Author’s note:
This event took place sometime in the mid, or maybe late, ’90s I think. To date (2009) I still maintain no permanent address and have stayed nowhere longer than two months.
The motorcycle rally in Daytona, Florida had been a good time but it was over now. It was still early March which, as anyone knows, is much too early a season for riding a bike into the north. The money in my pocket was running dangerously low ($230) and my high mileage FLT (full dress Harley Davidson) had a multitude of mechanical problems in need of attention very soon. Knowing almost no one in the Sunshine State I decided to just enjoy a slow ride south and see what happened next.
If one visits either coast of Florida he will find himself mostly immersed in city traffic. The center of the state, however, offers an abundance of small towns and lush backcountry roads. The choice was obvious. In Florida, pine and palm trees often grow side by side in the thick forests that lined the small secondary highways I chose.
The winter had been long and cold for a man who lives outside and travels by motorcycle, and as the air grew warmer with each days ride south, so did my excitement and anticipation of the coming spring-time travels.
Eventually I arrived in alligator alley (many ’gators) and the seemingly endless swamplands of the southern Florida Everglades. Besides overpriced Airboat swamp tour rides, a modest roadside town offered a small gas station. There, a man told of a free campground located on the shore of a little ’gator filled lake only a mile from where we stood. I decided to check it out.
The dirt road that led to this isolated lake circled its sandy shores before turning back on itself. The friendly camp-host who greeted my arrival said to pick any spot, enjoy myself, and stop by his camper for coffee in the morning if I liked. I thanked him kindly then fired up the old Harley to circle the lake in search of a good camp-spot. Besides a few alligators, the campground was home to only a handful of RV and tent campers.
On the first pass I was stopped at a very large, primitive, and yet somehow elaborate camp to become quickly acquainted with a big family of hillbillies who told me (and I believed them) they were from the back woods of Arkansas. They numbered seven strong, and all agreed that I would have to stay as their honored guest.
Thirty-something was the approximate age of the oldest son—the obvious leader—and his word seemed as law among the rest of the family. Everything about this guy reminded me of Brad Pitt’s character as a trailer-trash psycho-killer in the movie “Kalifornia”. Nevertheless, they all treated me as family and cooked up a big dinner of steaks and freshly caught trout over their open fire in celebration of my visit. A strange sort of fame to be sure; but undeniably fun as well. I put up a tent against the mosquitoes that night and slept on the bank of the little ‘gator filled lake.
Next morning psycho boy took his mini truck and headed into town for supplies. The family remained behind. His wife was a woman crippled by a rare condition that promotes severe curvature of the spine. Although her mind was clear (well, sort of), her body was a torturous thing of obvious pain and disfigurement.
Before long she and Brad’s mom handed me their camera and asked if I’d take a few pictures of them perched on my bike. When the amateur photo shoot was over, I bent down to help the sweet natured, handicapped woman from the motorcycle seat. Just when I had her lifted a foot in the air the family mutt decided to move on this opportunity. So there I stood bent over my bike with a cripple in my arms and a dog latched onto my ass screaming like a woman in labor! Too bad no one got a picture of that.
When Brad returned, and with the promise of some great pictures, he asked me to move my bike to the waters edge. I did. He then produced a fishing pole and started casting a lead sinker at the noggin of an innocent alligator who was minding his own business way out in the lake. Once Brad had pissed the big lizard off sufficiently, he reeled the line in as the toothy beast followed his lour to the bank beside my bike. When the ’gator arrived, psycho boy began beating him with the pole while yelling, “Shoot the picture now!”
His mother’s voice quivered with obvious fear as she begged him to stop or at least be careful.
“Oh Maw,” Brad replied as the alligator snapped yet again at the pole he continued to beat it with, “it’s just an ol’ gator being a ’gator.”
Next morning my new friends cooked up a tasty breakfast for which they insisted I stay. But the little campground lay in the middle of nowhere and I was ready to move on. When the food was gone, I said goodbye then returned to the little highway and my slow ride across alligator alley.
The landmass of southern Florida rests atop a bed of ancient coral. This prehistoric coral bed extends beneath the oceans surface for many miles beyond the southern most coastline. The result is a chain of small coral based islands known as the Florida Keys. They extend beyond the southern shores of the mainland and are surrounded by a sea of exceptionally shallow water. It’s these shallow waters enabling 130 some-odd miles of bridges connecting this string of islands to be built.
Eventually I pulled onto Highway-1, which led south across these magnificent concrete structures. The mid-March air temperature was in the middle 80s, as I cast my gaze to the changing scenery all around. Aside from the shops and houses, the islands were made up mostly of thick forests under a clear blue sky. But the water…
Sweat ran from my brow as a carefree breeze blew me from island to island. To my left was the Atlantic and to the right the Gulf of Mexico. The seafloor lay just below the surface of the very shallow salt water contained a dark, military green vegetation. Still other areas were a white color where the bottom was only finely ground sand. From high atop the bridges, the water below just looked like a huge patchwork quilt that continued on forever. Smaller islands could be seen on both sides with an occasional boat thrown in, to break the monotony. With very few cares in the world to interrupt this experience, I rode on.
Hwy-1 ended at the exceptionally crowded island of Key West (90 nautical-miles from Cuba), and it was just after sunset as I entered the Tourist Info Center to pick up a free map and ask directions to the action. The sweet young receptionist sent me to Duval Street. This narrow street starts at the Gulf of Mexico and runs all the way to the Atlantic Ocean (about 2 miles). I was soon to learned their huge tourist trade is the mainstay of the Key West economy. Duval Street (lined with restaurants and dinner places, tittie bars and extravagant nightclubs offered live bands and dancing every night, coffee houses, and an array of T-shirt and other souvenir shops) is a major south Atlantic party zone/tourist trap.
The crowd was thick and live music poured into the street as I backed the FLT against the Duval Street curb and leaned her onto the kickstand. Before long a big guy pulled an old Superglide into the parking space beside mine and quickly struck up a conversation. Doc stated that he owned THE PIRATE’S DEN; the island’s only biker friendly tittie-bar. He invited me to stop by later for a complimentary lap dance. With a promise to show, I thanked him kindly before he rode off.
Not ten minutes later four drunken tourist chicks materialized from the Duval Street crowd to snatch me from the parked FLT’s pilot seat. After an hour of dancing they invited me for a dip in the Jacuzzi that bubbled among the thick foliage of tropical plants in the beautifully landscaped, yet very private, pool area of their luxury hotel.
It was late when I arrived at The Pirates Den. As closing time approached, Doc offered use of the bar’s side yard to make camp in if I liked. I did.
The first order of business on that sunny, tropical-island morning in Doc’s yard was food. After locating an inexpensive breakfast, I decided it wise to search out a more permanent home.
The small island of Key West was much too crowded for a traveling vagabond to successfully hide his camp. Obviously, the solution could only be found on one of the other islands. Boca Chica Key was two islands north and still only six miles from downtown Duval Street. With exception of a large military base, the land was mostly vacant. Shooting into the woods just off Hwy 1, a well hidden walking (or riding in my case) trail led to a beautiful clearing only a short distance in. The place was completely surrounded by pine, mangrove, palm, and other tropical trees. Perfect!
In the swamp 30-feet from my camp an old refrigerator lay on its back rusting. On the fourth day, I began to use the hollow compartment inside as a closet. The Key West locals just smile at the constant parade of “Tourons”, as some like to call them, and politely take their money. The great piles of gear bungee-corded to my bike had made it clear to everyone that I was a tourist. Time and again, the locals had greeted me with scant interest or even contempt. It’s just the way the island people are. The newfound ability to stash my gear at home helped to change their attitude toward me almost immediately.
After some negotiations I worked out a window cleaning trade with a local health club owner. That deal granted complete access to their facilities including weight room and hot showers.
The island was mine now. I could stay as long as I liked.
I began to settle in. Being a stranger in a strange land, I’d come to this place alone and the constant festivity of Duval Street attracted me like a moth to flame.
It was a lazy afternoon as I sat drinking Java on the front porch of one Duval Street coffee shop. In casual conversation I mentioned my background as roofing contractor in a former life. A big family man named Scott (easy to remember) quickly told of a very bad leak that had been watering his bedroom for years. He said that no roofer (he’d hired many) had been able to fix it.
The next day I checked his leak then said, “It’s no problem Scott. I want $250 labor, plus materials which we haul over here in your car.”
“You got it,” he replied.
The job took only three hours and the garden hose test proved that the problem had been corrected. We were both happy guys.
Four days later my clutch cable broke. After calling around I ended up at ADVENTURE SCOOTER—a motorcycle and mostly scooter repair shop.
Many who live on tropical islands these days drive only scooters or even bicycles and Key West was no exception to this rule. The island is 2 x 4 miles across and there’s no road capable of allowing speeds in excess of 35mph here. The weather is almost always good. Roads are small and these mini bikes are compact, maneuverable, and squeeze easily through the sometimes heavy traffic. The tiny roads were littered with them.
Adventure Scooter was one of the local companies that rented these mini, munchkin machines to tourists. However, their repair shop was separate from the rental department, and the boys there were well equipped to handle motorcycles too. The manager was a Harley rider named John. There’s an unwritten law adhered to by all old-school bikers that insists one never leave another—even a perfect stranger—broken down alongside the road unless extenuating circumstances take unavoidable precedence. For many, this law is etched in blood upon the very walls of their hearts. John was no exception. Seeing my need he got the parts then agreed to let me wrench on my old battle-wagon in his shop.
When the dust finally settled, I handed him the cash, shook his hand and said, “I need a job John. You need a wrench?”
He looked me over thoughtfully for only a moment then said, “You might be in luck. I just lost a man last week. Seems like you know your way around machines well enough… Tell you what; be here Monday, 8 a.m. sharp. See you then.” It was Wednesday.
It’ll never cease to amaze me the way the road will take care of a man if he is willing. He need only walk through his fears of destitution (easier said than done), be prepared to exchange some of his pampers (luxuries) for real-life adventure, trust the Highway God unquestioningly, remain honest, and do his best.
There was nothing left to do but enjoy island life and wait.
Key West is a tough place to make a living and for insult-to-injury housing prices are astronomical as well (not much land). It’s for this reason that many of the locals live on boats. To moor a boat offshore costs nothing. Cast your gaze across the emerald green waters that gently pelt the sandy shoreline and you’ll see a small city of boats anchored there. Some are beautiful while others are rough; some are sinking or sunk in the chest deep water, and many are no more than pontoons with a wooden box built atop them that serves as house. If one’s not in the mood to row his dinghy to shore, there’s a water taxi that’ll take him to and from his ocean estate for a small fee. Many of the friends I made on the island were boat dwellers.
I settled in some more.
Scooters are simple mechanisms and I took to fixing the micro machines like fish to water. After the first week John gave me a raise.
The lead mechanic was a tall guy from North Carolina. Steve’s accent had never truly left and he remained a constant reminder that I was a very long way from where I’d begun. We took a fast liking to one another and on most weekends went bombing around town on scooters together. In the evenings we’d just hang out wherever or sometimes help to close the Duval Street bars.
Part of Steve’s job as lead mechanic was to maintain the Sea Doos for a local water-toy, rental company. On occasion we’d head for the dock, grab a couple of King Neptune’s crotch rockets and head for the open sea. Being the mechanics for these elaborate toys, we rode for free. For me this was a new experience. After getting over the apprehension of the first ride, I soon found that the overpowered mini-craft act more like a dirt bike than a boat. In this light, it took about ten minutes practice before I was bouncing across the tops of the large swells at a conservative full throttle with Steve in the background yelling, “Slow down you ungrateful fuck!”
Sometimes I’d stop and look across the emerald sea of huge rolling swells to the island shore beyond. There I could see the clowns, jugglers, acrobats, food vendors, and other assorted circus acts performed by a variety of freelance entertainers. Most of them come from the north to spend the winter entertaining the great crowds of tourists that gather on the shore in anticipation of the show at sunset.
Jeff worked in the Adventure Scooter rental department. He and best buddy Peter where hardcore sailors. They spent many hours on the water either racing or just enjoying the wind in their sails and I was always invited. The shallow sea seemed to go on forever as we’d cruise round the islands. Many times I saw dolphins’ jumping the ocean swells in their eternal search for food.
Every man has his own reality. You know his job, woman, friends, family, and home. The things he loves and things he only tolerates in his world. In this way a man’s life is forged of the people and objects around him. One of the strangest facets of a drifter’s life is that he has almost no permanent reality of his own. In my case the only things that remain familiar are my bike and body. Everything around these two staples is in a state of almost constant change. Life had become a perpetual visit into other people’s worlds. Looking across the bow of Jeff’s reality to the brilliant colors of the setting sun beyond, I wondered at the beauty of his world. What an interesting life.
My bike still needed work. After four weeks of collecting regular paychecks the parts John had ordered for me at a considerable discount finally showed up. I promptly put my FLT on the lift then quit my job. For the following week I came in everyday to wrench on my own bike. In the meantime, John lent me a scooter to get around on. At week’s end my Electra Glide was roadworthy again, and by Monday I’d been rehired back to spinning wrenches on mini-bikes.
It was 2 a.m. at my home in the Boca Chica mangrove jungle when I came awake to the blinding glare of a high output flashlight centered on the door of my tent. Then, in a tone commanding great authority, a voice boomed, “Island police. Step outside please.”
After unzipping the door I squinted into the blinding beam. A glance beyond the cop to the highway in the distance revealed the moonlit image of five patrol cars. Must’ve been 15 cops surrounding my little home. Looking flashlight man in the eye I said, “All this for little old me?”
It’s always the same with these guys. Being unsure if they’ve stumbled across an armed convict or something, they always start with a bad attitude. Then, after realizing my paperwork’s clean, I ain’t drunk or belligerent and in general am a sorta nice guy, they invariably mellow out. More often than not they just say goodnight and split. After all, sleeping alongside the road is not a felony. Generally, it isn’t even a big deal. In the case of these boys though, my camp was too close to their military base. I had ’a go.
As I slowly broke camp a few cops stood around holding flashlights on me and asking questions. Once they learned of my slightly eccentricity lifestyle the men got real curious. Then, at their insistent prodding, I told a few stories (not unlike the one I’m telling now) while sleepily rolling up camp. When finished, they compared me to an old Key West resident named Ernest Hemmingway. Very flattering. In the end they called me friend, shook my hand, and then threw me the fuck out. Very strange.
I soon showed up on the porch of a doublewide trailer located on Stock Island just one mile to the south. A well built and dark haired, German girl opened the door and invited me inside. We’d been friends for over a month and had spent some time cruising the islands aboard my bike and talking. In a heavy accent Coral had told me that Germany is no place for a sun worshipper like her. Said she’d known she was born in the wrong place even as a little girl. At the age of 20, Carol had left Germany and had lived in many parts of the world since—always traveling alone. She spoke four languages fluently and was only 36 years old. I found her fascinating. But love had presented itself here on the islands, and along with it, Carol decided on a few college courses as well. She’d been settled here for over two years now. But graduation had come and gone some time ago, and the man had been in prison (I never asked) for almost as long. Carol was kind of in limbo.
Recently she’d offered me the use of a spare room at her place if I’d cared to use it. I hadn’t…till now. The tiny room was hot and stuffy. In recent years freedom and the wide-open outdoors had become my almost constant companion, and by now a room often felt as only a box. Four sides and a lid. Suffocating. I made camp in the yard.
Next day I became acquainted with my new housemate. Kelly was an old fisherman with failing health whom Carol allowed to stay free and seemed to care for very much. For the better part of a lifetime the old man had worked aboard the many old and beat up commercial fishing boats that line the Stock Island harbor. I was told the job is hard and that drug addiction runs ramped there. And although an undeniably nice fellow, of Kelly’s plight he talked little. And I did not ask.
In the two weeks that followed Carol and I spent much time together. Our constant babble of far off lands and the adventure that goes with them only added fuel to each other’s fires. Carol bought a one-way ticket to Cancun, Mexico then sold or gave away all her worldly possessions. She left the house to Kelly and me, stating that the rent was good for three weeks more and we could stay till they threw us out for all she cared.
It was mid May now and the southern air was growing hot. The Myrtle Beach Rally was scheduled to begin soon in South Carolina and I had planned to crash that party on my slow migration north. The Keys had been good to me but it was time to go.
After collecting my last paycheck from Adventure Scooter, I turned my back to the island and twisted the throttle.
–Scooter Tramp Scotty
