Saturday, May 10 was our transition day. We would be leaving San Francisco and exploring more of California.
Our day started with a disappointing breakfast and service at the hotel’s restaurant. Hampton Inn does breakfast better.
We checked out and made the short walk to rent the car.
This started well too. They couldn’t find the Commander’s original reservation. Once that was sorted out, the real excitement started—driving out of the city.
I only made one significant error in leaving the city, I missed the overlook stop for the Golden Gate Bridge.
From that miscue, we found our way into Tiburon. A pretty town on the bay. Here, we were to meet the Commander’s sister, Abby, husband, Art, Betsy’s niece, Ashley, husband Rob, and most importantly their precious daughter, Bridgette.
This would be the Commander’s first visit with Bridgette. She was excited.
Gradually, we all met in the designated parking lot to catch the ferry over to Angel’s Island.
The ferry ride to Angel Island is short and pretty. Views abound in every direction.
Angel Island Ferry (Photo Bill Pike)
Angel Island’s founding dates back to 1775 when the Spanish ship, San Carlos, entered San Francisco Bay.
If you make a trip to San Francisco, you must set aside time to visit Angel Island State Park. The beauty of the island and its impact on California and America are remarkable.
The island has been a “cattle ranch, U. S. Army post, from 1910-1940 the processing center for thousands of immigrants, and in World War II German and Japanese prisoners of war were held here.” (California State Parks)
Additionally, Angel Island was “a transition point for U.S. military personnel returning from the Pacific following World War II, the 50s and 60s it was the site of a Nike missile base, and today, two active Coast Guard stations make the island their home.” (California State Parks)
We opted to take a tram ride to assorted points around the island. This guided tour not only took us to remote points, but afforded us the opportunity to walk around at numerous stops. Many of the buildings from the island’s assorted uses are still in place. These snapshots into the past gave us a feel for how the immigration process worked. That important history combined with the island’s natural beauty makes quite a background for storytelling.
Assorted buildings Angel Island (Photo Bill Pike)
The shoreline is a mix of rolling hills filled with shrubs, trees, wildflowers, and rock. Most noticeable in the plant landscape is the Pride of Madeira (Echium candicans).
A stand out on the island (Photo Bill Pike)
We worked our way back to our entry point.
Soon the ferry had us back in Tiburon. Ashley and Rob led us to a waterfront restaurant, Sam’s, where we enjoyed a late lunch, and Bridgette continued to be a happy traveler.
It is always special to catch up with family, and Tiburon and Angel Island provided another pretty setting for a good visit. We said our goodbyes, and started our drive to Novato.
In Novato, we checked into our hotel. Then, we opted for some more steps as we took a short hike at the Buck Gulch Falls Trail, a part of the Ignacio Valley Open Space Preserve.
After the hike, we stopped at the HopMonk Tavern for dinner. This is basically a beer bar with live music. A very competent trio was playing, and I enjoyed a highly praised California beer, Pliny The Elder.
Our drive back to the hotel was quiet.
Tomorrow would bring another opportunity to explore a section of the California coast where we had never visited.
And that made me think more about Angel Island.
From its first Spanish explorers to the last immigrants, I wonder where they found their courage to leave their homelands and make this journey?
I put on my running gear, did some stretches, and found my way down to the lobby and out into the cool 52 degree air.
The sun was up. My goal was to run along Fisherman’s Wharf. I managed to run just past Pier 1.
This was a flat run, no challenging San Francisco hills.
Even though it was early, there was lots of activity.
Seagulls were scavenging trash bins.
I could hear the early morning squawking of the harbor seals.
Delivery workers were hustling in various spots along the wharf. Most of them could make their deliveries blindfolded.
Caretakers were hosing down entrances to dock areas, public restrooms were tidied up, and trash bins emptied.
There were runners, walkers, and bicycle riders. Some acknowledge my timid wave or quiet good morning. A few were in their zone focused, oblivious of an old fool from Virginia.
A solitary homeless man striding at a hurried pace was yelling into his phone, “I’m going to kill him, I’m going to kill him.”
I came upon the architecturally stunning San Francisco Ferry Building. This eye catching structure opened in 1898.
Before the construction of bridges, the Ferry Building was the base for the ferries that brought people in and out of the city. Today, in addition to being a smaller hub for ferries the building houses office space and a food hall.
The centerpiece for the building is a 245 foot clock tower.
I made it back to the hotel. Cleaned up, and we had breakfast.
After breakfast, we quickly organized ourselves, and headed down to meet our Uber.
It is interesting to note the differences in the personalities of the Uber drivers. I’m sure the Commander Supreme cringes, but I always attempt to chat a bit with them.
The driver this morning was friendly. However, he was more interested in pitching a ride with him to Santa Cruz. We had to refocus him on our goal for the morning— Golden State Park.
He did attempt to use music to soothe us. When we told him that we were from Virginia, he played the John Denver song “ Take Me Home Country Roads.” The lyrics mention West Virginia. I was not impressed with the driver’s smoozing.
Once we figured out our drop off point, our exploration started of this 1,017 acre park. If you travel to San Francisco, and you have a pretty day, you must come to this park. I say that because the park offers something for everyone.
Our feet did not grace all 1,017 acres, but at times we felt like we had.
Our exploration started at the de Young Museum. Here there is an amazing observation deck. Helpful museum personnel guided us to the deck. Good news, visitors can go to the observation deck for free. Admission to the museum and its exhibits is separate.
I will admit that I was powerfully tempted to tour the exhibit: Paul McCartney Photographs 1963-64: Eyes of the Storm. I passed. In walking to the museum, I had seen some of the park’s beauty. I wanted to explore and see more. Sorry, Sir Paul, maybe another time.
A tempting exhibit (Photo Bill Pike)
Twelve unique gardens make up the park. We didn’t see them all. But, the ones we saw were stunning.
Our first stop was the Japanese Tea Garden. The origins of this garden date back to 1894. The plantings, layout, and the Japanese architecture are nicely synced together.
(Photo Bill Pike)
A bonus in Golden Gate Park is the San Francisco Botanical Garden. These 55 acres featuring over 8,000 plants from around the world doesn’t disappoint. Visitors can roam from an Andean Cloud Forest to Temperate Asia.
Most impressive to me was the Redwood Trail. This section featured the Coast Redwoods. In a setting similar to a coastal redwood forest, there is a quiet respect for these majestic trees. Adding to that tranquility are over 100 species of native California plants perfectly matched in the cool shade of the redwoods.
Beautiful trunk bark of a Coast Redwood (Photo Bill Pike)
As the morning progressed, we were conscious of timing our stay for a walk to the Beach Chalet for lunch. It is a long walk to this ocean view restaurant, but worth the walk. Of course, I made the walk longer and more adventurous, when I suggested the wrong direction.
After lunch, we took a Uber back into the city to visit Amoeba Music, the world’s largest independent record store. I probably could have spent a couple of days there. I think we were out of the store in less than an hour.
Our next destination was to find the famous Painted Ladies houses. This required walking through the Panhandle an extension of Golden Gate Park. The Panhandle is pretty green space. It provides multiple locations for sun worshipers to start their tan lines before summer arrives.
Gradually, we made our way to Alamo Square, also a park where the Painted Ladies houses come into view.
The Painted Ladies are Victorian and Edwardian style houses that regained popularity in the 1960s when new owners started repainting them. Often the repainting was completed in a variety of colors as a way to enhance their architectural style. Located on Steiner Street, the houses have been seen in assorted movies, television shows, and marketing campaigns.
From here we took an Uber back to the hotel. We had a bit of quiet time before heading down to the lobby for happy hour.
A couple from Canada sat across from us. They were in San Francisco for her husband to participate in a training and transition program at Guide Dogs For The Blind. We learned a lot about this outstanding organization.
After happy hour, we opted to walk back to the Boudin Bakery for dinner.
Another hearty meal at the Boudin Bakery (Photo Bill Pike)
We had a nice dinner at Boudin, and when we arrived back at our room we were beat.
Tomorrow, we would say goodbye to San Francisco. We talked briefly about our Saturday plans including renting a car.
We had another good day of walking right at nine miles
Today was another example of admiring the vision of people to preserve and protect land that has been converted into parks for communities to enjoy.
Golden Gate Park is an outstanding example of how space can be preserved in a variety of unique ways.
I’m thankful for people who have the vision to value how land can be creatively saved for the good of all.
I hope we can hold on to these priceless places forever.
On the evening of Thursday, July 10, 2025, our red-eye flight from Fairbanks, Alaska to Minneapolis-St. Paul to Raleigh, North Carolina was delayed.
A passenger became ill, and the plane had to taxi back to the Fairbanks terminal.
Before our early morning landing in Minnesota, our airline notified us that our connecting flight to Raleigh was delayed.
That delay gave me some hope. Hope that I might be able sample an August Schell beer in the airport. Guidance for this pursuit came from Scott Hislop, the Senior Distributor Sales Manager, for the August Schell Brewing Company.
As soon we disembarked from the plane, I stopped at each bar/restaurant in the terminal. I checked the tap handles and asked friendly employees if they carried August Schell. Their kind response was “sorry, no.”
As my wife followed her crazed husband, in the distance, in the middle of the corridor of terminal one, I saw the words Stone Arch. That was the name of the one place Scott had referenced for sampling an August Schell beer.
Stone Arch employees were busy with breakfast customers. It took a few minutes for me to flag down one of their employees who handled beverages.
Finally, a nice young man paused as I flagged him down. His hurried steps came to a halt. I explained what I was trying to accomplish. He could not have been nicer.
First, he confirmed that Schell’s Light an American lager was on tap. Additionally, he showed me two sixteen ounce cans that were available, but I opted for the draft.
A couple of minutes later, he returned with a perfectly poured glass of Schell Light. This clear, pale lager, was full of carbonation bubbles and a thin head of foam.
While I’m not a fan of light beers, this one hit the spot at 7:20 a.m. on Friday, July 11.
I was reminded of the song “Roadhouse Blues” from the Doors’ album Morrison Hotel: “Well, I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer, the future’s uncertain and the end is always near.”
At my old age, I have never purposely abused my affection for beer. Out of respect for the beverage, I’ve worked to be doggedly rigid in my self-control when consuming beer, I’m basically—‘one and done.’
But, I will admit that for a long, long time lurking in the back of my mind were the lyrics from “Roadhouse Blues.”
So now, I can mark the drinking of an early morning beer off any unimportant bucket list.
Yet, there is a more important point, and that is Scott Hislop.
In our fast paced, impatient world, Scott took the time to respond to my original email. To me that is admirable.
I can’t tell you how many times I have sent a complimentary email to published authors. Rarely, do I receive a note of thanks back.
Scott’s response is a valuable lesson for any company small or large—that personal contact, the opportunity to build even a brief relationship with a potential consumer or customer is important.
That quick encounter with me also shows Scott’s loyalty to August Schell and its customers. No matter if they are devoted Midwestern supporters of August Schell, or a grumpy, rapidly aging geezer from Virginia passing through the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, Scott understands the value of communication and building a relationship.
Finally, my pursuit in sampling an August Schell beer was grounded out of respect for their perseverance.
Located in New Ulm, Minnesota, August Schell is the second oldest family run brewery in America. From their beginnings, the brewery has continued to survive. In that survival, you will find risk taking combined with the ability to respect the foundation of the past with the will to adapt for the future.
Near the end of June, my wife and I travelled with college friends to Vancouver. As Americans, we appreciated your hospitality and your will to preserve precious land.
From your stunning airport terminal to our hike in Lynn Canyon, we enjoyed every footstep of our exploration. In turn, we worked to be considerate guests at every place we visited. During our visit, we saw the diversity of your city and how your community embraced a pretty June Saturday along the beaches on English Bay.
We noted similar challenges that we experience in our communities along the east coast of America — the high cost of housing, the struggles of the homeless, maintaining infrastructure, and the snarls of traffic. No community is immune from those challenges.
I will never forget my early morning run along the Stanley Park seawall. Captured forever are four herons gathered on a point, the scattered purple pieces of mussel shells on a soundless beach, magnificent trees, and the quiet exchange of “good mornings” with fellow runners and walkers.
As much as I will cherish that run, my old heart will value even more a discovery we made in Stanley Park on our last morning in Vancouver. I know nothing about the qualities of Governor-General Lord Stanley, but I loved the vision of his words on his statue in the park: “To the use and enjoyment of people of all colours, creeds, and customs for all time.”
That is a powerful and visionary statement for 1889. Sadly, in the United States, that foresight continues to erode from our thinking.
In the time I have remaining in this cantankerous old world, I plan to share Lord Stanley’s wisdom as a reminder to everyone in my community that as Americans, we have an obligation to support “people of all colours, creeds, and customs for all time.”
Thanks, Vancouver, for the reminder.
Bill Pike, Richmond, Virginia
Author’s note: From June 25-July 10, 2025, my wife and I had the privilege of traveling with dear friends from college to Vancouver, Canada and Alaska. I was honored to have this letter published in the Vancouver Sun newspaper on July 8, 2025.
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.
might be baloney 