UP, UP & AWAY




The weather looked a little iffy when we awoke. The Blue Light Special went to the gym and I dashed off to the cemetery for a hasty second visit. I got to photograph everything I wanted to, including a cherub bust and a monument to nearly 300 men who died on the U.S.S. Maine when it sunk in a Havana harbor after a powder explosion, an event that helped precipitate the Spanish American War.





Hard Sell had forecast the weather accurately, however, for our Power Adventure. The size of our group had increased to 14. It included a couple from the Netherlands and three guys and a girl from Paris. The captain; Snorkel Coach, an adorable surfer boy with blond dreadlocks and a grin as bright as Christopher Atkins in The Blue Lagoon; and Party Gal, a slightly tubby and maternal 20 something comprised our crew. I could have been the father of anybody aboard the sailboat except the Blue Light Special who probably was ten years older than the others.

The delivery of fresh scrambled eggs delayed our departure a bit. A couple from New Jersey began talking to me as we dug into the cinnamon rolls. He worked in construction and wanted to tell us ahead of time exactly what we would be doing. She wore a Madonna t-shirt but didn't recognize the name of her latest release. Fortunately, the captain demanded our attention before I could get stuck in the morass of their pleasant but unstimulating conversation.

Almost as soon as we left the harbor, the Blue Light Special began obsessing about the cheap black sunglasses he had purchased just for the trip along with a floating lanyard the night before. The film on the lenses kept flaking off when he tried to wipe away the salt spray even when I provided him with the soft cloth I use to clean my Ray Bans.

You're just making it worse I admonished, resisting the temptation to add You get what you pay for.

It took us nearly an hour to reach our first destination in the open ocean. Snorkel Coach provided some perfunctory lessons as well as the admission that the choppy seas might make it difficult for the Blue Light Special and me, the only two first-timers aboard. Nevertheless, we gamely donned our masks and flippers and descended into water as warm as it ever gets off Fire Island. I was so thankful I had chosen the sunset sail over the free wetsuit option offered by Hard Sell the day before.

I couldn't quite get the hang of breathing until Snorkel Coach hollered Pull the mask strap farther up on your head, behind the crown. Suddenly I began sucking air not seawater through the snorkel tube. This, along with earlier advice to apply lip balm and suntan lotion to my mustache to make a better seal for the mask, ensured the generosity of the tip that inevitably would be requested at the end of the day.

The know-it-all construction worker had told me that the reef was mostly dead so my expectations already were low, not a bad state of mind an inexperienced beginner. Though the reef lacked the vibrant color and gently waving tentacles I had seen through the bottom of a glass bottom boat in the Great Barrier Reef, there were plenty of angel and parrot fish. The 45 minutes passed as quickly as the crew had predicted and the silence of the activity came as a welcome respite from the Blue Light Special's whining about his sunglasses.

As we headed to a more protected area near the harbor, Party Girl and Snorkel Coach served a big lunch that lived up to Hard Sell's hype with cold cuts, several varieties of bread and salads, and unlimited shrimp. It would have cost the two of us $40 at a restaurant, leaving me very happy if a little self-conscious in the new Nike swimming briefs I was wearing. Everyone else, even the Blue Light Special and his fellow Europeans, wore knee length trunks. I wondered how we must appear to the crew and other passengers.

Fortunately, the Power Adventure didn't give us a lot of time for self-conscious reflection. Shortly after swallowing our last shrimp, we arrived at a floating dock manned by the Shouter. The crew divided us into two groups. The Shouter instructed us how to operate a pair of Waverunners, each of which could carry two passengers, until the parasailing boat arrived to take away the first group.

Driving the Waverunners was clearly the riskiest activity from Sebago's perspective given their lack of control over the vehicles once we boarded them. It also explained the absence of beer, which flows like water in Key West, during lunch.

Make sure you check the baffle underneath the engine for seaweed before you turn on the ignition, commanded the Shouter. Don't get within 100 yards of any other vehicle, including the other Waverunner that will be in use. And if you have a drink, we'll cut off your pink wristband which means you can't ride.

The Blue Light Special and I swam to the water trampoline, a kind of holding station for anybody not engaged in another activity, where we waited less than 15 minutes for our first turn. I told him he could drive the first time mostly because I had more confidence in his ability to follow technical instructions. Boarding the Waverunner gave me the only trouble of the day as I had to pull myself up over the steep rear seat using only my arms.

I held on to the back of the seat like I had learned to do on a motorcycle while we zipped around, circling the dock as instructed and staying out no longer than our allotted ten minutes. The Blue Light Special's innate caution always surprises me. I realized we would have to wait until it was my turn to drive before we hit full throttle.

The parasailing boat returned to the dock a few minutes after we turned the Waverunner over to another couple making me realize how short our ride in the sky actually would be. No matter-- once the two-man crew had untangled a parachute and conducted a hushed conversation about how to handle the problem of an obese couple, six of us jumped into the boat for the literal high point of the day. We all agreed to be photographed at $15 a pop.

After the Dutch couple had ascended, the guy driving the boat pointed to the obese couple and said You two will have to go up separately. Initially, the woman protested that she was scared to do it alone, but when it became clear that the boat couldn't handle two tons of fun, she tearfully insisted that her husband be given twice as much time aloft. The crew wasn't happy, but acceded to her request when nobody squawked. I love you, honey he said in farewell.



Our turn came last. We put our legs through a pair of nylon harnesses that would function as seats once we were airborne and moved to the small deck at the back of the boat. The driver accelerated, the rainbow parachute filled with air and lifted us gradually 100 feet above the water. We marveled at the view.

It's a little like being at the top of a ferris wheel observed the Blue Light Special.

The driver slowed the boat down and dipped us into the water before accelerating again while his mate, who also had served as photographer, reeled us in for a completely dry landing. Both of us were giddy with excitement.

Yet another boat pulled up alongside the dock, towing a heavy duty inflated raft called a banana boat. We boarded with the Dutch couple. I sat behind the Blue Light Special with the Dutch guy beside me, our feet behind us, while we gripped a pair of protruding plastic handles. It didn't appear to require any skill. Wrong! When the driver hit the gas hard and turned sharply as he pulled away from the dock, all of us fell into the water, laughing along with everybody watching from the dock.

Now that we knew to hang on for dear life and lean into the turns as if we were water skiing, the driver tried to throw us a second time. He succeeded only with the Dutch couple. Hard Sell had promised us the banana boat would be the most fun of the day and it was.

Athough Party Girl and Snorkel Coach already had opened the tap when we returned to the dock, the faster of the two Waverunners was available. Give me speed over beer anyday. I took my turn in the driver's seat while the Blue Light Special wrapped his arms tightly around my waist.

That's not how you're supposed to hold on I said.

He ignored me. I was thrilled. When I opened the throttle as far as it would go, he screamed for me to slow down. I ignored him. We were thrilled.

Once again we stayed within our allotted time. Now both Waverunners were available and everybody but the New Jersey couple had lost their pink wristbands. A smart move on their part, and one obviously based on prior experience. They each got at least a 20-minute ride on their own Waverunner. The Shouter finally had to give them the signal to return.

The beer flowed freely during the leisurely ride back to the Sebago berth in the Key West Bight. Party Girl gave the Blue Light Special the remaining shrimp.

Throw the shells over the side she said, an instruction that appalled me until I saw how quickly the garbage attracted ravenous schools of fish who cleaned the water instantly. I don't know who was happier chowing down on the shrimp, the Blue Light Special or the fish. All the sun and activity had mellowed us out completely. It was easy to understand why Party Girl had moved to Key West after graduating from college in New Hampshire.

My job is talking to people she said, refilling our plastic cups a third time, and telling me to avoid South Beach at all costs over Super Bowl weekend because of traffic jams.

It would have been a perfect day except for the nagging worry about how much I would be expected to tip. I decided $25 would take care of Snorkel Coach, Party Girl and the Shouter. The Blue Light Special begged me to let him be the one to drop the bills in the tip jar when we walked off the boat. Instead, I gave him $5 to tip the guy who had taken our parasailing photo.

Back at the Island House, the Blue Light Special hit the gym a second time. I lounged by the pool, eyeing the only attractive patron who emerged from his room in a light blue polo shirt that flattered his well-defined chest, chatting on a cell phone. Insecure about being alone, I thought, while listening to dance music on my i-Pod.

When the guy returned a few minutes later, still talking on his phone as he took a seat on one of the chaise lounges, I cut him less slack. Probably an attorney, I thought, overhearing what only could have been a business-related conversation conducted at a volume loud enough to be heard across the pool. The kind of guy who could spoil the day or even the trip if he and the Blue Light Special hooked up. So when the Blue Light Special came upstairs to swim a couple lengths in the pool, I watched the two of them like a hawk.

Just remember you haven't swum with the dolphins yet, I said, playfully, when he emerged from the water, but relieved that it was time to leave for the Mallory Square sunset celebration, the final item on our "must do" list.



A flow of like-minded tourists literally swept us into Mallory Square where everyone in Key West, including the passengers from the two enormous cruise ships that were docked in the harbor, was gathering. Performers and venders set up shop daily to take advantage of the crowds.

The rapid click and flashbulbs of cameras at sunset must rival what was heard outside the Orlando courtroom during the arraignment of the diaper-wearing astronaut. Or during the press conference that the coroner's office in Ft. Lauderdale called after Anna Nicole Smith was found dead in Ft. Lauderdale. What is it about the Sunshine State, anyway?



I had hoped my own clicks would capture a flash of green, an unusual and rare phenomenon that requires very specific atmospheric conditions according to the self appointed master of ceremonies and a movie of the same name I once had seen. It wasn't to be. The cliched picture I did get, with gulls and sails adding a little garnish to sky and water, wasn't particularly evocative. Perhaps watching twenty years of remarkably similar sunsets over the Great South Bay in the Pines have jaded me although I can't say that my equally long enjoyment of the hunk parade there diminished my enjoyment of a stunningly gorgeous young gymnast. If I hadn't been all tipped out, his flexibility and exuberance might have tempted me to throw $5 into his hat.

I wonder if Thug Lover did this when he was here in '96? asked the Blue Light Special.

Thug Lover was here in '96? I demanded.

Yes, why? he asked.

Because, you asshole, it explains what I thought I heard at the restaurant last night when you were talking to him in German.

The Blue Light Special smiled. I didn't.



Neither of us were hungry enough for a real dinner so we shared a slice of Key lime pie with meringue topping at the Blond Giraffe. We also spotted the Shouter working his night job in front of local bar where he lured passersby with a performing parrot. As soon as he recognized us, however, I jerked the Blue Light Special away, whispering I would rather go back and tip the gymnast than this guy again.

We embarked on what I thought would be a quixotic search for fresh fruit and vegetables along Duval Street. Soon enough, however, the Blue Light Special, determined to have a healthy snack later, found a storefront displaying a limited selection of produce. Like everyone else in the free-spirit destination, the vender who handed him an overpriced tomato and red pepper to take to the cash register also expected to be tipped.

The Blue Light Special spent the next hour looking for the cheapest possible t-shirt to commemorate his Key West visit. My irritation grew as we entered store after store until he finally decided to have one custom-made.

We repeated our routine of the night before at the Island House, briefly, but both of us were too tired to hunt seriously for a threesome among the very slim pickings. We settled instead for trying to figure out why the video camera wasn't working. Hooking it up to direct current proved that the battery had died. Neither of us could resist the opportunity to interview one another about the trip but my earlier irritation returned and escalated when the Blue Light Special insisted on watching two more porno videos while I tried to sleep.