Trawlercat Chronicles – Big Pine Key, Florida Keys – March 7, 2012
No matter how meticulously you plan a cross-country road trip, life has a way of reminding you that preparation is an illusion. In March 2012, my newly retired wife, Patti, and I—along with our two loyal dogs, Lucy and Jessie, a pair of bicycles, and an assortment of water-sports gear—embarked on an epic journey to Florida from Southern California.
We packed up our Toyota 4Runner and headed east and then south, bound for the Florida Keys. It was a one-way trek spanning roughly 2,700 miles, a distance that felt both exhilarating and daunting as we traded the sprawling freeways of the West Coast for the narrow, bridge-laden highways of the Southeast.
Patti had just retired, eager to embrace this new chapter of freedom after decades of work. What I didn’t know at the time—and what would soon become painfully apparent—was that she carried a hidden childhood phobia of driving over bridges.
Blissfully ignorant of this fact, I’d assumed the route from California to Florida would be smooth sailing. After all, how many bridges could there be between L.A. and the Sunshine State?
As it turns out, not many—until you reach the Florida Keys, where bridges are the very threads stitching the islands together. Our destination: a month-long escape in paradise. Little did I know, I was steering us straight into the heart of her worst nightmare.
The memories of this adventure have blurred with time. A decade has slipped by since that fateful March, and the details are like faded photographs—sharp in some places, hazy in others. Still, I’ll do my best to weave the threads together, to tell the story as it deserves to be told, with all the humor, tension, and wonder it held for us then.
The first hint of trouble came somewhere along the Overseas Highway, that ribbon of asphalt connecting the Florida mainland to the Keys.
Patti, my co-pilot in the passenger seat, let out a sound—a low, almost inaudible murmur that started as a whisper: “Oh my… ohhh… ohhhh…” It built slowly, like a distant storm rolling in, until it erupted into a full-on crescendo of panic.
“WATCH THE ROAD!” she bellowed, her voice a tyrant’s command. “DON’T LOOK AT ME!” I stole a glance anyway.
Her face was a mask of dry sweat, as if she’d just sprinted a marathon without leaving her seat, her heart undoubtedly hammering against her ribcage.
“You okay? I can turn up the air if you’re hot,” I offered, trying to keep things light. Her response was immediate and ferocious: “KEEP YOUR HANDS ON THE FU—WHEEL!”
And just like that, we were over the offending bridge—a tiny, inconsequential span by my estimation. She turned to me, her voice softening but tinged with dread. “Are there many more like that?” she asked shyly. I didn’t answer aloud, but inside, a realization dawned: I’d crossed into the twilight zone of her bridge phobia, and the Florida Keys—a chain of islands linked by dozens of bridges—lay dead ahead.
Had she done any research before agreeing to this trip? Clearly not.
“Crap,” I muttered under my breath, low enough that she wouldn’t hear. “No islands.” Our Australian shepherd, Lucy, panted hotly in my left ear from the backseat, her head tilted as if to say,
What the hell’s wrong with my Nana?
I couldn’t help but wonder the same. Maybe I’d need to channel my inner Ricky Ricardo to get through this. “Esta mujer está absolutamente loca,” I might’ve sputtered in a mock Cuban accent—“This woman is absolutely crazy!”—though after ten years, I can’t swear to the exact words.
What I do know is that the Florida Keys stretched out before us, a limestone archipelago extending 220 miles from the tip of mainland Florida southwest to the Dry Tortugas. And the only way to navigate it? Bridges. Lots of them. Key West, our ultimate goal, was still 150 miles away, guarded by the infamous Seven Mile Bridge—a monstrous span that loomed like a dragon in Patti’s personal mythology.
That March journey to the Keys in 2012 turned out to be a cure for her phobia—or so I like to think. She’ll deny to this day that it ever existed, but I know better. To cement the remedy, I made sure we crossed that Seven Mile Bridge nearly a hundred times during our stay, back and forth, like exposure therapy on wheels.
Each crossing was a small victory, though Patti fought me tooth and nail whenever I suggested leaving our cozy rental on Big Pine Key. She’d grown attached to our little island paradise, where the radio perpetually played island tunes—Jimmy Buffett crooning about sponge cake and shrimp beginning to boil.
For me, the siren call of mojitos and Margaritaville restaurants was hard to resist, though Patti might argue I was just looking for excuses to test her bridge-crossing resolve.
One day stands out vividly in my memory: a blustery afternoon when we crossed the Seven Mile Bridge with 30-mile-per-hour winds howling from the east. The 4Runner rocked slightly, and I couldn’t suppress a mischievous, shit-eating grin as I imagined the translucent waters below waiting to swallow us whole.
Patti gripped the armrest, her knuckles white, while I hummed along to the radio and waved at yet another Margaritaville sign. Our relatives who visited us on Big Pine Key—bless their hearts—never knew about her bridge ordeal. Maybe there’s a woman to blame for my reckless glee, but as Buffett would say, I know it’s my own damn fault.
The first time we crossed to Key West, Patti was nearly comatose with nerves. A double mojito at a beachside bar helped loosen her up, and then the sunset worked its magic.
She sat transfixed as hues of orange, red, and pink spilled across the sky, casting a shimmering reflection on the shallow, crystal-clear waters of the Keys. It was a moment of peace, a truce between her and the bridges, at least for that night.
Key West Reflections
As we age, we start to notice our partners in new ways—little quirks, idiosyncrasies and fears that only reveal themselves over time. That trip opened a fresh avenue for Patti and me, a chance to see each other anew.
Looking back, I’m grateful we didn’t drag our Seadoo across the country for boating adventures. We didn’t need it.
The Keys offered plenty—swimming, snorkeling, exploring—without the hassle. We’re self-moving creatures, after all, shaped by our surroundings, and what makes sense for one of us doesn’t always align for the other. That’s the beauty of it.
Swimming in the Florida Keys
Our days settled into a rhythm on Big Pine Key. I’d fuel up the 4Runner at Tom Thumb’s for $3.82 a gallon—cheaper than the $3.80 we’d paid at the Navy base in Key West the week before.
The wind was relentless some mornings, gusting at 20 to 30 miles per hour before noon. A cold snap brought nighttime lows to the high 40s, a far cry from the daytime highs of 80 degrees we’d expected.
This wasn’t the Florida weather I’d signed up for, but by the end of our first week, the thermometer climbed back to a balmy 80-plus, and all was forgiven.
I spent one afternoon tinkering with my brother Rick’s 22-foot Sea Fox open fisherman boat. I replaced a boarding ladder and swapped out the communal cooler with a shiny new one from the West Marine store on Marathon Key—hands down the nicest marine shop I’d ever seen. I got as far as I could before handing the project off to Skeeter’s Marina. Two new throttle cables later, and we’d be ready to launch. Progress felt good.
Lucy, Jessie, and Mosquito Woes
Our dogs, Lucy and Jessie, were our constant companions. One day, I tossed out a quote I love: “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” Patti didn’t miss a beat. “My life,” she shot back, “is now NOT measured by the number of breaths I take, but by the number of mosquito bites inflicted on me daily, slowly draining my blood!” She wasn’t wrong.
The Keys’ mosquitoes were relentless, and Patti, with her A-positive blood, was their favorite target. “From now on,” I told her, “stop feeding those little Key deer, and don’t step outside without dousing yourself in half a can of OFF!”
We’d rented a house on a canal that fed into the Atlantic—a perfect spot for our month-long stay. My niece Jenni and her boyfriend were our first visitors, arriving just in time for her birthday weekend.
We celebrated at the Conch Republic in Key West, joined by her friends George, Marisol, and their newborn daughter. Jessie, our shaggy Australian shepherd, was overdue for a groom, but every dog groomer in the Keys was booked solid. “No days off,” they told me. At this rate, she’d be sporting dreadlocks like a Rastafarian pup by the time we left.
Island Life
Our favorite haunts became the local flea market—piled high with fresh fruits, vegetables, and seafood—and the Conch Festival on Marathon Key, where the fritters sold out in record time. St. Patrick’s Day loomed on the horizon, promising a raucous pub crawl in Key West. It was a big deal, apparently—people dressing up, following a leader through town, stopping at bars for free beer. Another bridge crossing, another adventure.
From our rental, we’d bicycle to the Blue Hole, keeping an eye out for the occasional alligator. We’d toss scraps to the fish in the backyard canal and update our unofficial Key deer count—those adorable, endangered creatures we weren’t supposed to feed. By 3:00 p.m., it was time for happy hour at the local watering hole. Life was simple, sweet, and full.
But try as I might, I couldn’t keep track of how many bridges we’d crossed. They blurred together, each one a small triumph, a shared story, a step closer to understanding the woman beside me—and the wild, beautiful road we’d chosen to travel together.
Big Pine Key, Florida
March 12, 2012
Trawlercat
Trawlercat Chronicles 