thedailytimes.com : Your 24/7 news source

Courtesy of Harley Blue Photography

Fort Jefferson rises from the sand in the Dry Tortugas National Park, 70 miles east of Key West in the middle of the ocean.

It’s 1 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and we’re rolling down the Tamiami Trail, a straight stretch of two-lane blacktop that skirts the tip of the Florida peninsula.

The night is blacker than midnight in a mineshaft; not that daylight would make much difference — the sawgrass of the Everglades rises tall on both sides of the road, concealing the night noises of insects, deer and gators that trundle through the muck just out of sight. The humidity is stifling; even with the AC blasting full-power, the inside windows fog over from the condensation.

To the east, the lights of Miami bruise the sky an orangish-purple.

We turn off on the outskirts of Dade County, however, pointing the car south toward Homestead and our final destination — Key West.

In the sun, the islands that make up the Keys chain rise up like emeralds bobbing on an ocean of turquoise. Off of the mainland, they stretch for almost 150 miles into the open waters of the Straits of Florida, that passage between Cuba and the United States where the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico collide.

At night, The Girlfriend and I have to settle for our imaginations. We can’t see the ocean, but we can smell it — that rich aroma of brine and fish and thick, soupy mud that gathers around the roots of the mangrove islands. Crossing 7 Mile Bridge (which isn’t quite seven miles long), a sliver of moon shines through the clouds just enough to show where the ocean meets the sky on the distant horizon.

We don’t worry. I smile at her, and she back at me, and we clasp hands. There will be time enough for the sun and the beauty of these islands. We turn up the radio and stare into the tropical night, passing tiki huts and seafood shacks and hand-painted signs in Spanish that advertise Cuban cuisine.

Here and there, signs of modern civilization disrupt the otherwise exotic feel of the islands — a Winn-Dixie here, a Wal-Mart there, a collection of fast-food restaurants on the other side of the highway. Few people stir this time of night, save for the cops who guard Monroe County and the late-night drunks walking or bicycling home from the bars that never seem to close.

We talk animatedly about our plans for the week — sailing and snorkeling and drinking in the Bacchanalian debauchery on Duval Street. It’s Fantasy Fest in Key West — a celebration of Halloween and the end of hurricane season — and even though we talk about what we’ve read, nothing can prepare us for the experience. Nakedness, drunkenness, beads and body paint and merrymakers and pirates, strippers and superheroes and Greek gods and the living dead — all seem to find their way to Duval, the main drag on the western end of the island that runs through the heart of Key West’s Old Town.

It’s a place filled with history and legend — Hemingway drank at this bar, refereed boxing matches behind that house. Actress Kelly McGillis has parlayed her “Top Gun” paycheck into a quaint little restaurant and brewpub. John James Audubon stayed here while sketching the migratory birds that fly over this island. Tennessee Williams wrote in that upstairs apartment. Almost 40 years ago, a failed songwriter named Jimmy Buffett left Nashville, his tail between his legs, and sought refuge in the dimly lit dives along Duval’s side streets.

The clock inches toward 3 a.m. Daylight isn’t far off. The streets glisten from a recent rain; water pooled along the sides of the road reminding us that these islands sit scant feet above sea level. My friend, who’s graciously agreed to let us stay with him, rode out Hurrricane Wilma two years ago atop his couch, clinging to the impromptu raft as his belongings drifted out the door and into the sea. It floods here frequently, and sometimes, it can be a brutal existence. Ask the migrant workers and railroad men who ended up tangled lifeless and waterlogged in the gnarled branches of mangroves after the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935 scoured the Keys like an S.O.S. pad.

We hold out hope that the weather cooperates with plans for rest and relaxation; for the most part, it does. A slow-moving front churns up rough seas for our 70-mile trip to the Dry Tortugas, but even after bouncing across 8- and 9-foot waves, we’re hypnotized by the sight of a Civil War-era fort rising up from a sandy island in the middle of the ocean, 70 miles from the nearest inhabited city.

It’s 4 a.m., and we pull into the Key West Golf Club on Stock Island. Exhaustion claims us, and we’re asleep before our heads hit the pillow. Our slumber is dreamless, but in the ensuing few days, we make memories on which to live, on which to dream, for months to come. At least until the next vacation, the next adventure, beckons us, and we once again find ourselves on the road, headed to parts unknown and memories yet to be made.

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.