Only in Miami: Part 2

Our flight out wasn't until late in the evening. And we were awake at the crack of dawn.

So we decided to rent a car and drive for a while.

The Mormon's license had been revoked so it was, therefore, up to me to control the vehicle. We were given a bright red convertible. So, with the top down, we headed out on the highway to Key Largo.

I wasn't quite sure what Key Largo was other than an old black and white movie; but it was a beautiful Sunday with the sun shining brightly and the wind in my face so I was content to drive as far as we could with the radio blasting. We didn't have a guide book or a plan. The guys at the rental place told us there was a big national park there and a good place to get seafood. That's all we needed to know.

The Mormon and I didn't say much as we made the ride. I had finally let the stress of the previous day go and, like a little kid, had forgotten about it once it was gone.

Key Largo is about as long as Washington Square Park. We approached and I was expecting hotels, houses, bars, nightclubs; a main street to rival Miami. But no. It's a stretch of road with some bait & tackle stores, the one seafood restaurant and the entrance to the park. So when I initially said, "Let's drive through the town before circling back." I didn't realize it would take all of five minutes.

Lunch was first on our agenda. And the seafood was perfect. So was the key lime pie, which I had never add before but felt an instant affinity for it's tarty sweetness. The restaurant was right out of the John Candy movie "Summer Rental." Old, dusty fishing paraphernalia hung on the walls. Plastic lobsters and crabs clung precariously to nets above our heads. Oil paintings of boats caught in squalls had a layer of frying grease coating them. But the pot of steamers and plate of clam strips were as fresh and as tasty as anything so I'd forgive the undecorous decor.

We made small talk about the wedding and the performers who had come down with us. We watched the couples and families come and go. I flirted with the waitress, which is always a bad habit of mine. And I thought, this is ok. This is how things are supposed to be. Normal. Easy. Fun. We washed down the key lime pie with a steaming hot cup of tar-tasting coffee and left, a generous tip for our waitress on the table.

We drove over to the National Park and the Mormon ran in to ask about boat rentals. He came back in about 15 minutes with a smile on his face, the keys to a boat in one hand and map of the area in another. "Let's go sailing!"

So we crouched in the back seat of the car, changed into our bathing suits and went in. The man who was running the boat rental place was definitely a character out of a movie. He had long shaggy blonde hair about five days of scruff and the lean body of a surfer. He was probably in his 40s and said he had moved to Key Largo from NYC about 5 years ago with his wife and kids and had never been happier. I couldn't imagine how he supported a family on the salary of a boat rental place that he didn't even own but was too polite to ask. He asked how long we'd be out and we said probably only about two hours. We had to get back to Ft. Lauderdale for our flight back to NYC.

I tentatively stepped into the boat. I was trying to put a brave face on. I wanted to do this but I am terrified of water. Rather, I am terrified of drowning. I can't swim. Despite lessons as a child at the Center City YMCA, I had never taken to the water. I needed goggles in order to even try to open my eyes under the surface and my favorite part of lessons was when the instructor would take us down to the deep end, hand under hand we would lower ourselves on the ladder and then push ourselves to the very bottom of the 12 feet. There, he would give a thumbs up and we would spring like rockets on our feet and thrust ourselves to the surface. That was the coolest thing in the world to me. But that wasn't swimming.

I looked around for a life preserver and found two under the seats in the back. I'd be fine. I can keep myself afloat but I know that in a panic, I'll die.

The Mormon goes over how the boat operates with the Surfer Man and then we head out, gently at first, going through a long canal that cuts through a number of gorgeous houses invisible from Key Largo's main road. Each house has a boat and a private entrance to the water. Many of these homes have pools. It's early afternoon and people are coming to life; swimming, preparing the bbq, drinking and talking to their neighbors.

The canal finally opens up into...what? The keys? A large body of water. There are boat traffic signs and the Mormon instinctively follows them. I have to ask the meaning of each and every one. We consult the map a few times and sail around at a leisurely pace, feeling the sun and salt air on our faces. After a while, the Mormon asks me if I want to take over. I consult the map and see a large cove that looks out of the way and quiet. Also, it's called Blackwater Cove which sounds very Daphne DuMaurier goth to me. So I aim for it.

At first I sail tentatively. But then I push the throttle down and the boat picks up speed and it's like flying. The wind is whipping in my face, the water is splashing all around us and we'll hit a cap and go propelling into the air for a few seconds. I do this the entire way into the cove and then, all of a sudden, the engine sputters. Then it groans. Then it dies. And there we are, trapped in Blackwater Cove.

There are no other boats around us. I have picked the most deserted place on the map to take us. A few miles away is a bit of highway but other than that, there's just water and unoccupied land. I turn to the Mormon. Do you have your cell phone? We should call Surfer Man.

So, the Mormon does and looking at the map we explain to him exactly where we are. We even give him the coordinates. Sailing is easy if the engine doesn't blow out. He says he can probably come get us in about 45 minutes. That's fine. We have time.

The Mormon looks at me and asks, "Do you want to go for a swim?"

I stammer. I look around. There's no edge of the pool for me to hold on to. There's no telling how deep the water is. I couldn't safely put my feet on the floor and swirl my arms around me as if I was swimming.

No. No. I'm ok. I'd rather stay up here.

"Are you sure?"

Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure.

He takes his shirt off and dives in. He resurfaces a second later, glistening and glowing. "Come on. It's beautiful." And I think for a second, Maybe I should. Maybe I could just dive in and come up in his arms and I'd be safe there. And he would hold on to me and we would be that couple like in a movie. (That movie not starring Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson on their boat.) But I don't do it. I don't feel safe. I don't believe he'll hold on to me if I can't touch the bottom. So I walk around to the front of the boat, the bow -- of you will, take off my shirt and lay in the sun. And the rays burn me. And my body soaks up the heat. And I feel alive in the feeling of this.

The Mormon eventually gets back on the boat and we don't speak. He's disappointed in me. I'm disappointed in myself. An hour passes. I finally stand and put my shirt back on. I look out at the horizon and there, in the distance, the perfect blue sky has begun to turn green. The green fades to grey which in turn fades to a deep charcoal. I see lightening flashing in the sky and the low rumble of thunder makes itself heard.

Maybe you should call Surfer Dude again, I say in a hushed voice, trying to remain calm. I will not die on this boat. I will not die on this boat. I will not die on this boat.

The Mormon is talking to the Surfer. The Surfer says he's where we say we are but we're not there. I calmly look at the map again, keeping on eye on the storm that seems to be getting closer and closer with each passing second. I give the coordinates once again to the Mormon who repeats them to the Surfer who, it appears, is in the exact opposite direction from us and another 45 minutes away. Meanwhile I'm shouting in the background "Blackwater Cove! It says BLACKWATER COVE on the map." And I try to breathe. And I try not to look at the storm but I'm transfixed. For a second I think, Maybe I can jump in the water and start swimming. But where? I know how far out we are. I put us there.

The Mormon hangs up and says, He's going to be another 45 minutes or so.

I look at my watch. Well. We're going to miss our plane. Which is fine. But I hope we miss the storm.

Silence except for the occasional rumbling of thunder and an increasing darkening of the sky.

Finally, the Surfer pulls up in a boat much like our but that's running. "I thought you were on the other side." Through gritted teeth I ask him if he had a map in front of him as I explained exactly where we were.

"No. No, I don't use that map. I just thought you'd be on the other side."

Really? And then I calmly explain what happened and how now we've missed our flight back to NYC. The Surfer goes to the engine and sticks his head into the box that houses it. "Yep. She's burned out. Surprised she made it this long." He comes back out and looks at us, "Sorry, fellas. Well, we'll tow her back and you can be on your way." So we cross from our broken boat into Surfer's running one. He throws a rope and secures it to our boat and we start pulling it behind us. We have to drive veeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyy sssssssslllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooolllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyy to accomplish this. After about five minutes, Surfer gets frustrated, cuts the rope and says, "I'll come get her later." He opens his boat up and we speed back to the rental facility.

Because we're going so fast, the boat is jumping up and down and my ass keeps slamming on the seat. I know that I'm going to break out in mad hives later because of this. The Mormon stands next to the Surfer and they talk that brand of mindless "men's talk" that I don't understand and am not programmed for. We finally reach that shore and I get out of the boat, shaky legged and bruised from the ride. I nod a goodbye and wander towards the parking lot. My skin is red from the sun. The storm clouds have drifted in another direction. I am safe again.

The Mormon comes out counting a wad of cash and smiling, "Full refund. Let's go get some seafood."

I call JetBlue and change our reservation for first thing the next morning. I call my parents and let them know I'll be home a day later than I thought I would because, even though I don't live with them anymore, I always tell them where I'm at or where I'm going. Force of habit.

The Mormon seems exhilarated by our experience. I feel broken and bruised. We eat in silence and drive back to Hollywood in silence. My upper thighs and my feet have begun to swell up and get itchy. Hives. They're almost unbearable but I have to be the one to drive because the Mormon can't. I just want to plunge into a cold tub to numb the pain but we still need to figure out where we're staying.

We drive into downtown Ft. Lauderdale but the streets are confusing and crowded and I'm tired and can't make a decision. Finally, I suggest that we just go back to the hotel in Hollywood we stayed in the night before. He agrees. When we reach our destination, he offers to take the car back through the parking lot to the rental place so I can soak my feet. It's probably the nicest thing he's ever done for me.

Limping, I make my way to the front desk and ask if they have a room available. They do. And we have one more night in Hollywood.