Magic movement. Easy riding. Frameless flow. Driving to Key West. Taking the long way. Rushing the first part. Only that part. Have to beat the lunch crowd to Alabama Jack’s. Once you have the grouper in your mouth everything else is gravy. You will get however far you get on the slow time. The island time. Because they really are another country aren’t they? The Keys. It’s a cliche but there’s always some truth in those aren’t there. The locals always had time for fishing and a couple of beers because, well, you know, they lived in paradise and always had time for a couple of beers and fishing. Everything else was built around that. That might still continue as houses start at over a million now for shacks and no one with a drifter spirit can stay. Everyone buying those shitty million dollar houses has the same priorities. Fishing and beer. But they actually have the money to buy million dollar houses and nice boats and fish and drink beer all day. Maybe some of them even have been in a dive bar and liked it. Stranger things. We’ll see.
Back to the drive though. The journey. The heavenly journey through the mangroves over a sea foam lushness that still manages to be translucent. There is a light that seems to come up from the water as if it was under lit. Like God’s infinity pool. That Richard Branson can’t top. It’s almost as if the air becomes heavier and heavier the further you move south. Which makes you move slower and slower. Like cutting through water. Being cleansed as you slice and swerve. So of course it takes you hours to get to another place with the fishing boats in the slips that just dumped off the grouper you want to recreate mouthfeel from lunch with. And you are still a couple of hours away from the Cayo Hueso. But no worries. No hurries. Yes, you feel the heavy watery air slowing your pace but it feels provident. Like it is trying to make you realize something. There is Lilly. Anxious to swim in all the water she sees. She has never seen so much water. There is pops. Beer for beer in natural pace with you. Window down feeding the slow air to everyone. Perhaps he knows the trips are coming to an end for him and wants to make them last…forever. This is the time for slowness. To let it all infect your being to the bone. The island of bones. All of the pirate cemeteries dug up for Hemingway’s cats. Welcome back, kid.