When I was in high school I discovered the real difference that warmth and sunshine could make in my life. Growing up in the city, I lived in a huge, drafty house built a hundred years before we moved in. Nights between October and May were spent under so many layers of blankets that I couldn’t roll over under the weight. To this day I can go to sleep and wake up eight hours later in the exact same position.
Then I went to boarding school my freshman year of high school. And there was warmth. I spent a lot of time after that thinking of ways to stay warm once I graduated. The short story is, I went to live in San Diego for three years before moving back north of the Mason-Dixon Line. The long story is for another time. But since moving back I have closed my eyes more than once in the dead of winter, to imagine myself lying in the sand, half naked, with the sun toasting the surface of my skin, as a balmy breeze drifts over me.
In the summertime I feel energized and strong. Even though when we reach August I start to feel a little anxiety over the eminently approaching winter season, I am able to convince myself that it’s no big deal. This is false, of course. This is the talk of “summer muscles.”
In November I will start to think about flying south in January or February, but the holidays provide just enough distraction so that I start to rationalize with myself that I could buck up and survive without falter, save my money, and maybe even embrace the weather. And when February makes me shiver, I begin to regret my fear of flying, metaphorically speaking, and start to look for opportunities to GET ME OUT OF HERE. Seriously, people, you must try to understand that cold weather HURTS me. I am obviously too weak to fight the chronic pain of it. After all these years of being told to “put another sweater on” to no avail, for the love of God, if you love me you will understand my burden. Enough said. (Until I address poor circulation, low blood pressure, and what the acupuncturist did.)
Enter 2008. It was February. I was heartbroken. (See “On Time and Love“) This is when it is good to have great girlfriends who will hang out with you while you pick up the pieces. And, as promised, a cure for the winter doldrums. . .
One of my favorite pastimes is beach camping.
From the beaches of Assateague to Puerto Rico, I have enjoyed the merging of outdoor living with my favorite outdoor location. For adventurists who love the ocean and are more impressed with nature than a mint on their pressed pillowcase, beach camping is an ultimate vacation. In 2008 my friend Alison told me she wanted to return to the Florida Keys for a camping trip. In my wretched state it was music to my ears. We made plans to fly out in April.
Although I often travel without a plan because I get excited about feeling as free as possible, Alison assured me that it’s best to make reservations in the Keys. Even when camping. Especially when camping. The Florida Keys are a hot spot for RV’ing fishermen who are devoted to spending their vacation time fishing the blue waters. And don’t forget that each key is narrow and small, limiting accommodations. There are only about 100 miles from Key Largo to Key West.
So, Alison and I flew into Miami and rented a car. We had packed our luggage wisely, I with the tent and lantern, she with the headlamps and lavender mist for inside our shared sleeping quarters. Incidentally, there are approximately 65 miles between Miami and Key Largo which can be enjoyed driving with the windows wide open and Luther Vandross belting “Never Too Much” as you sing along.
Alison made reservations at John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park in Key Largo and Curry Hammock State Park in Marathon. We spent a day at Bahia Honda, touted as the “Best Beach in the Continental U.S.”, and although we did not bivouac there, we did mooch on their facilities.
There is a lot of snorkeling to do in the Florida Keys and Alison is an ocean lover of the aquatic variety. There are two types of people who love the ocean. The type that loves it from within, i.e. Alison, Yim, etc., and the type that loves it from without, i.e. me. All I wanted to do was lie in the hot sand and warm my bones, but Alison is such a good friend and when she begged me to go snorkeling with her I acquiesced, on the condition that she sing karaoke with me later at the Caribbean Club.
From Pennekamp we made arrangements to board a boat going 7 miles out to snorkel the Banana Reef. There were about 25 people going out that day.
I should mention here that I am not a fan of horror movies because they are generally unbelievable and therefore do not frighten me. I don’t mind a good scare, though. When I saw the preview for Open Water, I made a point of seeing it because my worst fear ever is to be in water that I cannot see below the surface of. And that hosts other living creatures. And that is too deep for me to touch my feet to the bottom. And that movie scared the crap out of me.
So many things happened in my life when I was three, but one of them was that I stepped off a sand ledge in the Atlantic while camping on Ocracoke Island and when I realized I was under the water with the fishes, fishes that I could see!, I had to quickly learn how to swim towards the light to save my skin. This is why when I was 15 and wiped out while water-skiing (hey, alliteration) I panicked while waiting for the boat to swing back around for me because I saw an enormous dead tree log floating waaay over by the bank of the lake and was able to convince myself that it could possibly be a Loch Ness Monster.
When snorkeling 7 miles off the coast, the guides advise you to stay with your partner. Seven miles off the coast the waters were colder and there was a damn cloud, the only cloud in the sky, right above us, blocking the sunshine. My bikini and a life jacket were not enough to keep me from shivering with goose bumps. When someone said, “Hey, there’s a shark,” I did not care that it was a 6-7 foot lemon shark swimming deep below us in the reef. My eyes confirmed what my ears heard and I turned and high-tailed it back aboard our boat, leaving Alison alone and up to her neck in sharky waters. I was the first one back to the boat and I had to wait another half hour, at least, before the guide signaled everyone else back. I am a land creature. I do not require breathing apparatus on terra firma.
Alison did sing karaoke with me at the Caribbean Club. We sang Madonna’s “Cherish” and Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Alison did not run off the stage. Later in the week we would return to the Caribbean Club to witness a rehabilitated manatee being released back into it’s natural habitat.
My favorite place in the Keys was Curry Hammock in Marathon. The camp facilities were pristine and the beach was peaceful. Beaches in the Keys are narrow and sometimes a bit rough to walk on, but the sand is nearly white, the water is shallow and warm a long way out, and the wildlife is amazing. At Curry Hammock we got kayaks from the park office and paddled out around the key.
If you are quiet and patient the wildlife will reveal itself to you. Manatees and sharks, jumping fish, cranes and other birds of Florida can be seen. Alison and I took the kayak into the cave created by the low growing tangle of the mangroves that grow so thick, only slivers of sunlight shine directly through. I felt like an explorer in the rain forest.
Lastly, we drove down to Key West and toured Ernest Hemingway’s house.
We ate fantastic food and drank salted margaritas while listening to live music outdoors.
We stumbled upon a street party celebrating freedom of expression . . .
And athletic abilities . . .
We stood in a crowd and watched the sunset, just like Billy Crystal and Gregory Hines (R.I.P.) did in Running Scared (cue Michael McDonald!).
And then we enjoyed the buskers performing on the waterfront. I bought 2 great pieces of silver jewelry in Key West, a ring and a cuff bracelet, as souvenirs.
So there they are. The Florida Keys: cure for the wintertime blues. And for heart-ache.
So we went in April, which is technically spring. And Hemingway killed himself anyway, but he was a severe case.
Oh, what the heck:
the Duchess of Amboy 