TRUSTED BY LOCALS AND LOVED BY VISITORS SINCE 1915
Memorable trip Dear Editor,
In early May, my wife and I had the privilege of exploring California from Point Reyes to Point Lobos. No matter where our plans took us, we enjoyed our journey.
The enjoyment of our visit was grounded in the vision and will of Californians to preserve such precious land.
No matter the vistas in the seaside parklands or along the 17 Mile Drive, we cherished the restless Pacific, its stone masonry on the shoreline, and the pretty blooming flowers along many trails.
Our lives have been enriched by graceful redwoods, the backstories found in Alcatraz and Angel islands, the coffee-colored soil in farmland near Watsonville, and the magnificent Monterey Bay Aquarium.
Additionally, we were impressed by the patience and wisdom of employees in the state and national parks, appreciated the knowledgeable waitstaffs in every restaurant, and were thankful for an understanding man, a transplant from Austin, who sensed we were lost in locating the famous Fairytale Cottages in Carmel-By-The- Sea. This stranger might have saved our almost fifty years of marriage.
In Robinson Jeffers’ poem “The Beaks of Eagles,” he writes about the life of a mother eagle. The author notes: “The world has changed in her time,” and despite these challenging changes, the mother eagle continues to find the way to survive.
Like the mother eagle, it is my hope that California with stubborn persistence will repel any wacky Washington attempts to dismantle these priceless plots of unparalleled beauty.
Our aging hearts will hold this trip forever, thank you.
Bill Pike,
Richmond, Va.
Author’s note: Today, I was honored to have this letter to the editor published in the Carmel Pine Cone, a weekly newspaper in Carmel-By-The-Sea, California.
Coastline, Point Lobos, California (Photo Bill Pike)
My Vietnam War draft number wasn’t selected in the spring of 1972. That spring, I was finishing the second semester of my freshman year of college.
On the campus of Greensboro College, we had a few classmates who had already served in the United States military.
In Burlington, North Carolina, our across the street neighbors, the Amicks, their son, Rick, served our country during the Vietnam War.
At our church, Davis Street Methodist, the Pate family lost their oldest son, Robbie, in combat in Vietnam.
In Richmond, Virginia at our church, Trinity Methodist, we have a memorial garden that recognizes three young men from our congregation who lost their lives in Vietnam.
And for my father’s family, the oldest son, Boyd Pike, was killed in World War II. Boyd was a sailor aboard the USS Simms, a United States Navy destroyer. It was attacked and sunk by the Japanese in the Coral Sea.
I’m no history expert, no expert on any war, but I do have a respect for the men and women who have served our country in times of conflict and war.
Last May, we spent an extended weekend with college friends in Highland, Maryland. We traveled on Friday to Frederick, Maryland.
As we roamed around downtown, we walked into the local independent bookstore, the Curious Iguana.
This is a compact, but very nice bookstore with a first-class selection of books.
My college roommate, Butch Sherrill, spotted Garrett M. Graff’s book: When The Sea Came Alive An Oral History Of D-Day. As soon as Butch handed it to me, I started skimming through the pages. I was immediately hooked because of the format.
From D-Day planning until the end of the operation, Graff tells the story through the words of the men and women who were there. No matter the military personnel’s rank, no matter their country, their words, their stories, their contributions are captured in these quotes. These quotes take the readers into the bunkers, the beaches, the ships, the planes— everywhere on D-Day.
In Graff’s notes at the beginning of the book, the author ends the section with these words: “The greatest names in the pages ahead, as it turns out, are the ones you don’t know.”
My guess is you don’t know the name Waverly B. Woodson. Staff Sgt. Woodson was a Black medic on Omaha Beach on D-Day. On that day, June 6, nearly 2,000 black soldiers were a part of the D-Day attack.
Interestingly, “not a single Black soldier, sailor, airman, Marine or Coast Guard personnel was originally awarded the Medal of Honor in World War II. (Page XV Author’s Note)
“During World War II, 433 Medals of Honor were awarded. None of those medals were received by Black soldiers.”(Graff page 374)
From the moment he came ashore on Omaha Beach, Staff Sgt. Woodson was involved in assisting the wounded. He stated: “All day, we medics continued to dress many, many wounded and consoled the frightened. This went on until around 3 o’clock in the afternoon. With all of this going on I didn’t have time to see how bad I was wounded—I only wanted to help the survivors. After about 8 hours, one of the medics redressed my wounds and I continued, as I didn’t have a place to lie down.” (Graff page 374)
During 1994 in the Clinton administration, nine Black World War II Veterans received the Medal of Honor. Only one of those nine was still living. Staff Sgt. Woodson was not one of those. He died in 2005. Since his death, bills have been introduced in Congress to award Woodson the Medal of Honor. Despite support by military leaders none of these bills has passed. (Graff page 374)
Staff Sgt. Waverly B. Woodson did survive that horrible day on Omaha Beach. After the war, Woodson and his wife raised a family near Clarksburg, Maryland. He received a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his dedication.
For the fiftieth anniversary of D-Day the French government recognized Staff Sgt. Woodson. Woodson and two other D-Day soldiers received a weeklong all-expenses-paid trip to France, and they were awarded medals during a ceremony on Omaha Beach. Woodson could never figure out why he was chosen. But, he assumed this was the French’s way of saying, “Thanks.” (Graff page 499-500).
In the Epilogue of the book, this quote from General Dwight Eisenhower caught my attention: “These people gave us a chance and they bought time for us so that we can do better than we have before. Every time I come back to these beaches— or any day when I think about that day—I say, once more, we must find some way to work to peace, and to gain an eternal peace for this world.” (Graff page 499)
Here we are eighty years after D-Day, and the world still can’t embrace a sustainable peace.
What is wrong with us?
Why is peace unattainable?
Haven’t we learned anything from war?
Do we understand the aftermath of its carnage and destruction?
Sadly, the answer is no.
The Greek historian Herodotus wrote these words: “In peace sons bury fathers, but in war fathers bury sons.”
On this Memorial Day and those in the future, America must vow to never, never, never forget those whom we have buried from our wars.
Their sacrifices sustain America’s fragile freedom.
America must always work to find peace to stop the burials from war.
As General Eisenhower stated: “we can do better than we have done before.”
American flag, San Francisco, California May 2025 (Photo Bill Pike)
In the summer of 1980, I made my first trip to California. For the Commander Supreme and me that was a before kids trip.
A highlight of that trip was a drive up the coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco. My sister-in-law, Abby, was our tour guide.
Three years ago, we were all set to fly to San Francisco to attend the wedding of the Commander Supreme’s niece, Ashley. The day before we were scheduled to fly, thinking she had a sinus infection, the Commander tested positive for COVID-19.
Obviously, we canceled the trip, but the Commander was able to hang on to the flight for the future.
So on Wednesday, May 7, 2025, we boarded a Breeze Airways Airbus A-220 in Richmond and flew direct to San Francisco.
By 6:00 a.m. we were in the car and driving toward the Richmond airport.
Other than a van driver from the extended stay parking lot who didn’t know the details of his job, we had no challenges getting into the terminal.
We cleared all of the screening hurdles. Our walk to the gate was leisurely. Knowing that we would be sitting for a long time, I walked a lot in the terminal.
Eventually, the plane arrived from Charleston.
The boarding process went quickly.
The A220 seating configuration is three seats and two seats. The Commander booked us a two seat reservation with extra leg room. This arrangement was a nice surprise from the normal sardine box.
Even though, we boarded quickly, we sat too long on the tarmac before heading to the runway.
The captain of the plane told us to expect a few bumps as we settled in for the cross country flight.
Breeze is a no frills airline. No monitors on the back of the seats for watching movies. I had to hope I could download their wireless access correctly.
For now, I focused on the landscape out my window for a distraction. I love how the topography of America changes as we fly west. The hills, east coast mountains, the flat plains, the snow covered Rockies, wide sections of deserts, more hills, and finally the coastal plain heading into San Francisco.
Snow topped mountains flying west. (Photo Bill Pike)
Early in the flight, I nodded off for some nano naps. Read from Richmond editor and writer, Tom Allen’s second book—“Roll With It: encountering grace, grins, gridlock, and God in everyday life.” After a few chapters of Tom’s book, I switched over to Tristan Gooley’s The Secret World Of Weather: How to Read Signs in Every Cloud, Breeze, Hill, Street, Plant, Animal, and Dewdrop (Natural Navigation).
At some point, I opened up my laptop computer and started to write. For a long stretch, this was a good distraction.
The bumps, the turbulence on the flight were minimal.
Gradually, the plane slowed. We were notified that our descent into San Francisco had started.
I made sure everything was securely in my backpack. Then, I was glued to my window tracking the landscape changes.
The plane made a graceful landing. We departed the plane easily. The next hurdle was finding our way in the pretty San Francisco airport.
With adequate signage guiding us, we exited the terminal to a line of taxis. We were assigned to the first taxi in line. The driver helped us with our luggage, the Commander gave him the hotel’s address, off we went.
Our driver was very good. He skillfully maneuvered us through traffic, patiently answered questions, and never appeared rattled by wacky moves from other drivers.
He even explained Waymo to us. Waymo is the driverless Google car.
Our frequently spotted Waymo (Photo Bill Pike)
At the Alton Hotel, the driver dropped us in the perfect spot, helped with our bags, and we wished him the best.
The Commander’s detailed planning made for a seamless checkin and a surprise room upgrade.
We settled quickly into our and room, and promptly left heading to the In and Out Burger a block away from the hotel.
Until Saturday morning The Alton would be our home. Located in the Fisherman’s Wharf area of the city, the hotel still had a new construction feel to it.
We arrived just in time at In and Out. By minutes, we beat the daily lunch hour surge. The In and Out chain is a West Coast staple. If you’ve never had one of their burgers, don’t turn it down.
As soon as we finished our burgers, we hit the pavement.
One thing you quickly learn about San Francisco is the terrain. Maybe the reason Tony Bennett “left his heart in San Francisco” is that it died walking up one of its hills.
The contrast from the relative flatness at Fisherman’s Wharf to the extreme steepness of the hills on either end of Lombard Street is significant.
Our first stop was the Coit Tower. The tower sits on the top of Telegraph Hill.
The walk up to the tower is a heart thumper. But the vistas from the park at the top, and the views at the tip of the tower are worth it.
Coit Tower was built from 1932-33. It has 234 steps to the top. The tower is also graced with fresco murals.
Coit Tower (Photo Bill Pike)
From Coit Tower, we walked back toward Lombard Street. To get to the other end of Lombard Street requires another steep decent and climb.
This side of Lombard Street is known as the “Crookedest Street In The World.” It is interesting to watch cars handle the sharp turns along the well maintained lawns and gardens.
A car heading down Lombard (Photo Bill Pike)
We shifted our walk into the North Beach neighborhood. Here a mix of houses and business caught our attention. Pretty cathedrals against a blue sky backdrop were hard to miss.
A pretty cathedral (Photo Bill Pike)
Even on the first day of vacation, I could not resist going into Cole Hardware. Founded in the 1920s, the store and its contents are very appealing. Maybe this motto explains the sustained success of the store: “There are no strangers here, just friends we haven’t met.” The store even has a cooler of pies from The Pie Company based out of Ripon, California.
Next, we worked our way to the famous City Lights Bookstore. Founded in 1953 by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Peter D. Martin, this is one of those special independent bookstores that has managed to beat the odds. If you love books, you must stop.
The famous bookstore (Photo Bill Pike)
Then, we took a brief walk on the fringes of Chinatown. Lots of shop owner energy was present among the diverse merchandise with customers haggling for the best price. ‘
As we started our walk back to the hotel, Italian food shops tempted us with their aromas and displays, but we kept moving.
At the hotel, we collapsed, but made sure we were up and heading toward the free happy hour in the lobby at five. A nice glass of wine for the Commander and a California Blonde Ale from the Eel River Brewing Company for me helped to bring our busy day to a close.
For dinner, we made the short walk from the hotel to Cioppinos, an Italian restaurant. The food and the service were good.
After our filling dinner, we were really ready to collapse. The Commander’s “fit bit” had us over eight miles with most of those steps recorded during our afternoon trek.
At the end of the day, I’m remembering the architecture as our taxi driver drove us further into the city. No part of a plot of land is wasted. Homes and businesses are stacked up on every hillside throughout the city.
We saw lots of pretty gardens and shrubs along the way. Blooms of all shapes, sizes, and colors added to the charm and character of the neighborhoods.
Pretty blooms (Photo Bill Pike)
At the end of our first day, I’m thankful for my Commander Supreme. If the remainder of the trip is as good as the first afternoon, then we’re going to be remembering this trek for a long, long time.
On Friday, January 31, 2025 at 5:51 a.m. the temperature was 72 degrees. Humidity was 82%. Wind was out of the southeast at 10 miles per hour. Visibility in Marathon Key, Florida was 10 miles.
Of course, the last day of your trip, when you’re packed up, and ready to fly back home is always the prettiest.
Our last morning in Marathon Key (Photo Bill Pike)
With a late afternoon flight out of Miami to take us back to our Middle Atlantic homes and more winter, I opted to take one more run. I knew it would be months before I could take a run wearing shorts and t-shirt.
Most of the packing took place on Thursday afternoon. I had a few details to finish up, but there was time for the run.
I ran toward the Seven Mile Bridge, a bridge that none of us will forget. That bridge takes travelers further south to the next set of Keys, but more importantly, the bridge gives visitors multiple opportunities to see the water and the land from a variety angles.
The Overseas Highway on my left was already awake. Traffic moved in all directions. I don’t think this highway has many quiet moments.
Restaurants were in the final stage of prep for customers who needed a jolt of coffee or breakfast.
As I made my way out to the bridge, I encountered a few other early risers. Some were walking, biking, or puttering along in their running shoes.
The views from the bridge were just as expected— pretty.
Yet in nature’s appealing charms, I had a bit of sadness—my next run in Richmond would not have these views. And that’s ok. That’s what memories and photos do for you.
They allow you to hold on to the past. If I’m still vertical in ten years, I could look back at a photo and say, “ah the magnificent Seven Mile Bridge, that was a fun run out to the bridge and back.”
When I returned to the condo at Tranquility Bay, my pals were in a subdued motion. They knew we were heading home.
Seems that by ten we had cleared the checkout hurdles.
Next, all that luggage and our creaky bodies were crammed back into the SUV.
At some point on Thursday evening, I whined. I realized that we hadn’t visited any of the local craft beer breweries.
But my patient and accommodating pals, said not to worry. We could make a stop in Islamorada at the Florida Keys Brewing Company, and we did.
This colorfully bright brewery sits on the Old Highway that runs parallel to the Overseas Highway. But the brewery’s property also intersects with the Morada Way Arts and Cultural District. This is an eclectic mix of local shops and galleries.
At the brewery, Dan, Butch, and I ordered a flight of beers. We found a table out in the beer garden and sampled the well made beers from The Florida Keys Brewing Company.
My accommodating pals (Photo Bill Pike)
Soon our wives joined us from their exploring of the Morada Way shops, and then we scrunching ourselves back into the SUV.
We opted to have lunch at the High Tide. This was restaurant in Key Largo where our adventure started on January 20.
A good lunch time crowd was in place, but the staff squeezed us into the same table for six where we sat during our first visit. Again, the accommodating staff, and the homemade meals hit the spot.
Back in the car, we continued our trek north. The scenic landscapes of the Keys gradually disappeared. Miami and its sprawl were soon upon us. Dan and Butch continued to drive and navigate us toward the airport.
Like the pilot that he is, Dan navigated us into the chaos of the twists and turns of airport traffic. He nudged us into a good spot to unload. We pried ourselves and the luggage out.
This time, we opted to work with a sky cap who managed getting our luggage tagged and on its way to our airlines.
Now, our attention shifted to navigating the terminal. We wove our way through the wide hallways. Other tourists like us were doing the same thing. Gradually, we arrived at our departure sites.
Fortunately for us, goodbyes with this group of friends is really never goodbye. For the remainder of the afternoon and late into the evening, we would track our returns to Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia.
Somewhere in that tracking, I marvel at these friendships. Friendships that date back to the fall of 1971 at an unlikely starting point Greensboro College.
The Callows and Sherrills had earlier departure times.
It was almost midnight when our plane landed in Richmond. Raindrops covered my window as I looked out at the lights reflecting on the rain slick runway leading to the terminal.
Landed in a rainy Richmond (Photo Bill Pike)
Grabbing our luggage, locating the shuttle to our parking space, and driving home were ahead of us.
At many points during our two weeks in the Keys, I had multiple self-talk reminders: “My gosh are you lucky. Lucky to be able to take a trip like this with a wife who still tolerates your imperfections, and friends from college who also still endure your imperfections.”
Earlier in the afternoon as we maneuvered through the Miami airport, I saw the words: “Peace and Love” displayed on a large wall.
Words for pondering and action Miami Airport (Photo Bill Pike)
I wonder how many people pass by those words everyday?
Sadly, no matter how hard people around the world attempt to embrace “peace and love,” we are unable to fully commit ourselves to make this a reality.
I hope someday we will wise up and let “peace and love” lead our hearts for the good of all.
On the afternoon of Sunday, March 23, I arrived in Summerfield.
Our son-in-law, Doug, was traveling for business. This meant that our daughter, Lauren, needed some extra hands in managing the school and extracurricular schedules of our two elementary age grandchildren.
Lauren, a detailed planner like my wife, the Commander Supreme, had everything organized.
Over the winter, some of the landscaped beds in their yard had undergone a few changes. What were once young cooperative shrubs and trees had become overgrown and unruly.
In key areas in the back and front yards, these shrubs and trees had been taken down. This included stumps being ground.
One of my assignments was to get these beds back in shape.
On Monday morning, with the kids safely in their elementary school, the Commander and I started our yard chores. The Commander was working on the first invasion of spring weeds, and I tackled one of the beds where trees had been removed.
It was overcast and cool. During this work, a gentle rain shower came down.
By mid-morning, I had that first bed back in shape. Weeds were gone, stump mulch was blended and leveled into the soil, and my worn, but trusty spade shovel had carved out a fine edge to the bed.
The Commander made progress with her weeding too.
We took a break for lunch.
Interestingly, the Commander’s long time friend, Leslie Brinker, and her husband, Dave, were over in Oak Ridge. They were in town from Peoria, Illinois. Leslie and Dave were fulfilling the same duties that we were for one of their sons and his family. We had a good lunch and visit comparing notes about our chores.
Before we knew it, the school bus was dropping off Caroline and Hudson. Our attention turned to errands, shopping, and a stop for ice cream.
The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. Soon, Lauren was home. Dinner was prepared, and we looked ahead to Tuesday afternoon.
For Caroline, the Commander Supreme would be driving her to dance class. Hudson and I would be trying out his new fishing rod at the neighborhood lake.
The fishing rod had been a gift from us at Christmas. It was a simple push button reel with a small tackle box. The tackle box contained an assortment of small hooks, line weights, and lightweight floats (bobbers, fish indicators). With this simple set up, Hudson would learn if he had any interest in fishing becoming a hobby.
With better weather on Tuesday, the Commander and I continue our assignments in the yard. Progress was steady.
Seemed like the bus arrived earlier this afternoon, but one thing was for sure—Hudson was full of energy for the fishing expedition.
He scurried around and found the tackle box. He wanted to make sure that I had a few worms, and I did.
We met on the back deck, and with Hudson’s help, I started to prep the rod.
A hook was selected. I tied it on. We added one on line weight pellet. Next, we positioned the bobber at a sufficient distance from the hook.
Before we started our walk to the lake, we talked about the hook and some basic consideration for safety before casting the line into the lake. And, we talked about how fishing is basically unpredictable—we might catch a fish or we might not.
With that, we made sure we had a couple of worms, and we started our walk to the lake. We took the short path through the backyard woods and into a neighbor’s yard. At this house, there was a chance that one of Hudson’s school friends might join us, but that didn’t happen.
As we approached the lake, we walked down the hill. We chose a spot on the west side of the lake. This gave us a full view of the surrounding shoreline and plenty of room for casting on either side of a bed of rock. The bed of rock was in place to slow rainwater as it rolled down the sloped hill from the yard behind us.
Hudson held the rod as I baited the hook.
For a few minutes, I acclimated myself to the mechanics of the push button rod. A made of couple of pitiful casts, and when I finally improved, I started to work with Hudson.
From the beginning, I was a horrible teacher. I totally forgot that Hudson is left-handed. I was trying to have him cast with his right arm.
That didn’t work. Once I realized my idiocy, Hudson quickly picked up the mechanics and the timing of the release of the line.
With each cast, the angle and distance into the lake improved.
Hudson was a good listener. We talked about how to position his feet when he cast the line. The slice of his cast to the left went away when his first step went straight.
Anxious for a bite, he checked his bait quite a bit. We talked about the condition of the lake. Near the shoreline even with leaf debris, the water was clear. That clearness looked to be present beyond the shoreline too.
We were not paying attention to time, but at some point, Hudson let me know he was just about ready to head back to the house.
Almost at the same moment, we both said “ok, let’s get one more good cast.”
And that’s what happened. Hudson’s last cast was his best. The line lightly splashed just short of the middle of the lake.
In a blink, I did a double take. The bobber had disappeared. It was underwater.
I took a couple of quick steps toward Hudson. I tugged on the line, and said, “ I think you have a fish on.”
Our energy zoomed.
I helped him to coordinate his reeling of the line. The fish took off on him. The bobber zigged and zagged for a few feet.
But Hudson started to gain control of the line and the fish. There were a few more zig zags as Hudson worked the fish closer to the shoreline.
Finally, in the shallows, we could see the fish. Just as Hudson brought him to the edge of the shoreline, the fish came off the hook.
The fish landed flat on its side in very little water. I was able to step down and pick up the fish with my gloved hand.
Now the trick was to get my phone out of my pocket for a photo. The photography gods must have been looking out for me.
With some luck, I was able to snap a photo of the fish with Hudson in the background, I took three quick ones. Then, I returned the fish to the lake.
Stunned for a few breathless seconds, the fish quickly acclimated to the water and swam off.
I don’t know who was more excited—the fish who returned to the lake, Hudson, or me. I couldn’t believe that on his last cast he hooked a nice fish.
I kept saying over and over again, “I can’t believe you caught a fish.” He smiled and nodded in agreement.
We secured the rod, picked up the tackle box, and started the walk to the house.
Our excitement was with us every step of the way.
Of course, I texted photos of this memorable moment to the family. Those photos created another round of enthusiastic responses for Hudson.
With more daylight around, I returned to the yard work. My old brain would not let go of Hudson’s fish story. It kept replaying in my mind.
How lucky I was to be a part of Hudson’s story.
And the more, I thought, I was reminded of the kind hearts that helped me appreciate casting a fishing line—my father, Betsy’s dad, Betsy’s brother, and Betsy’s brother-in-law, Art.
And, I pondered more, how many youngsters in this world will never have the pleasure of casting a fishing line and catching a fish?
And there is another piece to this story— the earthworms and the fish.
Thanks to the earthworms for your sacrifice.
As for the fish, what the locals call a “crappie,” thanks for being a good sport.
Your decision to take the bait gave an old geezer and his grandson a reason to never lose hope on the last cast.
Our goal was to leave the condo by 6:30 a.m. That would give us time to make it to the marina by 7.
We made sure we had with us the required items. Our self-checking found us to be ready.
The only hiccup we had was the news out of Washington, D. C.
Overnight, a military helicopter collided with a commercial jet liner that was in its final approach into Reagan National. Sadly, there were no survivors.
At the marina, we parked. The row of boats we saw on Wednesday afternoon were still silent. But one boat, Size Matters, is where I located Captain Chuck. He was busily preparing the boat for our trip.
Captain Chuck asked us to give him a few minutes before we boarded.
We didn’t wait long before he welcomed us aboard. The first duty was spraying down our shoes with water. Keep the deck clean.
Once this ritual was completed, we introduced ourselves. Captain Chuck gave us a quick orientation about the boat. That included where we were heading toward and what we might expect.
The chatter continued as we learned about Captain Chuck, and we shared a bit about ourselves.
We had what my Richmond friend, Jack Berry, calls a “chamber of commerce day”—perfectly pretty.
Soon, Captain Chuck had the boat emerging from its berth at the dock. We were quietly heading out of this inlet and into a broader one.
During this trip to the Keys, we had been overly focused on sunsets. This morning, we would be properly positioned to see the sun rise, and rise it did.
Sun rising Marathon Key (Photo Bill Pike)
At some point, we cleared the no wake zones, and Captain Chuck opened up the engines. Within seconds, we were scooting atop the calm surface. I wondered what the sea life below the surface thought about this roaring wakeup call.
We had one important stop to make before heading beyond the mainland—“the bait guy.”
The bait guy (Photo Bill Pike)
Anchored in a small harbor, we slowly approach his location. There are two, maybe more bait wells that capture a variety of live minnows. Charter captains arrive each morning asking for their favorite live bait.
If the bait guy can meet the captain’s request, he takes his dip net, goes into the bait well, scoops out the minnows, and transfers them into the captain’s boat well.
Cash is exchanged, the bait guy wishes the captain luck, and his attention turns to the next charter captain.
Captain Chuck makes his request. The bait is handed off to him in the dip net. He stows the bait, and the bait guy hopes we have a good morning. Next Captain Chuck positions the boat to make our run out to the Gulf of Mexico.
We cross under a bridge that handles traffic on the Over Seas highway. From Miami to Key West, I’ve read there are 42 bridges.
One of the 42 bridges in the Keys (Photo Bill Pike)
Heading out to the Gulf we are able to see multiple beautiful homes on either side of the water. Within minutes, we are out in the open Gulf.
Based upon his experience, Captain Chuck knows when we arrive in good area for catching fish. He throttles back the engines, the forward motion of the boat slows. Captain Chuck begins aligning the boat over one of his favorite spots. At the precise moment, he drops the anchor.
Then, he explains the technique to use. Next, he is baiting the hooks, and preparing to hand the rods over to us.
Dan surveying the scene (Photo Bill Pike)
On the back of the boat, attached to the exterior surface, and placed just below the waterline is a rectangular shaped cage. Designed for easy access this cage holds, a “chum block.”
A chum block is a block of frozen fish pieces. As it slowly melts, fish are attracted to this ‘gourmet’ fare.
Butch ready to start (Photo Bill Pike)
With our rods properly baited, Captain Chuck turns us loose.
I honestly don’t remember who hooked the first fish. There was a flurry of activity with each of us having our lines becoming taut. It seems as soon as Captain Chuck had removed the fish from the hook, measured its size, placed the fish in the cooler, and re-baited the hook, we had another fish on the line.
Then just as soon as this chaos started, it stopped.
Captain Chuck in the middle (Photo Bill Pike)
We pulled in the lines, and Captain Chuck repositioned the boat.
Again, Captain Chuck worked to prep our lines, and soon, we were catching fish again.
Our main catch was the Mangrove Snapper. We did manage to catch two different type of mackerel, and a couple of times the fish we caught were below the size limit, or the fish were not suitable for eating.
Captain Chuck was like an ichthyologist professor in a college lab identifying fish. No matter the fish on the end of line, Captain Chuck knew the fish on a first name basis.
Additionally, he knew if a fish posed any danger. One fish I caught, he quickly told me not to touch it. Captain Chuck told me an encounter with the fish’s fins would ruin my day.
The action slowed in this spot, and Captain Chuck pulled the anchor. He motored us quickly and skillfully to the site of an old houseboat wreck.
Once we arrived, Captain Chuck set the anchor, and baited our lines. He also coached us about how to work the wreck.
Turns out this was Dan’s lucky day. Over the wreck, Dan hooked a good size black grouper.
Dan’s grouper (Photo courtesy Butch Sherrill)
Unfortunately, grouper season starts in May. So, this pretty fish was gently put back into the Gulf of Mexico by Captain Chuck. We made a few more casts, but no nibbles.
We had a good morning. Our limit had been caught. Added to that excitement, Captain Chuck shared a wide range of stories from his experiences on the water.
With the anchor up, we started back toward Marathon Key. We made one quick stop at a bait trap that Captain Chuck maintains. With interest, we watched him pull up the trap, and carefully harvest the bait for his next charter.
The ride back to the inlet was just as pretty as the ride out to the Gulf of Mexico. Out on the water, we could see waterfront homes that might go undetected on a leisurely drive through a neighborhood.
Once the boat was snug in its berth, Captain Chuck gathered the fish from the cooler. He displayed them for photos, and then Captain Chuck put his filet knife to good use.
Our catch (Photo Bill Pike)
As we watched him work his magic, another boat owner appeared. This guy was a talker.
We heard about his experiences as a commercial pilot, and his tales as a dedicated fisherman. He talked with Captain Chuck about an upcoming fishing trip. I sensed we were listening with a grain of salt.
The brown pelicans had been keeping an expectant eye on Captain Chuck. I’m sure the pellies were having the same internal, self-talk— ‘I hope this Captain will share some of those non-filet scraps with us.’
Hopeful pellies (Photo Bill Pike)
The pellies were lucky. Captain Chuck made sure all the scraps hit the water. There was quite a pelican scrum in jockeying for those pieces.
Soon, the filets were ready. Captain Chuck iced them down, and we paid him for the trip and the memories.
We wished him luck with the remaining snowbird months and the upcoming grouper season. Captain Chuck told us when the grouper season is completed, he heads to Alaska to Captain fishing trips in that stunning environment.
On the drive back to Tranquility Bay, we chatted about this chapter of our trip.
Once inside the condo, we proudly showed our bosses the bag of filets caught from our morning of grueling work out in a harsh and hostile environment. These are smart ladies. They didn’t buy any of that fish baloney.
Butch took the lead in figuring out how many filets he would prepare for our dinner that night.
With the remaining filets, we opted to give them to Tranquility Bay’s support staff. I walked the bag over to the office, explained our intent, and the filets were graciously accepted.
Nothing like fresh fish for dinner. Butch seasoned and cooked the filets to perfection. The side dishes were a hit too.
Before dinner, I started my sad prep for Friday. On Friday, we would be working our way back to the Miami airport. There we would board our flights to return us to our homes and the reality of more winter.
If you have been reading this blog for the last ten days, you know I’m at best a mediocre fisherman.
Do I want to catch fish? Yes.
But, I have concluded, it is more about the opportunity to be outside in an environment that is different from home.
An environment where the solitude of the morning will overtake me in its beauty, a beauty that is different with the breaking of each new dawn.
That beauty can be seen in the shades of color as the morning rises up out of an eastern sky.
Its about the timing of the right moment to see a line of pelicans as they gracefully skim inches above the crest of a wave.
And it is appreciating stillness as a shorebird in the shallows silently stalks for minnows.
And, it is the wonder of the backlog of stories that give me the opportunity to daydream like a child staring off into the sparkling soul of seawater.
Maybe, it isn’t about the fish that are never caught.
Maybe, it is about appreciating the beauty of a weary and worn world that still has its heartbeat. A heartbeat that needs us to see it, hear it, feel it, protect it, and love it.
With my out of state fishing license expired, I didn’t go fishing this morning. My chances of being caught by a game warden from the state of Florida were probably slim. But why should I add to the glee of the fish? In my seven days of casting, I’m sure the fish were proud of shutting me out.
Actually, I’m fine with the shutout.
I’m 1,052 driving miles away from Richmond, Virginia. It’s January. It’s winter. It’s cold.
Out the back door of the condo at Tranquility Bay, I can walk less than a hundred steps, and in a blink, I’m casting a line into an isolated bight of the shoreline fed by clear water from the Gulf of Mexico. Those early morning scenes will stay with me forever, and they will push me through the remaining winter when I get back home.
So, I opted to go for a run. When I departed the condo, the temperature was 63 degrees. Back home in Richmond, the thermometer was 33 degrees.
This morning I was running north on the left side facing traffic along the Overseas Highway. I hoped to run to Sombrero Beach.
Lots of traffic on both sides of the highway this morning.
I was clipping along well. I came to the cross walk for a right turn to head toward Sombrero Beach.
With one push of a button, I was able to stop traffic on both sides of the highway. I ran across staying within the lines of the crosswalk.
Safely on the the other side, I was getting ready to cross a side entrance that feeds into the Publix parking lot. A driver in a rush was approaching this crosswalk. I sensed the driver was not going to stop, so I stopped.
When the driver realized I had stopped, she stopped. With a touch of aggravation, I motioned for her to keep moving.
I’m reminded of Rodney Dangerfield—I tell you pedestrians get no respect. I don’t know if this is because drivers don’t know that pedestrians have the right away, or if drivers selfishly don’t care, and they keep moving.
Anyway, I noticed something nice the further my old body moved me away from the highway— it became quiet.
The roar of the wheels on the always burdened asphalt disappeared. I could hear birds chirping and singing. This was a very pleasant contrast to the hustle on the Overseas Highway.
As I moved along Sombrero Beach Road, I gradually came to a well designed public education complex for the middle and high schools in Marathon Keys.
These two campuses were about to come alive with the school day beginning.
At that point, my old body told my brain, we’re not taking Baloney Bill to Sombrero Beach this morning. With that internal memo, I ran just past the school complex. I turned around and headed back toward Tranquility Bay. When I arrived at the condo, I stopped my watch. It read 56:24.
Wednesday was to be a quiet day for us. No sightseeing, just an easy pace.
Later that morning Betsy, Butch, and I walked to the 1.5 mile spot on the Seven Mile Bridge. Lots of people were in motion in both directions. The water no matter where we looked was pretty.
I wish I had brought my binoculars with me to the bridge. Off the right side, we could seen a large sand bar. In the shallows of that bar was a boat with a fisherman on it. I wanted the binoculars to see how he was doing.
The sand bar. (Photo Bill Pike)
For lunch today, we opted to check out Tranquility Bay’s Tiki Bar. This pretty day was perfect for lunch under an umbrella. I enjoyed a delicious Caribbean Salad.
My salad (Photo courtesy of Betsy Pike)
Laziness ruled the afternoon. But at some point, Butch, Dan, and I decided to locate the marina where we would be meeting Captain Chuck for our fishing charter on Thursday morning.
Once off the Overseas Highway, it took us a few minutes to locate the side street where the marina was located.
Eventually, we found this finger like inlet of water. Tucked under a protected roofline that resemble a long shed was a row of silent boats.
Inside of me was a shiver of excitement. I was like a little kid anticipating Thursday morning and our half day fishing charter. Hopefully, the knowledge and skills of Captain Chuck would bring us better luck than I had fishing in the surf.
Before we knew it, we were heading out for dinner.
Tonight, we opted for the Island Fish Company. This sprawling water front restaurant was busy. We waited a bit to be seated, but the restaurant was a good choice.
After dinner, we played another challenging round of charades from the creative mind of Marian. She has a way of pushing our brain cells to be imaginative and inventive.
When charades had worn us down, we had some final chatter about the fishing charter, and there was also the dreaded yapping—preparing to fly back home on Friday.
Let’s get the predictable part of my early morning routine in Marathon Key out of the way.
Yes, I fished out front.
Yes, my incompetent skills as a fisherman continue to make headlines in The Fish Daily Times News: Local fish continue to elude angler from Virginia.
Seemed as if we had a slow start to Tuesday morning. Maybe, our Monday spent in Key West required some sleeping in today.
Ever since the drive from the Miami airport, I’ve been curious about a convenience store that we kept seeing. The store like 7-11 is named Tom Thumb.
Directly across from the entrance of Tranquility Bay sat a Tom Thumb. This morning, I made a decision that I was going to cross the always busy Overseas Highway and check out the store.
No one offered to tag along with me, so I made the short walk to the highway. Interestingly, as I was just getting ready to study the traffic, a guest from Tranquility Bay was returning from Tom Thumb. He knew what I was getting ready to do, and he said good luck.
If you’ve ever watched the movie Bowfinger, starring Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy, you might remember that harrowing scene where Eddie Murphy’s character crosses a Los Angeles Freeway on foot. I wasn’t crossing a freeway, but the volume of traffic on the Overseas Highway meant I needed to be very alert.
I safely made the crossing each way.
Simply, Tom Thumb is a convenience store. It has similarities and differences in their set up like any convenience store you have entered.
As a curious tourist, I felt obligated to make a purchase. For our wives, chocolate is always a winner, so I picked out an assortment of chocolate candies.
On the day, I stopped at the bait shop and bought shrimp for fishing, I asked the clerk about a good spot to fish. He recommended Sombrero Beach. In our travels on the Overseas Highway, we had seen the signage for the beach.
This morning, Betsy, Butch, Dan, and I made the drive to Sombrero Beach. We loaded up the car with our beach stuff, and Dan brought his snorkeling gear.
We simply followed the signage, and made the turn on to Sombrero Beach Road. I think we were pleasantly surprised when we arrived at the beach.
According to the Parks and Recreation website for Marathon Key, in 2001, the city renovated this beach front. It now features full handicap access, picnic pavilions, restrooms, showers, a volleyball court, and even a fishing pier.
Additionally, from April through October, this beach positioned on the Atlantic Ocean is a nesting site for Loggerhead Turtles. The city carefully monitors turtle nesting activities, and residents can be trained to become a turtle surveyor.
As soon as we parked, unloaded, and walked on to the beach, we were impressed. It is a gem. While not a large parcel of beach front, the white sand, the views, and the shades of color in the water caught our attention.
Sombrero Beach (Photo Betsy Pike)
We found a place to drop our belongings, and we started our recon walk. I know I’m being repetitive, but this is a special place. The city has done a nice job in maintaining everything associated with the beach.
I enjoyed walking the area. I was intrigued by the exposed limestone bedrock in a couple of places. Apparently, the coral reefs off of Sombrero Beach make for gentle waves rolling into the shoreline.
My three pals were braver than I was about checking out the water. Dan put on his snorkeling gear and did some exploring. I sensed he enjoyed the exercise, but I don’t think he came across any sea life.
After an enjoyable visit, we gathered our belongings and made the drive back to Tranquility Bay.
Once there, I rechecked my fishing license. I thought it expired on January 29, but it actually expired today.
So, my goal for the afternoon was to return to Sombrero Beach to fish. In my walk around this morning, it looked to be an ideal location for an unlucky fisherman like myself to possibly find some luck.
After nibbling on something for lunch, I got organized. I had both fishing rods, a glove, scissor forceps, hat, and sunglasses. Exposed parts of my old carcass were covered in sunscreen, and I had my license in a plastic pouch in my shirt pocket.
Dan and Judy drove me over to Sombrero. Dan helped me to get settled on a ledge of exposed limestone. Then I realized I had left the shrimp bait back at the condo. Kind friends that they are, Dan and Judy drove back to the condo to retrieve it.
There was a younger guy to my left trying his luck. Several yards to my right was the public fishing pier.
I was going to cast into Sister Creek. It was fed by the ocean. The water was pretty and clear.
My casting spot (Photo Bill Pike)
I made sure to manage my footing. If I stumbled, I knew the exposed limestone would be waiting to injure me.
Pretty limestone formation (Photo Bill Pike)
My casts were long and true with the lure. I wanted to make sure that I didn’t get hung up on any limestone rocks in the shallows.
I varied the direction of my casts each time. I kept an eye on the young man to my left. It didn’t appear that he was having any luck.
Dan returned with the bait. He had a work call coming in so he hustled back to the car.
As I was reeling in a cast, a fish hit the lure hard. That bite surprised me, and I could not react quick enough to set the hook. The distressed fish wiggled off the line.
That one hit gave me the first hope I’d had all week. I kept casting. I was getting good distance on each cast.
Once again, I had another strong hit on the lure. The fish, maybe the same one was swifter than my tardy reaction time. I missed setting the hook again.
A bit peeved at myself, I opted to switch rods and try the shrimp bait. The casts with the bait might have been shorter, but I knew the baited line had landed properly on the bottom.
I let the bait sit for several minutes. Then, I’d reel in to make sure the bait was still on the hook.
A few times, I could feel a slight twitch on the line. Felt like a small fish or a crab nibbling at the bait. But, I could never get a fish to fully take the bait.
Just shy of 4 p.m. I was ready to call it quits. I gently tossed the unused shrimp into the water. Dan helped me to collect my gear.
I had fun fishing in a pretty place. And part of my self-talk told me that I should have fished at at Sombrero Beach more. I think I would have caught a fish.
Back at the condo, we were getting ready to have dinner at the Sunset Grille and Raw Bar. The restaurant sits at the base of the Seven Mile Bridge.
We left in time to wrangle a water side table. That way, we would enjoy a good view of the sunset.
Pals (Photo taken by the waitress on someone’s phone)
We had a delightful waitress, and the sunset did not disappoint us.
The sun settling in for the night (Photo Bill Pike)
Once we were back at Tranquility Bay, Marian had another round of charades planned out for us. After maxing out our creative brain cells, Dan had the movie, You Hurt My Feelings, ready for us to watch.
We had another busy day in Marathon Key.
The highlight for me was Sombrero Beach.
I’m thankful for the leadership in Marathon Key who believed that Sombrero Beach had potential. Clearly, their plan has made the beach a good place to visit for their residents and tourists.
And though my Richmond friend, Rohn Price, will be disappointed that a couple of fish eluded me at Sombrero Beach, my old brain will never forget the priceless beauty of casting from that shoreline.
I hope Sombrero Beach will continue to provide opportunities for people to enjoy its beauty.
And I also hope the leaders in Marathon Key will always maintain and upgrade as needed this very nice beach.
And I’ll throw one more out there. I hope we, the users of Sombrero Beach will cherish and care for this little bit of paradise for a long, long time.
But I did enjoy watching a wet blue heron land and shake his feathers.
A young father and his two sons stopped for a few minutes. Turns out this young man was a University of Richmond graduate. While its not an across the street walk, I told him we could walk to the university from our house in Richmond.
At the beach condo, breakfast was coming together as were our plans to visit Pigeon Key. We wanted to make sure our arrival allowed us to be on the first train to the key.
With our reservations confirmed, we were out the door around 9:30. It was a short drive to the staging area. We parked, made sure we had everything, checked in, and found seats on the train.
The engine that pulled us along the bridge (Photo Bill Pike)
Once everyone was seated, we received a brief orientation about our visit. There are multiple options for guests to chose from. We opted for a guided tour with time to explore the the five acre key with its eight buildings. This site is also on the National Register of Historic Places.
It is a two mile ride on the train to Pigeon Key. This was a $41 million project to repurpose and renovate the bridge for the public. This project had good results for walkers, runners, bike riders, and curious guest who want to learn more about Pigeon Key. Plus the views from the bridge in any direction are pretty.
Bridge spans from Pigeon Key (Photo Bill Pike)
Our guide had given us some good insights on the ride to Pigeon Key. Once off the train, our guide organized us, and she started her historic script.
Essentially, Pigeon Key is all about Henry Flagler and his efforts to build The Florida East Coast Railway. This determined, persuasive, and successful businessman had the vision and resources to pursue this goal.
Pigeon Key was the work camp for the men who hired on to build the railway. Our guide was very knowledgeable, maybe too knowledgeable. Her wealth of information cut into our self-guided exploration.
Still we enjoyed learning about the design of the original dormitory that is now used as an education center. It still showcases the use of Dade County pine throughout the facility.
Former dormitory, now an education center, note original hardwood flooring (Photo Bill Pike)
The buildings and grounds are well-maintained. Moving around the plot isn’t difficult. No matter where your feet take you the views are very pleasant, and we enjoyed the calm presence of two Great White Herons who are like family to the staff.
One of the herons. (Photo Bill Pike)
Our departure time came quickly, and once Pigeon Key personnel had accounted for everyone, we were ready for the two mile ride back to the mainland.
Judy opted not to go on the Pigeon Key excursion, so we drove back to Tranquility Bay and picked her up.
From there, we headed to Burdines for lunch. This restaurant had been recommended to Butch and Marian by a local shopkeeper. Earlier in the week, we attempted to eat at Burdines, but the unseasonably cool air and brisk wind pushed us away from this open air restaurant.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Today, we hoped to do better under a partly sunny sky. Initially, we were seated on the side of the restaurant where a brisk wind was coming off the water of Boot Key Harbor. Sensing this uncomfortable shaded coolness, Butch negotiated a seating location change for us with the hostess.
Off the main highway, Burdines is ideally located next to a marina. It serves diners who arrive by boat or car. There is nothing fancy about Burdines as is stated on their menu: “As we say in the islands, this ain’t no fast food joint, so relax mon!”
To get us started Betsy ordered hush puppies, and they were good. Burdines might not be a “fast food joint” but I was amazed at how quickly our food arrived. Our lunch orders filled us up, and none of us were interested in ordering a piece of fried Key Lime pie to go.
Back at Tranquility Bay, the abundant sunshine was an attraction to sit by the pool. At some point, Dan and I headed to the workout room to burn off Burdines. Football was on the agenda too, as it was NFL playoff time, and then we had to make decision about dinner.
I think Marian had a hankering for spaghetti. Butch, Dan, and I made a mad dash to Publix. Under Butch’s guidance, we picked up the items so that he could create a spaghetti dinner for us.
Upon our return, we all pitched in to help our master chef prepare his special sauce. The sauce was delicious and this pasta meal hit the spot. It would be the carbo load we needed for walking around Key West on Monday.
I was excited about our day trip to Key West, and I had also enjoyed our Sunday in Marathon Key.
Even though our tour guide put my brain on information overload, I heard enough from her about the ups and downs of Henry Flagler that I would like to learn more about him. Specifically, the back stories about the creation of the Florida East Coast Railway sound very interesting. I can only begin to imagine the economic, environmental, and logistical challenges of this project.
Maybe before I croak, I’ll get to Les Standiford’s book— Last Train to Paradise: Henry Flagler and the Spectacular Rise and Fall of the Railroad That Crossed an Ocean.
Rest up Key West, we’re checking you out tomorrow.
Author’s note: My teachers: kindergarten (Mrs. Simmons at Davis Street Methodist) and first grade (Mrs. Hughes at Elon Elementary) would be disappointed in my math skills related to blog post. Obviously, seven comes before eight. So, I had day seven ready, but I forgot that post was completed. In the future, I’ll work to improve my counting skills. Thanks patient readers.
Even though we were headed to Key West today, I still went out fishing. This time next week, I’ll be back in Richmond. I will not be walking out in shorts, with a fishing rod, and casting out into a lagoon fed by The Gulf of Mexico.
Dan joined me for a few casts, and at some point, a blue heron snuck into the shallows by an old retaining wall.
My lefty pal (Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that is the best thing about fishing—its not what you don’t catch, its about what you see while trying to catch fish.
The quiet heron (Photo Bill Pike)
I don’t recall when we departed for Key West, but I can tell you I was excited.
From Marathon Key to Key West is about fifty miles. We knew that traffic might slow us up from time to time, but I wasn’t really thinking about the clock. I was more curious as to how the Overseas Highway was going to link together with bridges and passages overland to drop us in Key West.
We made steady progress as we checked off the assorted Keys along the way, and before we knew it, we found a street parking spot in Key West.
No sooner had we parked, when we witnessed an accident with a motor scooter. Maybe a struggle with balance and a lack of experience contributed to the fall. The young lady impacted the most by the fall seemed reluctant to get back on the scooter. I don’t blame her.
After taking care of the parking fee, we organized, and worked to find a location to make our bladders happy.
Following that break, we headed to the Southernmost Point Buoy. This buoy documents that visitors are in the southernmost point in the continental United States.
We opted not to stay in the line for a photo. Butch captured a nice solo shot of the buoy to share with everyone, and with that visit done, we headed toward Ernest Hemingway’s house.
It has been a long, long time since I have read anything by Mr. Hemingway. I loved reading his work when I was in college.
I was hoping the tour of his Key West home would be better than the one we took a few summers ago. While visiting our oldest daughter and her family in Chicago, we toured the home were Hemingway was born in Oak Park, Illinois. That was a difficult tour to endure.
Today, we opted for a self-guided tour, and I think that worked well despite the large group of people touring the home and grounds.
I can only begin to imagine the untold stories on the grounds and from the interior of the house.
Lots of the famous six toe cats were around. I didn’t bother to count. But, it was easy to see that the cats are held in high esteem here. There is even a small cat hotel constructed for them.
Concise signage helps guests find their way with good information. Of course, you pick up bits of stories from overhearing a tour guide’s scripted account, or from a very knowledgeable guest who is a devoted fan of Mr. Hemingway.
On the grounds, the long saltwater swimming pool will catch your attention.
The pretty pool (Photo Bill Pike)
Inside, every room is a story. I can imagine hearing the sound of the typewriter keys clacking away as Mr. Hemingway wrote in the easy pace of a Key West day.
Typewriter on the table (Photo Bill Pike)
Eventually, our curiosity was satisfied, and we regrouped in a small garden near the entrance.
From the Hemingway House, we worked our way to Duval Street. Looking for lunch, we quickly chose Old Town Tavern and Beer Garden. We sat at a nice table on the porch. That gave us the opportunity to chat and watch the people traffic on Duval Street.
We had an exceptional waiter who offered guidance with the lunch menu, but who also was curious about our trip.
After lunch, we continued exploring Duval Street and its shops. Our timing was good as we worked our way to the Harry S. Truman Little White House. One of the afternoon tours was about to start, so we quickly purchased our tickets.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Our tour guide was perfect. He knew how to use this allotted time efficiently. The presentation throughout the house was a blend of interesting history, good back stories, and humor. Additionally, the character of the house captures the era of Truman’s service to America, and like Hemingway’s home, every room had a story.
There was no better back story than the detailed research that revealed how the editors of the Chicago Daily Tribune published the infamous headline—Dewey Defeats Truman.
In what would become a post-World War II presidency for Mr. Truman, he accomplished a lot. One of the most interesting to me were two executive orders—9980 and 9981. These orders desegregated the federal workforce and the armed forces. Sad to me that America continues to struggle with skin color today.
If you are ever in Key West, I would make the commitment to tour The Little White House. It is a snapshot into the past, but filled with opportunities to learn about Mr. Truman.
From here, Butch and I walked back to retrieve the car. The rest of the group ambled toward Duval Street.
Once we reconnected, we hit the stage of the afternoon where we needed to be refreshed. Sloppy Joe’s at the corner of Duval and Greene was our destination to be restored.
This storied bar is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. We ordered our beverages, and surprise, I didn’t order a beer. I opted for a Mojito. With its origins in Cuba, the drink features rum, lime juice, simple syrup, and fresh mint. I’ll leave it to you to sort out the Hemingway myths about this tropical drink.
Inside Sloppy Joe’s (Photo Bill Pike)
Along with people watching, there is quite a bit to take in around the bar. Artifacts that are a part of the bar’s storied history are still on display.
While we were enjoying ourselves, I remember a couple of times a bell being rung at the bar. The bell comes from a Coast Guard cutter that is no longer in service. The barkeeper rings the bell to signal that a member of the waitstaff has received a large tip.
If you want a piece of Sloppy Joe’s to take back home, a gift shop with all of the usual suspects is available. For my gift, I’ll settle for the memory of visiting Sloppy Joe’s with our treasured friends. And, I’ll wonder if Mr. Hemingway’s ghost ever sneaks in for a Mojito.
After Sloppy Joe’s our focus was getting to Mallory Square.
Somehow securing a parking space was hassle free. For a bit of time, we roamed in and out of shops. The shop owners were hoping we wandering tourist might boost their income for the day.
Mallory Square is famous for its waterfront sunsets. While waiting for the sun to put on its unpredictable show of colors, there is a variety of entertainment taking place.
I was interested in one young man whose solo show reminded me of our famous Richmond, Virginia performer, Jonathan The Juggler.
This afternoon, I think the performer was Jase The Juggler, a native of Key West. His performance including juggling an assortment of items while at the top of a unicycle, and even his patter with the audience, reminded me of my friend, Jonathan, in Richmond.
Jonathan Austin knockoff (Photo Bill Pike)
Well, the sunset arrived, and it didn’t disappoint us.
The setting sun (Photo Betsy Pike)
When it was tucked away for the night into the sea, we retraced our steps through the crowd to the car. Our navigation devices wove us out of Key West, and soon we were back on the Overseas Highway driving toward Marathon Key.
With darkness upon us, Butch safely drove us into Marathon. Once back, we ate at an unremarkable restaurant. At that point, we were ready for the comfort of our Tranquility Bay condo and the opportunity to collapse.
We packed a lot into our day.
We were in constant motion, but I think that movement makes a good day for a tourist.
We saw a lot, and learned even more from these experiences.
And there is part of me that would like to return to Key West.
I know we walked by many pretty homes. If nothing else, I would simply like to gander at them more closely, but as a polite tourist.
From this photo of a driveway gate, I quickly learned what could happen to overly intrusive tourists. Year round Key West residents must develop a tolerance for sightseers.
Still, I appreciated the humor found in this signage.
(Photo Bill Pike)
As I climb the stairs toward my bed, I’m thankful for this opportunity to be on a “fishing” expedition with our friends.
Days like today confirm that enduring friendships are better than catching a fish.
might be baloney 