. Of course this is America so the consumer frenzy that is modern Christmas is in full swing, catalogues worn thin by thumbing, UPS desperately looking for fill-in help, all the usual high stress rubbish. For some of us its a great time to have a second childhood, and make it a really good one this time around. Happy Holidays to the mainland under snow ice and drizzle, but I've got to go ride my Bonneville.

Duck Key

The Socialists are coming! The Socialists are coming...on a Triumph Bonneville? Its a terrible thing but places like Duck Key make me crazy, so naturally on a beautiful Fall day like today with 85 degrees of sunshine and a cooling southeasterly breeze it was a perfect day to drive myself crazy. Duck Key sits south of Highway One at Mile marker 61, across a short causeway decorated with columns and signs that don't actually say Keep Out but that's the theme. You can't keep a good Bonneville out.Duck Key was the creation of Pritam Singh, the hobo turned Sikh developer born in Boston and settled in Key West who famously drove himself broke buying the Navy Base that became Truman Annex. He made a fortune ultimately and turned his hand to making Duck Key just north of Marathon, Paradise in the Middle Keys, as it were. This wide spot in the Highway is a shared paradise, half occupied by a mixture of elderly cement homes, in the raised style of the sixties. These are being taken over by Money and turned into Palm Beach by the Keys. I love these massively expensive homes tiled with Mediterranean roof tiles that'll blow halfway to Tampa in a hurricane. Actually these objects of conspicuous consumption irk me to death. I see no value in making expensive exurbia of a Florida Key, a place traditionally reserved for scrounging a living, not lounging a living. I suppose a traditionally inclined Conch sponge fisherman might sneer equally at my level of indulgent living, a weatherproof home equipped to excess with air conditioning, running water and a low flush water closet. The height of bourgeois excess no doubt. My little island has no Mickey Mouse bridges across the canals. On the other hand Duck Key, the half that isn't Singh's exclusive Hawk Cay Resort, could never be described as plebeian. I mean, one has to wonder a little bit about this opulence doesn't one? Especially considering that most of these homes are unoccupied. These are the homes of people who show up a week or four every year, and the rest of the time they are the domain of electricians and plumbers, gardeners and Mexican weed whackers. Some idle people fish off the canals, for fun: but that's too close to life in the rest of the Keys, I think. So the anglers are a lone breed far from the majority of elderly housebound millionaires, yet hardly close to the world of commercial fishing.

Duck Key is not a serene place, the few empty lots are lined with Realtors' signs looking almost disdainful that someone might want, or worse need, to profit from these small squares of open spaces wedged between the homes and pools and canals. The air is redolent with the sounds of small motors buzzing as the industrious Mexicans clear away leaves, whack impudent weeds and apply coats of paint to slightly worn exteriors. I ride through this world and wonder why people feel the need to own more than they can use. Its a terribly European sentiment, I admit and I try to shake it. But I cannot be like my American neighbors who feel only a warm glow of satisfaction when they see people who have managed to make vast fortunes and can think of nothing better to do than to add to them. I think its a very American sense that its possible for anyone to accomplish given industry and luck in the proper proportions. Europeans have a nasty sense that to be successful demands a hook between the shoulder blades and a sharp tug back into the mire of ordinary living.

And then I ride home and revel in my quiet neighborhood of small houses, unadorned canals and empty snowbird nests. Just like Duck Key, only less so. We have met the enemy and he is us. My kind of Socialism I suppose.

Gridlock

"I can't believe it!." Noel was flummoxed and outraged by a new disaster in his young life. He threw himself down into his chair at his console and dragged his headset on. he spent the rest of the workday grumbling about "some people," and one got the impression his co-workers at the Key West PD were part of his problem. His brand new black Nissan Altima had just received its first scratch, a jagged white stripe across his bumper. "Ruined!" he declaimed, a tad melodramatically. "My car will never be the same again!" I empathised with him, because owning a brand new car in Key West is a trial.

During the multiple evacuations caused by eight hurricane threats in 2004 and 2005 authorities in key West came to the conclusion that there were about 8,000 of 25,00 people in the city who had no cars. Municipal evacuation plans now call for a constant stream of buses stopping at the High School during an evacuation to ferry thousands of people to Miami. One of the things that people love about living in Key West is the lifestyle that allows them to get around by bicycle or at most by 50cc scooter. The horrors of car ownership are not for some of them. The majority though have a death grip on their automobiles despite all drawbacks on a small island. This is a town with narrow streets and way too many cars already so for up to 8 months out of the year finding parking is a drag and people shove and squeeze their cars into excessively small spaces in an effort to create a space where one might reasonably be assumed not to exist. In New Town, the more expansive outer two thirds of the island, parking spaces are more reasonably proportioned by collective madness seems to take over local drivers and they ding and bang each other's cars as though they were in the narrow confines of Old Town. The net result of all this mainland attitude meeting the island reality of limited space means that there just isn't a really good reason to own a cage unless you have off street parking and like to drive to the mainland from time to time (I qualify in both categories). Nevertheless when seventy percent of the cars on the island drowned following the Wilma inundations of 2005, almost everyone I can think off went out and bought new SUVs to replace their lost transport. The net result is crowded streets, as badly clogged as ever.

Then we get a city employee questionnaire asking about our driving habits. The City of key West, under a new manager is trying to join the 21st century with a recycling program (at last!) and suggestions to help make commuting less carbon intensive. However the questionnaire was prepared by a zombie who wasn't paying attention to Key West. Nowhere in all the exhaustive questioning was there room to admit to commuting by moped or motorcycle. Bicycles, cars, SUVs of course get a mention but the option of two motorized wheels isn't on the radar. Still scooters and motorcycles make sense on the streets where we ride. My mainland vehicle is a 5 year old Nissan Maxima and it has its share of scratches and scrapes, though it runs perfectly and is a fine 3.5 liter machine for passing slow pokes on Highway One. My wife is girding her loins to replace it, as it approaches the 100,000 mile mark, with a convertible. She's hesitant partly because she hates spending the money (she doesn't mind buying me a motorcycle though- women!) and partly because she knows that if she gets a glossy Sebring or a Solara it stands an excellent chance of getting dinged- bright clean cars attract scratches in Key West's Old Town. By contrast our "Conch cruiser" a ten year old scarlet Geo Metro is crisp and clean and completely scratch free. I figure its just too modest a car to attract the attention of the sociopaths who feel compelled to put scratches on strangers' cars. I guess if I lived in the city I would not bother with a car, its easy enough to rent one, and off street parking is rare as hen's teeth in Old Town. Even in New Town, land of suburban styled American homes, garages are usually converted to living space, so cars end up where kids can egg them, drunk drivers can sideswipe them and disgruntled pedestrians can key them. But you can't separate most Americans, even emigres to island living from their cars. Its a tribute I suppose that around one third of city residents have chosen to deprive themselves of their cars.

Panama 1999

We transited the Panama Canal on our sailboat Miki G in the Fall of the year the US finally pulled out of that operation.I doubt the Autoridad in charge these days would be too impressed were we to return and expect a transit for our 34-foot catamaran through the canal. These days its a self funding operation and every transit has to pay for itself and sailboats are very low on the totem pole. Our buddy Anna rode through with us to check out how she and her husband Ian were going to cope with their boat Joss. We had a minor crash later when the tug we tied up to left us in the lurch and we were slightly beaten up as we were dragged through the lock sideways by the currents. Damage was minor but we stared death in the face for a few awful minutes.Days later Joss made it through fine, though I was always worrying about what had happened to us as we locked through on their trip. Ian confided in me later that he couldn't get the image out of his mind of Miki G swirling helplessly through the lock like a leaf down a drain.

We were weeks ahead of the hand-over to full Panamanian control of the Canal, but years later I did meet the skipper of the last boat to be issued a US transit permit as the seconds ticked up to the noon hour December 30th 1999. Ghost, a suitably elderly wooden sailboat that I believe was shipped back from Marathon here in the Keys, to the owner's home in Marin County California.

When people find out we sailed our Gemini catamaran from California to Florida they are always fascinated by our transit ($500, two days, and the dogs behaved impeccably!), but we remain fascinated by the country of Panama at large.Miki G moored for several weeks at the now defunct Pedro Miguel Boat Club, next to the Pedro Miguel locks on Lake Miraflores. The marina used to be a Canal Zone perk, but during the US Administration it was also an excellent place to tie upto make repairs and rest from the culturally arduous business of cruising Latin America. Pedro Miguel was an English speaking, boater friendly, oasis even in the years after the Zone was ended and Americans only stayed on to help transition to Panamanian Administration. However the Autoridad del Canal de Panama has shut the place down after a long legal battle and pictures such as this can no longer be taken because the club is gone (plus we sold the boat to a friend in Key West who isn't interested in cruising right now!). One of these days I'm going to write an entry about all the place I've been that no longer exist. A depressingly long list, indicating an excessively long and well traveled life I think, even though the places themselves weren't that great; the USSR and East Germany high on the lackluster destinations I Have Known.

Panama started for us when we rounded the cape separating Costa Rica from Panama one dark and windy night. We blew into Panama full tilt and never got over how much we wanted to be there. The river trip to the second largest city in the country David ("Dah" with the emphasis on the "i" ) was an amazing maze to navigate. Non sailors often think rivers are refuges but we found that jungle river to be a pain in the ass with massive tides, floating debris and low overhanging branches, not to mention sandbars and few places to anchor.I keep this picture framed in my office to remind me of our mad cap adventures trying to find places to walk the dogs away from the prying eyes of the officious Customs agent who was determined to enforce Panama's 'no pets ashore' rule. Emma, our Labrador stuck close to me while Debs, our Husky dived into the bushes like the little explorer he always was. Everyone in the rest of the country ignored the quarantine rule and we took the dogs everywhere with us, into Panama City, into Darien by rental car, and up into the mountains in the middle of the country.

We really got to enjoy Panama among the Pacific Islands that dot the uninhabited coast. There are beaches, palm trees and crystal clear waters in an immense 300 mile playground where sailors can play Adam and Eve for months and not see the same place twice. We washed up on Isla Contadora in the Perlas Islands, which has an airstrip, hotels, some stores and fuel supplies. A walk was de rigeur through the ritzy neighborhoods where rich Panamanians keep weekend homes. I like this picture, it inverts the usual stereotype of Latin Americans being the gardeners for wealthy white Americans. "Mow yer lawn, guv?" After we got through the Canal we spent several more idylic weeks in the more famous San Blas islands on the Caribbean side of Panama. These Kuna indian islanders practice a low tech medieval lifestyle in their own autonomous province known to them as their Kuna Yala, with their own system of justice and social pecking order, similar to, but more idylic than, a US Indian Reservation. These islands resembled the Keys somewhat, in as much as they had coconuts, narrow sandy beaches and lots of scrub vegetation. We sailors gathered in calm anchorages and hung out barbequing under the stars, telling stories, swimming and playing cards until our supplies ran out and we had a private plane fly us out the fixings for a massive Thanksgiving dinner in November 1999. Believe me, we were absolutely bulging with thanks that memorable desert island holiday.Teaching kids to pet the dogs (with treats of course!) on the Rio Diablo/Corazon de Jesus footbridge in the Kuna Yala. Kids are kids in the most remote places and Labradors do like their treats.

Panama was a hell of a place, far more varied and interesting than Costa Rica with a greater percentage of land given over to parks and all the benefits iof a money laundering economy with excellent banking (they use the US dollar for their currency) and superb medical facilities. Retirement? Who knows!

1421

Bob agreed to wander through the bookstore with me, which came as a surprise. Bob had been retired for a while and he prided himself on being a doer not a reader. We had met while sailing the coast of Mexico en route, in our respective sailboats, to the Caribbean. Bob was a good friend and he and his wife Barb were excellent company, inveterate card players and excellent hosts. A retired electronics engineer he loved to fix things, and found my love of reading amusing but impractical. He told me he read perhaps one book a year. In this California bookstore Bob prodded me towards the shelves and started telling me I should read this and that. I nodded dumbly, astonished by his fervor. "This," he said. "You have to read this, it will blow your mind."

Well, I have to admit I was a bit dubious. He had previously recommended to me a book and in my opinion he got the thesis all wrong on that one. It was a good book, though, titled "Guns, Germs, and Steel," which posited that Indo-Europeans had received environmental advantages that helped put them ahead of rival cultures. Bob wasn't at all sure that other ethnicities could have profited from the advantages that Europeans used to get ahead. Europeans were the greatest, he said at the time. Not any more, nowadays Bob was reading voraciously and his world view was expanding, and he wanted mine to do the same.

The author of 1421, a retired Royal Navy Captain, spent 17 years researching a detective story about who actually traveled round the world first. The author's conclusions, beautifully detailed and meticulously researched, are absolutely devastating. He claims China sent fleets to all corners of the world where many of them crashed and sank and left behind colonies of Chinese sailors and concubines who created outposts of Chinese culture, genes and agriculture everywhere including Australia, South and Central America, Africa and of course to us most astonishingly, the United States.

The author is levelheaded, thoughtful and precise. His story is unimpeachable as far as I'm concerned and reminds me once again how little we can believe the stories told us by our elders and betters. Everyone believes in self preservation first and truth second. So while his theories are scoffed at by professional academics, the author employs common sense and an understanding of sailing more complete than a land based historian or archaeologist could bring to the subject. I have sailed some of the seas he discusses and everything he says about them makes perfect sense to me.

I found his explanation of the famous Bimini Road, a strip of carefully placed underwater stones off the beach on North Bimini, obvious and simple once explained. Others have concluded the stones were placed by aliens or were part of the myth of Atlantis or some other rubbish. Menzies figures, with lots of research that the Bimini Road was a pair of slipways to haul the Chinese Admiral's junks damaged in a recent hurricane.

His explanation to a sailor is obvious and simple. I believe his other explanations for anomalies in the history of exploration merit serious consideration. This book has turned my world upside down. There are 500 closely reasoned pages, a superb read, a fantastic detective story simply told and easily understood and packed with details. I recommend it highly to anyone with a mind open enough to accept that perhaps Columbus sailed West with a Chinese map in his hand, after lying to the Spanish monarchs about his plans in order to get money out of them for a chance at adventure, fame and fortune.

This is not history as one learns it but it makes the extraordinary a matter of common sense. My mind is reeling.

Vignettes III

When I was a sailboat captain taking cruise ship passengers sailing in Key West Harbor they used to ask me anxiously "What about hurricanes?" There we were sailing small catamarans around Tank Island and Christmas Tree Island, beautiful blue winter skies, crystalline waters flashing by only inches from their bums and all they could ask about was storms. Everybody wants drama. As far as I can tell since the Annus Horribilis of 2005 there have been monster floods in the Mid West, killer tornadoes in Tornado Alley, power outages in the North East, hellfires in California and outlying satellite states, and epic mudslides in Hawaii. Don't cry for the Keys, America, we're doing fine down here in balmy 80 degree days. Our biggest problem I predict is the Canadian loony at better than par with the US dollar and we probably are going to drown in (non-tipping) economically smug Canadian snowbirds all winter long. Luckily for us they have to go home every spring to validate their Free National Health Service cards.

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Boot Key has been formally cut off from the United States this week, making it a minor outlying island in the tradition of Conch Republic craziness. Boot Key is a small lump of scrub and mangroves on the Atlantic side of the city of Marathon (Marathon "Key" despite the best efforts of tourism promoters does not exist), and its partially occupied by a road, some commercial fishing docks leased to the fishermen by the owner of the radio station that operates out of Boot Key. The State of Florida in all its majesty this week ordered the City to shut down the drawbridge because it isn't able to support it's own weight let alone cars and humans. The radio station is now having its personnel ferried to the island courtesy of the City, which has to scrounge up at least $10 million dollars to fix the bridge to nowhere, or $1 million ( estimated) for the Corps of Engineers to dismantle the bridge's opening span. Which by the way still requires an operator to open the bridge to allow masted boats to get into Boot Key Harbor. The theory is that if the span is left open it might blow over in strong winds. As one might surmise there is a good deal of heated debate going on about what to do with this problem. After the parties involved solve this issue, they promise to head to Jerusalem and bring peace to the Middle East.

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This was the summer that I never made it out to Tarpon Belly Key, a place where I can put out a recliner on the beach and take a quiet read. Even though the beach is more rocks than sand, this can be viewed as an advantage as it attracts fewer visitors. I can't remember a time when I found someone else sunning themselves on the pebbles when I wanted to be there. Indeed I read in the paper this week that Tarpon Belly had a visitor who really would rather have been elsewhere. Silly man. He took off from the ramp at Blimp Road on Cudjoe and paddled his kayak out into the wind blown waters. It doesn't look far but he was apparently stuck. The brisk breezes dragged him out and washed him up on Tarpon Belly. There's not much there for a castaway but he was apparently in good health when the Marine Patrol found him the next day. Having failed to make the 40 minute boat ride even once this summer, through flat waters, I rather envy him his stay on my island.

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Gratuitous motorcycle picture.

Because I like the picture and its my blog.