Characters I Have

Known in the Florida

Keys
(Home to the runaway, the retiree and the emotional
shipwreck victim-that lurks deep within us all.)
A screenplay by John Gerace

The shady side of the Conch Republic

Table of Contents
Preface
Introduction
Chapter 1 South of DixieNo Angel
Chapter 2 Pigs Change Destinyor a Mans Milk
Chapter 3 Marty
Chapter 4 Boo-Boo and Ester
Chapter 5 Another Boo-Boo Story or Boo-Boo Two or the Cynics Questions
Chapter 6 Jake, Jake the Tomato Man
Chapter 7 Passaporte or Sanctity of Home
Chapter 8 Itchy George and Bucket Mouth Betty
Chapter 9 Skip the Sea Slug
Chapter 10 Wolf Man of Big Pine
Chapter 11 Soviet Sailors
Chapter 12 Saved by Jesus and Introduced to the Cozy Cockpit
Chapter 13 Island Jims Restaurant
Chapter 14 Struggles
Chapter 15 Indian Sam the Shaman and Outboard Engine Mechanic
Chapter 16 Nothing but LoveBubba
Chapter 17 Pat Ryan
Chapter 18 Shunshine
Chapter 19 Dribbling Proud
Chapter 20 Breaking Taciturn
Chapter 21 My Imaginary Friend and Zinger

Preface
Things they dont tell you in the travel brochures!

The Caretaker for Cooks Island--- they found with his head cut off; they found only his
torso.
The Little 4 year old girl they found raped and murdered on State Road 4 down from a house
where her mother was attending a Cocaine Party.
The Young woman they found with her heart cut out in South Pine Channel.
The DEA Agent they found murdered on Sugarloaf Key on the wrong side of a deal.
The Lack of road-side parks with toilet facilities; so toilet paper and crap are under and at the
end of every beautiful bridge.
The Murders of Homeless people......... nary a care.
All left unsolved. The list goes on... all part of The Keys Charm.

Introduction
Key Lime Capers.... starts as a story about a young fellow who moved to the Lower Florida
Keys in the early 1980's and pursued a life inspired watching many episodes of Gilligans
Island as a young boy growing up in Miami.
During those 30+ years, this book recounts the many encounters with the insane individuals,
nut jobs and emotionally distressed characters found in the Florida Keys. While at times
seemingly or somewhat comical predicaments, these stories are told to preserve the memories
of original persons all trying to exist and survive in their worlds. I met them along my journey.
They each contributed something to me that is worthy of sharing.
These stories are NOT fictional.
If you the reader are interested in knowing what it was like in the 80's, 90's, 2000's or 2010's
and are interested in reliving that era as it was down in the Smiling Islands of the Florida
Keys... well this book is for you.
You will feel like you lived it or are living it once again.
If you have lived a prim life maybe it will make you wish you had not. And if you did not live a
prim life maybe it will make you glad you did not?
Key Lime Capers brings you into a space and time into the past of the fabulous Florida Keys...
and may seem not so far away after all. The Twilight Zone.
They are a peek into the world of humans found living in the Florida Keys.
Some of these stories I am passing along others I was personally involved.
It does not matter, I suppose.
I hope you enjoy them.

PS The original title, Characters I have come to know was inspired by Gerald Moree a
deceased friend of mine from the Florida Keys who was in Special Forces - U.S. Marines...
he wound up blowing his head off but that story is for another day.

Chapter 1
South of Dixie No Angel.
Kenny showed up one day in the fabulous Florida Keys, with real bullet holes in the side of his
pickup truck.
The boys and I took him antique bottle hunting a time or two.
Kenny said he liked to beat his women because they always came back for more... and in his
southern drawl would say and curl up next to him like a little kitten".
The bullet holes were something to do with a love triangle up in the Carolinas...I guess.
South of Dixie.......

Chapter 2
Pig's Change Destiny or a Mans Milk. (As told to me by Barefoot Mike.)
Al had a severe speech impediment he would pronounce MILK me-oak.
Al was a bit of a genius as well; he dispersed popcorn kernels in paint and slathered it all down
on the deck of the derelict vessel he called home as anti-skid paint... I guess it worked.
He would cook a pot of macaroni and cheese and then leave it to share with the roaches... not
to worry, he would say....because, when he relit the flame they would scurry out of the pot
and off...then he could eat again.
Al loved Milk (me-oak). Say that with a clothes pin on your nose for the nasal twang, to get the
idea.
Opportunity came a knocking one day for him to crew on a Catamaran across the Atlantic
Ocean; he agreed, but on one condition, that he had plenty of milk the entire voyage.
Of Key's course, the refrigerator was broken on board... so he and the Captain dinghy'd it to
shore and had it repaired... and loaded up with lots and lots of Milk as well.
Then covered the fridge unit with a blue tarp and began to make way out to the moored Cat, in
Boot Key Harbor.
The Fed's happened to be around snooping and thought they were moving dope. The Fed's
intercepted them, harassed them and wound up pouring all of Al's precious milk out. While he
cried my .... my me-oak ... my me-oak...
Losing all of his precious milk... he now changed his mind about taking the voyage.
The captain was left alone to make the crossing. Some weeks later they found the Cat on
course off of France, with no one on board.
Later..Al wound up meeting a wealthy widow through a personal ad, and disappeared across
the horizon...in a new motor home tooting the horn with his lady friend. She also bought him
an airplane which he crashed and both he and she perished.
I guess the moral of the story, if any, is what may have been, had not the disregard for Al's
MILK been shown...by ass holes. I question where fault or blame might lay in this case?
Don't mess with a mans milk you may change destiny...OINK.

Crying Over Spilled *Milk*

Barefoot Mike and Gerald (Fluffy) crying over a bottle of 7 year old Havana Club Rum;
Mike had dropped and broke it in the streets of Havana.

Chastisement or Forgiveness? Chapter

Marty
Marty was a self- professed, charismatic, Catholic. He was a rather heavy set fellow... with
sort of clown hair... he was a mouthwash drinker... he preferred the brownish type over the
minty one... as it had a higher alcohol content.
It turns your shit white pure as the driven snow....so I hear.
Marty would come rolling up on his bicycle first thing in the morning where I was working at
the shopping plaza emptying garbage cans and picking up cigarette butts...(a cigarette butt
with lipstick on it is called a date).
Marty would have the delirium tremors (DTs) so bad he looked like he was sitting on a Harley
that was running at idle the way he would shake...offering the same line every time.. John,
Im just .27 cents short for a beverage.
I would flip him a one dollar bill and off he would go... to the store down from Co-Cos
Kitchen.
One day Marty dug in his wallet and showed me a picture of his two lovely daughters. He said,
John I used to drive a truck for a living and owned my own home.
Now Marty owned and wore soiled blue sweat pants (he had had on for three months) with a
shit stain in the rear.... he would say... you know Ive done all kinds of drugsand nothing
comes close to the high I get from this mouthwash... his filthy sleeping bag dragging on the
ground behind his bicycle in tow.
Sometimes, when I would see him I would holler out Marteeeeeeeeeeee.... he would come up
and do a not half bad Elvis impersonation of... love me tender, love me true...
One time he drank some rum out of an empty peanut butter jar... not completely empty mind
you, it had residual peanut butter in it... a Peanut Butter Colada... I suppose. One time I held
an air horn up to my ear in front of him and said oh, Marty, you should hear the beautiful

sounds of the sea and wind... and birds... he said, let me hear... so I held the horn up to
his ear and gave it a blast... not very kind.
I held it up to my ear once again and gave him the same lines...oh the sounds of the beautiful
sea... etc.... he wanted to hear it again... so I held the air horn up to his ear once again and
gave it a second blast..... much to his chagrin.... second time around he lashed out saying he
would cut my legs off at the knee and eat them!
Marty lived across from the plaza in a tent in the woods, and would score food from the local
churches. They found him dead one morning.... in his tent.
Marteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Marty

Chapter 4
Boo-Boo and Ester
Boo-Boo died in his 38th year of this life of...malignant melanoma.... he was fair haired and
fair eyed. I'd roll buy his trailer behind the old Napa Auto Parts store on Big Pine at sunrise
and holler out in a high pitched voice...Boo-Boo... wanna go flyin?
He would always stumble out of the place and jump in the car and we made our way East to
the big long runway on Vaca Key....with the sun in our blurry vision eyes... we crossed the 7
mile bridge... no one around that time of the morning, to see the empty beer cans rolling
around in back... I would fire up the well-used, green and white Cessna 150 and we would roll
down the 5,000' paved runway...finally finding balked climb rate....at VX... I would look over
at him and say this airplane is climbing in a sickly manner... his rather large frame brushing
shoulder to shoulder with mine.
I would blame him for the poor climb performance....due to his weight. Oh, he would get so
mad..... little to do, I suppose.... we would fly with the sun on our backs towards the Pine
Islands, circling like vultures over No Name Caye (Key) with 10 degrees of the Fowler flaps
extended... the 100 hp engine throttled back... windows open blowing shit around in the
cabin... maintaining about 70 mph, making shallow turns and just holding altitude.
Later we would drop down to 10' and whizz along the barrier Islands that edge along Hawks
Channel and over the patch reefs just off of Munson, Hopkins and Cook Islands, then
climbing back up to a thousand feet, would fly along the 7 mile bridge and re-enter the traffic
pattern for Vaca Key... more often than not greasing it on.... with a little power left in ... it
seemed to do the trick... at or near gross weight.
Once we traveled to Quintana Roo together and rented a VW Beatle and drove to the Belize
border... we ran into some armed guards at a cross roads... They said to us, where is the
marijuana? Bob's witty reply, I shall never forget... It is at me casa in Florida!
They waved our bobbing -heads through with our cooler full of beer and ice...as fortune had it.
Boo-Boo landed an esteemed job doing Ester's yard. She a highly educated woman that had a
mind snap... and became a nut job. He wanted me to help him. She lived on F or G in the
Avenues... on a dark murky canal, in a house with no windows or doors---- just the
openings---she kept a little coconut husk fire going out in the back yard most of the time ...
to fend off mosquitos and Ester had many pictures of other planets, suns and moons,
plastered all over the inside walls of her house...like wallpaper.
When we pulled up together, she announced "Oh look! It's the Diamond Back Rattler twins"!
She also muttered on something about Rasputin and that the Sterlings were
coming...whatever that meant....of course she was bonkers! Or was she? Of course, either way
lets maintain a heading... less likely to get lost.

Boo-Boo lets go flying.

Boo-Boo

Cessna 150 we use to take flying

(someone said it ran out of fuel and crashed in the Gulf of Mexico)

Chapter 5
Another Boo-Boo story.... or Boo-Boo Two...or the Cynics Question.
I once had the privilege of working for the CEO of Falcon Jet... At that time... he lived in a
towering giant wooden palace by the sea... I brought Boo-Boo with me one time to trim
coconut trees (Hurricane Cut)... I introduced Frank to Boo-Boo... he is like what? New Jersey
style ...Is that his name...? Yes, Boo-Boo.
And then Boo-Boo started complaining, about the same time the work came along... and
muttered something along the lines that he should have stayed home and watched cartoons.....
to which Frank the Falcon Jet man was in utter disbelief.... at what he had just heard... I
assured him he had heard correctly... Boo-Boo was wishing he was at home watching cartoon,
which in truth he was in fact wishing that.
Boo-Boo and I had some great times on fishing expeditions as well.............so.. the cynics
question... mine, is do you think he should have worked harder to have pleased the system or
spent more of HIS precious time watching Cartoons.....fucking off and doing as he damn well
pleased. In HIS fleeting 38 years allotted. I dispersed his ashes off of No Name Key Bridge on
the upwind side; they blew upwards and hit me in the face.
Both men are dead now. Both were real. Boo-Boo met Frank.
P.S. I just thought of another Boo-Boo story for later... Boo-Boo meets and has sex with a girl
named Twiggy in Negril, Jamaica.

Boo-Boo AKA Bob Bradley

Chapter 6
Jake...Jake the Tomato man.
Jake was an old black man that had a little ramshackle tomato stand just off of US 1 on Big
Pine Key close to the post office, next to what used to be Crook and Crook marine supplies...
now where the bank of fraud or something or another is located.... I have a picture of Jake
somewhere with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a broom in his hand.... he had an
old beat station wagon and would make a trip a couple of times a week from the Keys up to
Immokalee to get fresh produce.
He had a little dog named Fishey... Jake was also known as Preacher....he predicted a fiery
crash that did occur at Barry Ave and US 1.... He did not know exactly how old he was...
because he said when he was born they didn't give black folks a birth certificate.... they just
made a note in the Bible.
One day Jake was cooking some ribs on a small open fire... over some poison wood.by the
tomato stand when Big Pine Key fire and rescue came roaring up and blew his ribs, fire and
rocks clean across the lot with their water hoses , next to his tomatoes... telling Jake that he
could not cook on an open ground fire.
The fire department left Jake went and found his ribs-- hosed em off --and promptly built
another fire and cooked em up.
When Jake would leave to go to Immokalee to get producesometimes he would leave Bare
Foot Mike and Fluffy (Gerald) to watch the stand...and there Barefoot could hear the pay
phone ring as well on the East side of the Crook and Crook building... he asked the telephone
man to turn up the ringer as loud as it would go... as that was the number he used on his
sailboat charter business brochures; he would just run across the street and answer the phone,
Barefoot's Sailing Charters.
One day Jake came a rolling in with a state trooper on his rear bumper... the lady state
trooper had pulled Jake over a bit earlier and asked for his drivers license... Jake said, aint
got none... she was kind enough to let Jake at least get his car and produce to the stand...
where she asked Barefoot and Fluffy if they had drivers licenses, to which both of them could
reply, yes....... she asked if in the future one of them could please drive Jake up to
Immokalee ...when he needed to get produce? To which the response was, why yes of
course....
Jake had a house up in Immokalee and while he was gone Peaches the prostitute would ply
her trade there while other folk were in there free basing in those days ...like a group of
famous comedians.
One time Fluffy (Gerald) went up with Preacher and Jake says to Peaches, I wants you to go
in there where Fluffy is sleeping and fix him up... ya here Peaches? Fluffy said he gave her
$5.00 to go away and was afraid the place was gonna burn down that night with him in it.

One day Jake was giving Fishy a haircut. when the dog yelped out... he had cut one of
Fisheys nipples off. Poor Fishey.
Preacher had a deck built from behind the front seat of the station wagon all the way to the
back.
Fishey would ride by the back window... one time Jake had to stop short and Fishey came
flying forward. He grabbed Fishey by the nap of the neck and threw him to the back of the car
yelling at him... I told youse to stays in da back....Poor Fishey.
Jake once had a package of Bologna that had been sitting on the dash board of the wagon for
days...in the intense sun all the fat had dripped out and was now 99% fat free... the fat was
running down the dash and into the defroster vents and the de-funked a/c vents... he asked
Fluffy and Barefoot if they wanted a Bologna sandwich... they both said, no way, Jake. That
Bologna aint no good to which he responded, Won't hurt ya none.
One time Preacher went to have sex with Peaches....and he said, How much ya got ta have for
sum of dat? Peaches stated some figure... Preacher sez, I aint wanten to buy's it... I jus
wants to rent it... I'll pay ya by the hunch... a dollar a hunch. Peaches agreed....
Preacher does the deed... Peaches sez that will be seven dollars... Preacher sezs nooo uh huh...
I am not a paying for putting it in or taking it out... and gives her a $5.00 bill.
Barefoot asked Preacher aint you afraid of getting a disease... like maybe AIDS? Nah...
Preacher sez iz gots da cure fer AIDShe always carried around a bottle of that green rubbing
alcohol... Ya know the mint kind... he say's all ya gots ta do is wipes yourself down... after
your done... but it had to be the green kind... the other stuff didnt work.
One day Jake sprayed himself down with Raid yard pest spray... thinking it was like OFF
insect repellent.
So thats a bit about Jake, Fishey and good ole Jerole... and of course a buddy that kept me in
stitches most of the time with his flawless rhetoric... Barefoot Mike.
One of Jakes sayings was as follows "Poor people aint supposed to have nothing, cause if
they had something they wouldnt be poor". Jake the Tomato Man... AKA Preacher.

Chapter 7
PASSAPORTE or Sanctity of Home.
Ray was a convicted arsonist.... though he told me he did not do it... he just set the can of gas
to close to the mower in the barn; the mower lit on fire after just having used it... causing the
barn to burn down. I guess the Judge didn't buy it.
He had a thick Boston accent and drank a lot of Boston Lager... he was big and bald... with
tremendous scars running up the length of his legs... and on his almost always bare enormous
belly... where he had blood veins removed and used in his open heart surgery...
He lived on Avenue J on Big Pine and had 7 or 8 sailboats on trailers in his side yard... the
dream once was to rent them out... it never came to fruition ... for a million and one reasons....
but he did have the boats...
Years passed and they fell into disrepair.... Ray was an obese man that was not well...He left
town and Barefoot would go by and feed the cat per arrangement...
Fidel had named the cat Passaporte.... because due to the feeding of the cat Barefoot had keys
to the trailer with an addition... thus a Passaporte to the kingdom. Well, one thing led to
another and of course big fat Ray (Boston Lager) was out of town for damn near a year...
Barefoot tried keeping his good fortune a secret...he really did, but soon Jersey John... Fidel
and Jerold found him out... and of course they all quite frequently were over there feeding the
good natured orange Tabby Cat...Passaporte...and consuming quantities of Natural Ice or
Steam Rollers as they referred to them.... Jerold wound up sleeping on the couch at night
while Barefoot would luxuriate in the rear bedroom with window shaker A/C on.
Rays reading glasses were all over the house; there were dozens of pairs... as he would lose
them... so his solution was just to put dozens of pairs everywhere-- hanging from lamp shades,
etc.
There was green algae growing for some reason in the toilet bowl...and the kitchen sink was
rancid. Jerold had a collection of plastic laundry detergent bottles alongside the couch... full of
urine... he used in the night to avoid having to get up and move far. Why the collection of so
many, I may never know.
The day Ray returned home... I guess he pretty much blew up... so I heard as all of 'OUR
GANG' just so happened to be there...drinking no doubt. Passporte likely ran, though he was
treated like a king and so... everyone beat feet....during the siege of Rays return.
Ray claimed to be Jewish...
Frankly, I don't know what he was... or that it matters... call it a side note.
He had one of his little sailboats anchored out in Coupon Bight... it had sunk in the year he
was gone and drug anchor up into the flats. He asked me if I would go salvage it for him.... we

reached an agreement.... he would trade me a little boat for my efforts... which were
significant... he was so grateful at the beginning of my efforts he took my hand in both of his
and said, thank you-thank you-so much... you dont know what this means to me.
Well, I found out and a fool, I am... long story short, after being rousted by the sea cops... and
questioned while lowering the mast, pumping out and towing it in and overall struggling with
HIS sunken mess... I had it delivered via roll back truck to his yard... delivery complete,
via...NO Saint Delivery...Pirates are us.
The next day he has a change of heart... Im suddenly not so dear .... sufficed to say he
slammed the door in my face so hard... the jalousie glass almost fell out... I retreated from the
old sickly man... and thought better of it and thought to stop by the following day... with
good cheer... day two no better.... slam again so much for helping the infirm.
Im still holding the bag on that one.....The verbal agreement apparently changed in his sick
drug induced, marinated in Boston Lager mind.
Poor, dear Ray. In retrospect, maybe he thought I was an accomplice at feeding the catdo to
my brief passing visits and saying hello to

Passaporte....

Jersey John, Authors friend & hero

Chapter 8
Itchy George and Bucket Mouth Betty.
Itchy George was an independent local fresh seafood distributor...on Big Pine Key he had an
old beat white box truck that he would put ice in the back of and use to move his writhing
products.
George had been busted more than once for dealing in the delectable undersized Florida spiny
lobster.
Early one morning, I went into the Winn Dixie grocery store on the island. On the way in, I
passed Bucket Mouth Betty; she once owned and ran a brothel just outside of the Boca Chica
Naval Air Station...down the road a bit; thus, she had served with and for our nations
finest.....perhaps she holds a medal of honor for fulfilling a duty? Anyway...
I was standing in the only checkout line open... of the 8 or so other registers that were closed...
as they often were at most any time of day coinciding nicely with the many outdated
products... they sold.
Anyway....
I was about 1 or 2 persons behind Itchy... and I was noticing his apparel... a simple
ensemble...just a pair of Fruit of the Loom whitey-tighteys... that were a dingy white, matched
with a sleeveless wife beater tee shirt, and a pair of heel worn flip flops....wallet in his hand.
A good portion of Georgies large belly was exposed from the base of his tee shirt.
When he got up to the pretty little check out girl, he leaned over and whispered something
into her ear...she burst into tears....
I know not what he said... I can't even guess, but apparently Bucket Mouth Betty was watching
the whole incident from afar. .. for when Itchy George exited the store through those
automatic sliders... Betty was out there to meet and greet him in the great out of
doors
And let me tell you, she ripped him a new ass hole with that Bucket Mouth of hers..... The
Madame as well as the guardian.

Shunshine (Greg)

Gerald & Barefoot Mike in Havana

Barefoot Mike on train in Havana

Author, Lost in the Bahamas

Piper

Author, Golden Pond or Big Pine Mangrove Swamp?

Authors daughter surveys damage

The Algae Bloom

Calypso Dancer after Hurricane Wilma

Cook Island

(Top L) Author and Mr. T; (Left) Mr. T jumping off bridge

Author and Ray Ghost

Chapter 9
Skip the Sea Slug
Skip was a bully net fisherman. So, he had a seat on a pedestal at the very, very front of his 20'
open blue boat. He was very large... 400 pounds plus ...one might figure if he ever fell
overboard he would not be able to climb back in...
One day he came into the Dolphin Marina store ... before the place went uppity...and he raked
the entire contents of the Snickers candy bar rack into a bag and bought two six packs of Dad's
root beer...then he stood out on the dock and opened a candy bar by tearing both ends off the
wrapper and using the wrapper as a tube, and pushing the candy bar in its entirety with his
fore finger into his mouth. Then with his tongue, he rotated the bar and ate the entire thing
followed by chasing it down with a can of root beer... and doing this six times in a row....then
buying some gas and ice... he splits...
The last time the ole skip-a-roo was seen was up in Vaca Key at the Publix grocery store...
riding around on an electric shopping cart... the tires squatting and he with an open gallon
container of Ice creameating it in the store with a soup spoon... all the while cruising up and
down the aisles, shopping...for more goodies...
I did not know him well, but his nick name was The Sea Slug.

Chapter 10
Wolf Man of Big Pine
Wolfy... rides his bicycle around... with his white wolf often in tow on a leash.
Barefoot Mike and I never really figured him out... though one day Barefoot and he had
words... Barefoot kicked his sandals off and turned beet red ...a sure sign something was
getting ready to go down in a serious way.
One did not fuck for long with Barefoot Mike.
Mike picked up Wolfy's bike overhead and slammed it down on top of him... Wolfy never ever
fucked with Mike again. Funny thing though after Barefoot Mikes death... Wolfy rolled up on
me on his bicycle next to a swimming pool that I took care of and said... Sorry to hear about
your buddy being dead....
Then said, I know what it is like to be dead; I was dead for a year once.... I was in an
accident... and in a coma... when I woke up... I could not remember anything..... Wolf, Wolfy,
Wolfman....

Chapter 11
Soviet Sailors
Ray Ghost was a caretaker/electrician and an all-around genius plus a very likeable guy. He
had been a US Navy man. He now ....worked... and was on the grounds... for Lillian Fisher, out
on Cooks Island which is a barrier island off of the lower Florida Keys.
Lil had a house out there that was an Alcoa Experimental Home... she used to sit in the living
room with her .22 and pick off rats... she would position her rocking chair just so in the front
doorway... to catch the ocean breeze... it was her favorite spot to sit.... she told me.
It was the summer of 1993 or 1994, the year before my Cuban disaster... and the learning of
what a beautiful people are.
The engine quit in my plane and I crashed in Cuba while flying through the corridor. My
back still hurts from the compression of the crash landing and then walking 2 days out of the
mangroves.... where a dear country girl nursed my bleeding ankles and chins back to health...
for three days before officials arrived.
A magnificent angel of unsurpassed beauty in all ways. She may have a child of mine it is
possible. My dear Marina. The time frame was approximately 6 months prior to the shooting
down of the Cessna planes nearing the sovereign nation of Cuba, demonstrating against their
way of life...but along came the soviet built Migs....poor fucks... lucky me... different
agendas.... I suppose.
Raul was an interesting chap and I got to meet him. He was reasonable enough towards
me...finding a great curiosity with me and the photos of my children I had with me. I did not
tell a single lie, well, maybe a couple itty bitty ones.
I am eternally grateful to the US State Department for giving me dinero ($) on a promissory
note; the yelling and screaming by US Customs officials in Key West upon return was
unnecessary, as my Aspergers condition makes me very sensitive. You see? And they should
be ashamed for frightening me.
After been put through what I had to endure in Cuban lock up...tip toeing through overflowing
toilets....in my little too tight blue shorts.... and those 7' tall men from Nigeria.....wanting my
white socks...and those glass syringes scaring the shit out of me.... oh and by the way to the
Treasury Department, you owe me a plane.... really you do. Send me a Trade Plane. I will
circle a few planes that may do...or place a substantial amount in my PayPal. That will also do.
My plane was a classic you know? Hard to put a dollar amount on it plus the accrued interest
over all these years... well you figure it out.
That tidbit aside....on about Ray and Violet...
It was flat calm and Ray, I and Violet (Miss Cranberry Juice and Vodka) ... were out on Cook
Island doing who knows what...? Frittering about...? Three sheets to the wind...? Bumbling

around likely...drooling, over Violet...

I managed to check that we had plenty of fuel... and the cooler was full... the smoke and blow
came out as I fired up the trusty, 17' M.F.G. with a 65 HP, Evinrude...ha... ha...ha.....off we
went.... on a south westerly heading away from land. I managed to jot down the reciprocal
heading with a pencil on the dash remembering to deduct 10 degrees for our return leg, due to
the Northerly flow of the Gulf Stream... Magellan that I am. Ive been lost and disoriented
many times; its half the fun.
Nothing quite compares to finding out where you are later.
Well, we-un's wound up out in the third shipping lane, well out of sight of land and spotted a
Russian freighterOh goody! What fun, in our inebriation, we ran up behind the ship and
jumped its wake... airborne.
Then, promptly running up to the fantail... the Russian lettering on the back of the ship made
me feel even more dyslexic and illiterate then I actually am. There were about a dozen sailors
that were hanging over the stern rail... I imagine they all were thinking they were seeing a
mirageor maybe just three fools.
Sexy hot Violet put on a show..... I bet they even remember it today.... if still living. They may
remember it even if dead. We went right up to the tail of that Behemoth...floating beast in
between its two giant wakes. Violet did her thing as we trailed them and then we turned hard
to starboard and jumped our way out of their watery trough... and headed back towards the
direction of land.
Making it most of the way in before we dropped a cylinder... and limped in on the remaining
two... with a cup of gas left and empty cooler...
What a day to remember... The final voyage of the M.F.G. or did I repower it? I cant
remember. Lil was a SWEETHEART. PIRATE GIRL AT HEART...I miss her. She was always
nice to me.
As well as was, Mae Dow, the late owner of the Hemingway House, and as she put it.... "The
good boys are no fun.
I miss those old gals ....and their stories as well. It was a good era.

Chapter 12
SAVED by Jesus and Introduced to the Cozy Cockpit
Ray Steinke: 1973...32 years old, wearing kind of thick Buddy Holly style glasses... with lenses
that darkened in the sun....Jim Baker-ish... as likeable as or maybe a Jim Jones? The drums
still beat in Haiti...don't you believe?
Ray was an ordained Seventh Day Adventist minister and also a part owner of a music store in
Southern California...within Orange County where my father worked.
My 15 year old ears caught wind of something about selling lots in the Bahamas. Overhearing,
they stood up like a young shepherd.
I pled with my father in earnest to let me tag along on this his adventure with Ray, to exotic
places, with swaying palms and sandy beaches.....later finding out for myself also with beer,
pot and sluts..... He consented to the first part...and left me on my own for quite some time
down there at my own request... with the Gustins....and naughty Kelly, and others..... I can
still hear the Ohio Players wail... over and over on the 45 record, Fire.
We wound up at some air strip in Southern California. Ray was going through several odd
little keys jiggling them just so until finally the tumblers released and the clam shell door on
the red and white Piper Navajo half door up- half door down then opened... the lower portion
was an air stair.
It is 2:00 A.M. in the morning and the battery was dead.
No one around, hmmm ... that ishmmmmm especially in retrospect.
So with my 15 year old self at the controls, Ray was outside hand propping the port engine... I
am standing on the brakes with the throttle cracked... the engine roars to life... throwing a
charge into the battery as Ray races around and up the air stair and securing it shut, Ray
comes forward through the cabin class twin and climbs into the Pilot in command seat. By
that time there was enough of a charge in the battery to crank the starboard engine... it too
roared to life.
Dad was in the back in the Club seating arrangement alone with a wrapped deck of cards
sitting un-shuffled.
Off into the clear night sky we climbed out to the East; the Westerlies giving us a push... at
some said altitude after going through the can be wicked winds... of Banning Pass, California
and well above the terrain. Ray set the heading bug and engaged the auto pilot before retiring
to the rear of the plane with his Linus blanket where he arranged the set of seats on one side
into a bed for his inflight nap.
Rays remark to me when leaving the cockpit confines was, if you see anything that looks like
it is going to hit us, turn the yoke.

So, there I was up front and alone having a flying lesson... looking out at the cherry red
exhaust manifolds thru the slats in the vented engine cowlings... lets see engine oil pressures
in the green, etc.-----wipe drool.
It certainly is dark out....tonight.
Ray Poo wakes up in a while and assumes his rightful and lawful position (I think) and we
land at Hays, Kansas, right around dawn.
Vroom we are off again, full of fuel, next stop Ft. Lauderdale-Executive.... Towering
Cumulonimbus to 50,000' and rain.
Our savvy Captain elects to wait until the following morning to cross the 150 miles to San
Andros, via the VOR navigation; service given at Bimini, then heading on a magnetic course
towards Andros Island, across the 100 miles of shallow Gin clear water hovering over a
sandy bottom with its smatterings of gold coins and lost Spanish galleons.
The Great Bahaman Bank... haunting and mysterious to this daydark cracks and seabed
portals that lead to who knows where?
Hazy in the distance, we bank left towards the north end of the largest island in the Bahamas,
Andros the sleeping giant and land of Chicharnes.
We must have drifted off courseimagine.
We landed at San Andros and taxied up the air strip to the ramble shack where we were
greeted by steel drums....and their ear piercing sound.
Thus began my ill behavior with the naughty native girls and consumptions I suppose. I am
weak.
My dear mother had a visitation from the devil... she told me later....I felt sorry about that. I
hope I have been SAVED by Jesus but know I have been introduced on many occasions to the
cozy cockpit a favorite place, you understand?
I heard Ray had been murdered in South America... I wonder what he was up to in those
days of no transponders to follow your ass like good little boys and girls plus cheap fuel.
Speed on brother.
Hell aint half full yet... as the redneck bumper sticker says. Maybe one day I will tell you the
story of meeting myself out on Cat Island... in Cutlass Bay at the Bridge Innwhere I flew in
some years ago and met myself sitting at a table eating mutton stew all alonemy sailboat was
at anchor in a cove.
I have not arrived there as of yet, but I did meet myself. I will be leaving soon enough when it
is time, on a vertical wing for Cat Island. I was alone and told myself the story of flying out
there once upon a time ago....It should be strange and interesting meeting a younger me.
Should I tell? I may just think I am a crazy old man.

My buddy Randy that was traveling with me.... he went temporarily blind that night... he was
fine the next morning. Well, it is the Bermuda Triangle. Anything can and does happen... up
for exploring? Gosh, I hope I am not boring you with my atypical use of language... what the
fuck is that anyway? And according to whom? My sickness? Oh goody then!

Chapter 13
Island Jims Restaurant
Years back there was a restaurant at the farthest East end of Big Pine named Island Jims. On
the walls were funky old photos in dusty frames and seating was accomplished using wobbly
chairs around rickety tables...
Like a number of other good and interesting places island wise the old island flavor had gone
down with its long ago having been demolished; always a reason. Maybe everybody loves 8.00
drinks and the look of West Palm Beach. I am not sure, I never got it, anyway.
They had what I thought was good food, especially the steak supper for two. Island Jims was
also quite the breakfast nook for a while, a real whos who of all the local scoundrels... or
should I say local color... excuse me.
The hustlers, smugglers, narcs ...and the astute business men and those with dive watches
on...all passing coffee round, chatter a buzz, cigarette smoke thick in the air. I cant help but
remember being in there on that since vanished morning and glancing over at the swinging,
Western movie style saloon doors that separated the kitchen from the dining area, and seeing
in-between swings...the fry cook, just so happening to be a Frenchman no offense; they love us
right! A spatula in one hand and a cooks apron on standing in front of the griddle, his other
hand was thrust down the rear of his pants giving his ass a wonderful scratching, with his eyes
rolled back in his head.
Eggs benedict anyone?
Ah, to the long since gone ghosts of Island Jims. I salute you... oh and just coffee this morning,
please. Thank you.

Chapter 14
Strugglers
I pulled up on the White Marl parking lot just across from Bubba Loo's on Big Cop Out Key...
I looked up and approaching me was Fidel... with the long narrow face, short dark hair and a
front tooth was missing...his brother Carlos had blonde hair and blue eyes.
A handsome devil he with a penchant for violence with a knife, so I hear....they both had
served under Castro in Angola... and in later years they drifted across the Gulf Stream
together as Balsero's Del Norte' to find work in the United States their Gussano brethren
were of no help to them particularly in the Florida Keys.
I can only assume Fidel and Carlos were brothers of the same mother but different father.
Fidel was broke and asking in his very limited English if I could spot him a five. I felt for him
but my pockets were near empty... still I reached, though feeling a pain, as I had just done the
very same thing earlier with another friend. How many friends can you have? An endless
supply I am guessing.
They had found his other brother not long back dead in the Avenues on Big Pine. I think it was
Avenue A as a matter of fact... cooped up and cold stone dead in a little trailer pushed back in
the woods... no electric or sewer... he was only 44 years old... perhaps some complications
with alcohol but still a very sad day at least for a few.
Every time our paths crossed Carlos was asking if I knew of any work for him... anything
would do.
Carlos had spoken of once how, when in Angola riding around in a tank, his comrades had
shot into a troop of Gorillashe said it made him cry... and never understood why they choose
to do that.
He loved America or so he said... others I have met simply get in little boats and return to
Cuba.
I have witnessed Mig pilots who defected to U.S. soil, winding up stocking store shelves with
Snapple fruit drinks...of course there is nothing wrong with that.
I am sure you can understand how these things caused me to wonder... we are all struggling
brothers and sisters of the same father perhaps with a different mother or vice versa.
Carlos also had a Son, Mikey who was his brightest light in his darkest of nights.
Now, Mikey has no living biological father.

Fidel

Chapter 15
Indian Sam the Shaman and Outboard Engine Mechanic
I was thinking about my 28 HP, commercial grade, long-shaft Evinrude outboard boat engine.
At the time, I was needing an engine for my 28 Soverel sailboat. It was the weekend on Big
Pine and in meandering around from yard sale to yard sale, I came across her. There she was
leaning sultry as if wearing a red dress against a support column under the house on stilts, all
crusty looking. Ye gads, I thought as I lifted up her engine cover and took a look. I grabbed
her by the fly wheel and turned it. Plop, plop, she had compression. I asked the lady of the
house how much? She says, how about $100? I said, how about $50? She looked around
to see if her husband was near. She said, Okay, but hurry it up before he comes downstairs.
So I handed her $50 and backed my pickup truck up towards the engine. I laid the little jewel
down gently, but quickly in the bed and sped off.
Ella lacked a wiring harness so I bought her one from my friend, Jack Tatum. Then, took the
old girl home, put her in a bucket of water and hooked up some fresh gas and a hot battery. I
hit the button and the old battle axe roared. The next week, I went and purchased a new water
pump impeller and a set of spark plugs for her, my treat. I gently lowered her into the
Soverels motor well that sat just in front of the stern and center of the boat. It was more
engine then she needed a tight squeeze a snuggly fit.
It turned out I motor sailed the Calypso Dancer four times across the Gulf Stream with nary
a cough or sputter although, I did cut the shit out of my finger once on the fly wheel while the
engine was running. Those spinning teeth make quick work of flesh. For first aid, I had a rag
and some duct tape to wrap around my finger. Ouchy!
So now on about Indian Sam. His nickname or birth name was Coyote and he claimed to be an
Apache Shaman and Healer. He had a business card he would hand out that read Native
Healer and Boat Engine Mechanic. He would burn sage, chant and dance around your ill
engine. Sam had a one candle or a two candle service/ceremony for outboard engines. If you
had an engine that was running rough he would perform the $35 one candle ceremony for
you. If the engine continued to act up afterwards, burning of the sage and candles he would
say, Well, you need the two candle ceremony which will run an additional $70. He was very
convincing in telling you spirits can enter into machinery causing them to run poorly.
The last time I actually saw Indian Sam was up at the Winn Dixie at the far entrance. He had
just recently come from the hospital recovering from open heart surgery. I thought it odd him
being a Healer and all.
We went treasure hunting once on Little Pine Island with my metal detector. We found
nothing. He told me how they hunted wild pigs on Little Pine. They would take a stake, drive it
in the ground then take some stainless steel leader, put a big hook on the end and fasten the
other end to the stake and then put a big chunk of meat on the hook. Mister or Miss Piggy

would come along and swallow the whole affair, getting hooked internally. I can only imagine
the scene of the pig trying to get away as the men came out of the bushes to club the pig to
deathsome leash.
Indian Sam, Coyote.

Chapter 16
Nothing but LoveBubba
Bubba lived in a trailer on the south side of the street... Avenue F, on Big Pine Key, Florida. He
had been in a terrible motorcycle accident at one time and was lucky to have survived. I did
not know him prior to his accident but due to his accident, he had slurred speech and sort of
drug his feet along the ground when he walked. Generally speaking, he was rather obnoxious
to a small degree; he always wore white shrimpers boots; he drove a black Jeep Cherokee
with big tires and wheels on it. The Jeep had two flag poles attached to it and he flew two
flags; a Conch Republic flag and a Jolly Roger.... he used to drive like a maniac on the roads
that connected County Road and Wilder Road where the Bougainvillea Liquor Store used to
be. The one that runs by the Winn Dixiethe terrible roads that were never graded...
something about the Key deer being protected or something.
Bubba seemed happy in his own sort of way... he was always glad to see you and would blab
on... he liked smoking weed he would always finish up a conversation and bid one farewell
by saying " It ain't nothing but LOVE" and repeat that a few times... maybe with the word
brother at the end.
Bubba would occasionally have a prostitute come by his trailer and give him service. One day I
was over at his place and he had a pile of Hustler magazines in the living room. He told me
that he pleasured himself before she came over... so he would not prematurely ejaculate...on
the second go around, that way getting more enjoyment for his money.
He was clever like that... money well spent you could say.
I bought a boat from Bubba once for $20.00. T a good buddy of mine still has it at his place
a few streets over. We named the boat the Algae Bloom. I have no idea how many times we
went out in that boat and got annihilated ... on Potato Vodka.
So, Bubba cut his hand on something and got what we used to call Coral Poisoning. Maybe it
is actually Staph; when the discoloration of your skin (the infection) starts creeping up your
arm or wherever your injury is...better run to the nearest hospital.
Bubba thought he would be okay he waited too long ... he eventually went up to the
hospital... simply put he died there.
I went to his funeral at the crematorium on Big Pine. There were very few people there other
than his sister and her husband. She had a few pictures of him in his younger days. "Ain't
Nothing but Love", Bubba.

Chapter 17
Pat Ryan
I guess the first thing that pops into my mind regarding Pat, is that saying, "Honest as the day
is long" a rare, very rare commodity in the Florida Keys especially.... in the Land of Rascals
and Misfits. I suppose he could have fallen into the last category, myself as wellthe both of
us residing in Purgatory together.
Pat and I had joint ownership of a rather nice boat. Once upon a time it was a 24' Trojan. We
were anchored up by the fill island between North Pine Channel and South Pine Channel on
the Gulf side... closer to the South Pine Channel bridge side. In those days you could night
dive on the bridges. We went one night, he and I dive tanks clanking. And lights, net bags and
tickle sticks. OH! And out the lobsters did come from behind those giant rocks and
unreachable crevices depths... their day lairs...to feed on the grass flats just in front. Come
darkness of night ... suffice it to say, it was easy pickings... we obtained our limit rapidly, in
the spooky darkness.
One day we were anchored in just about the same spot and were drinking beer more
accurately guzzling beer... when the Man came up... you know the POPO or the Water Nazis
or the Marine Patrol. Nowadays referred to as the Wildlife officers or something... with State
powers. Any way please visualize two glassy eyed boaters at anchor... when the Man pulls
alongside and says 'mind if I tie up alongside of you? We had out 24 beer cans in plain sight
rolling around on the deck. Hell, yes I mind! Pat spouts off. The funny damn thing was the
young buck left. He looks at me and says, "Do you know what you call a Copper? No, I
said. A Dirty Penny.
I could go on. There was the time we went out at night on a howling windy dark night looking
for a couple of sinking in their boat friends. There was Rodger, (who has since died when he
was bounce diving for Black Groupers in a spawn off the Marquesas). By the way, dont
bounce dive in 80 feet, friends. And then there was Scotty, a tropical fish collector
extraordinaire. They were out collecting tropical fish on the reef near G marker. They made
an emergency call as they were sinking. I saw a flare miles off. I had to argue with Pat to
maintain the course; there were so many distant lights around. It turned out I was right! We
held the course and found them with their boat sunk to the Gunnells. They had popped their
last flarethe one I saw. We pulled them out of the water. They were throwing their tanks
overboard to Poseidon, trying to lighten the load.
I have a lot of Pats stories. The last I saw of him was when I was over at Alan and Margarets
house on Little Torch Key; thanks Alan. Pat was on SKYPE. I got to say good bye to an old
friend thanks to modern technology; Pat was in Panama dying of Cancer. I asked him what he
was doing. He said, Well, John, I am down here getting better. He turned the computer
around so I could see the big ships entering the Panama Canal.
One time we bought a sunken lobster trap boat that turned into a fiasco. All we wound up with

in the end for our time, money and effort was an ash tray made of Mexican coins welded
together that we had retrieved from the sunken boat. We used to laugh together over a beer at
our expensive ash tray.
He was always honest.

The one and only, Pat.

Chapter 18
Shunshine
It was not so many years ago one could get a breakfast in Co Co 's Kitchen on Big Pine for .99
cents... many a morning I would scrounge the seats and floors of my truck for loose change to
go in and have a marvelous Breakfast Special... the HAPPY FACE.
It was sort of a breakfast club... and a game of who would be next in the door... most often
Bare Foot Mike and myself would occupy the same table... and in might come Greg the
homeless with his OCD. He would get stuck in the doorway... a Stop Motion.... cracks in the
floor the threshold , shadows or something used to stop him in his tracks... bringing us a never
ending head shaking amusement.
Often the waitress whose name was Sunshine... an attractive, blond, young woman wearing
black spandex pants and not much overweight. She held the title to worlds worst
waitress...mixing up the orders every time... or bring absolutely what you did not order. Never
an apology. I guess .99 cents only went so far.
If you asked for ketchup, please... she would throw it across the restaurant... in a game
of throw and catch... Dear Co Co the proprietor was from Nicaragua and pronounced
Sunshine SHUNSHINE... oh, how she used to tease me....
Your Shunshine is waiting, or your Shunshine was just here you missed her... drat!
Barefoot would be sprinkling his breakfast delirious with large amounts of salt... so much so it
would cover part of the table top... he was blind in one eye you know? I do not suppose that
helped a lot.... His balls may have been hanging out of his shorts as well... over the side of the
chair.
Those were the days............ YOUR SHUNSHINE IS WAITING.

Chapter 19
Dribbling Proud
That is the total sum of it isn't it, Dribbling?
We come into this life Dribbling. We leave Dribbling. But everybody knows better in between.
I was remembering Old Man Dan... I think he was like 80... he was a Dribbler....
My buddy and I were down at the old closed park off the end of the bridge on the Ocean there
near Bahia Honda... drinking red wine and burning steaks... talking filthy shit
and up come from the shoreline, Old Dribbling Dan... he had piss on his pants.
We started talking up on Cuba... the 3 of us. Dan had been across on several forays himself...
as we had, in search of younger women... to nurse aging cod. And here he was on this day
before us.... having just dribbled, all over his pants his zipper was down.... seems he had
forgotten... and who cares?
In jest I suggested... hey Dan you can pay my way over for a trip to the Island of Ripe
Forbidden Fruits... on the heavy laden Mango trees...I can be your body guard and cover your
back.
HELL no... his response! Well! Excuse me for my proposal... go get your crappy ass beat
down into the ground then and why the hell not? Youre going to be dead soon anyhow? Of
course none of us are going to die, don't you know?
Think about that next time your pissing in an old Gatorade bottle... well at least you guys that
is waiting for the last of the dribble to come out via gravity feed.
Old Dribbling Dan... with piss on the front of his pants. I am running up your heels... buddy.
Dribbling Proud.

Chapter 20
Breaking Taciturn
I guess I have lived in Paradises most of my life......... I was born in site of Hells Gate bridge...
a rosy start. I was seed carried from Europe in a nut sack that transitioned through Ellis
Island and Plymouth Rock, then scattered forward.
In the second half of my first year.... I began my life under the palm trees of Miami Beach.
Thanks, Dad. I owe you a really big one; sorry about all the screaming and the shitting and
pissing in my diapers. The sand and the ocean and the palm trees entered my veins... though I
suspect the Adriatic Sea was contained in my genetic make-up... thus I felt a distant reminder
of a faraway home.
My Paradises. I lived awhile in Oregon once. I still think of the southern coastline seen on a
rare crystal clear day in October... as seen from a roadside pull-out is the most beautiful of all
places my eyes have ever set, as of yet.
The Florida Keys held a majority of strung together years for me... with its daily healing hues
of turquoise. Oh, I have dug ditches and raked rocks in the hot sun of Summer... for
important people and defense contractorsso tired at the end of the day I have dropped my
beer.
I lived shy of a year in the Bahamas.... dancing the Limbo poorly.... and losing all the buttons
on my floral shirt. I was so drunk once I slept under the building the bar was housed
in under the sewer pipes in the dirt... and wondered why my fingers smelled so bad the next
day... and flew back up to Atlanta... all hung over. I set the auto-pilot and went to sleep. I was
solo... so what about it?
I have made visits to Cuba... delivering humanitarian aid. Those trips were intriguing... and
held a couple of lovely bed partners.
Quintana Roo was a beautiful beach setting... I got Montezuma's revenge.
And living for a year on the Indian Reservation near the Four Corners of the great American
Southwest, the brushes with Native peoples and beautiful colors was an adventure I would
not trade.
I have an accumulated two years or just shy of living here at the ancient cross roads of the
Americas encompassed by a peoples with a somewhat different D.N.A. structure then my
own. I think that if given an M.R.I. brain scan... it would be discovered that a particular part
their brains would illuminate as active regions... then say my own.... which most assuredly is a

complement.
I have always painted swaying Palm trees and sandy beaches on the ocean on the Palate of my
mind from very early days... Brain brochures I saw them clearly printed on glossy paper. I
designed them.
The vision, the dream, the fantasy... seldom if ever are meet at the reality, but still very
worthwhile.
Don't get me wrong... but you were asking.
There is a dynamic here an undertow... a propped up illusion for the unwary, with a Capital
way of thinking. Watch for animal snares; you can be hanging upside down in a snap over
hungry snapping crocodiles.
I have been studying for over 10 years on this place learning little slowly.
The views are Magnificent... those of an Eagle soaring .... or the more commona Vulture
spiraling skyward. They ride the thermals... the carrion.....looking for you.
The Mind Set... the value of life... its an us and them world... for the many.
Aisles and aisles of beans and rice at the stores. That is all the many the disproportionate
can afford... expensive tuna fish in cans.
We Americans and Canadians and Europeans are showing the locals a better way of life... we
offer everything; we offer nothing.
They may justify thanking us one day by slitting our throats. It is hidden fairly well but the
animosity is fairly thick... cut it with a sensitive knife in my delighted opinion... the one stuck
between your ribs and created by our own doing. We the righteous. The holier than thou
crew... that pretend so hard not to be.
Of course, I am sure there are many that would care to take a different viewpoint. So be it. It
is my Vanity Blog; so, smell my shorts while I go do my hair.
Its a game of cat and mouse here... with variable and negotiable rules. Most things are in
flux and there is little consistency. Can I get an Amen, brother?
Except for the guarantee of wobbling bicycles on dark roads at night with no lights and
babies carried in precarious positions on scooters...there is a lot of tongue biting here that
goes on amongst those who have invested their Lucre, based in their fear, as freedom of
speech is not quite the same as in the States and one can be brought up on legal charges of

slander or anything else for that matter quite quickly. And also, you are guilty here until
proven innocent; there are no trials by a jury... Sweet.
Only the Judge you may be able to afford...or not. Just like in the USA, all the justice money
can buy in the ultimate. I am of the opinion that many of the people that have come here to
make a go of it have simply been cleaned out... of a quarter of a million dollars or so and
eventually whimper back from whence they came.
One special note from what I have read... there is 40% more land in the National Land
Registry then actually exists in the Nation.... I suspect that should be a clue--- a good starting
point if you ever find yourself interested.
But then again as I am fond of saying, what would I know?
After all, I have only been studying this idea of living in Paradise for 10 years.
They harp on Due Diligence here... two very popular words... that means hire two attorneys
that do not know each other to do your property title search, etc.
"Live simply.... so that others may simply live. Come and see.
I am still waiting to know it All..................

Chapter 21
My Imaginary Friend and Zinger
My imaginary Friend.... shall we call him Derek?
Well, one evening, he commenced towards the Tiki Bar on Rim Rod Key coming from Big
Pine. I am sure he must of had one or two sails already up in the breeze in his dog shit brown
station wagon. He was attempting to make a simple turn across US 1 when some dizzy broad
clipped him inflicting minor damage when he was pulling out of the palm thatched
establishment with a pool. He like a good insured citizen stopped and was ready to exchange
information... it was not his fault after all.
When the assumed to be menstruating woman started her theatrical antics and in a loud
grating voice announces to the new world, "YOU HAVE BEEN DRINKING HAVEN'T YOU?"
In front of the gathering crowd.
Well, I can't say as I blame him... my imaginary friend Derek that is .... for avoiding the fame
of the spotlights when he ran like a startled pure bred race horse in a frightful state
towards the open water at a fast gallop.
There used to be an unfinished house right on the east shore of Rim Job Key that was
abandoned before it was ever finished and the powers that be finally torn down; a waste. It
was called the ' Stairway to Heaven'. A nice place to sip a brew. Anyway, he took the imaginary
plunge near there.... leaving his car and prized little outboard motor laying in the back of the
station wagon along with the hysterical woman behind him... trading it all in for an overnight
watery escape.
I am not sure exactly of his course... maybe you can figure it out.... it was after dark... he
surely must be a strong swimmer... he swam with the tide towards the back country...
heading towards the north... from Whim Swim Rod... and wound up on the north end of Big
Pine... or Big Penis Island... the police patrol boats all missed him as well as the helicopter.
Terribly sad I am sure.
Crafty fellow. That is one long swim. He climbed up on shore, slid on his belly into
somebody's yard and just laid under the running spigot of fresh water... exhausted and very
thirsty. It was dawn now. All through the previous night he made good the premiere of his
escape. Later that day...
Mr. Who? comes knocking at a door... do you suppose... want to take a guess?
Begging can you please take me and KITTY Zinger in a carry cage to the Airport?
But of course...What are friends for? And poor dear Zinger... after all.
So, off they went ... Derek my imaginary friend and his cat Zinger... made good their final leg
of escape... to the way up North and beyond gone somewhere.
His car went to the junk yard where it probably belonged and no charges were ever filed.

Chalked up to Hysteria Thank you ma'am and do have pleasant day, and a tip of the hat.

Notes about the author.

The author currently is a far away,

sunny local, strung out between two trees in a hammock with a Pina Colada in his right
hand. He attributes his behavior to watching numerous episodes of Gilligans Island,
giving him great ideas of life in the shade beneath the Palm trees. Raised in south
Florida, he attended grade school receiving a G.E.D. in Oregon. He earned his Pilots
license and managed to bore holes in the sky, mastering slow flight and short soft field
landingsonce owning a small float plane that wound up inverted and broken. Over
many years, the author has flown on innumerable trips to the Bahamas as a pilot in
command with his sister MJ, having serendipitous meetings with dignitaries and
heads of state. He has owned and sailed several sailboats making crossings to Cuba but
fancies himself a better pilot then sailor. He sort of loves his lifestyle and the fact that he
conquered living in the Keys for over 30 years scraping by on odd jobs and managing to
raise three beautiful daughters as well as a handsome son during some summers.
The author has frequently written to local papers bringing to light social issues and
injustices affecting the Florida Keys. Interestingly enough, he was a toddler when he
made his first appearance in a Sinclair *gasoline* TV commercial in Miami.
He loves himself and hopes you enjoy this book constructed by the memories and
experiences of real life characters.

Journey with me now into the ABSURD.

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The authors daughters, Barbara, Kelsey and Jane

The authors son, Joshua and daughter-in-law Amanda

The author: And the Winner is

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They shook the upper 48 and whatever loose fell down into the Keys.

John Gerace

The End

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