As I floated on my back, face upwards on the turquoise sea this afternoon, squinting into the blazing yellow sunshine, breathing discriminately through my nose to avoid salt water being pushed into the corners of my mouth by the small waves thrust upon me by the sea breeze, I thought to myself, “I am on Key Largo!” This after six months was my thankful and unassailable abstraction. We made it!  It is affirmed. And now I can return home with a crown upon my head.

There was not another person on the beach. The Buttonwood Bay beach is one of the select private beaches on Key Largo. The underlying coral reef, while conducive to the distinctive aquamarine colour of the sea (and the source of riotous deep sea diving), naturally prohibits sandy shores. My preoccupation was paramountly the aura of the sea, the taste of the briny water upon my lips, the inexpressible and transparent joy of bobbing like a balloon upon the open water with no one and nothing in sight except the buoys and the  grey and white sea gulls and the distant white clouds.

I had deliberately chosen to swim in the sea today – rather than go to one of the pools – because the dénouement of our journey here has suddenly commenced. No longer is the evacuation a matter of mere contemplation.  The immediacy of our impending departure invoked an imperative to visit the sea perhaps this one last time before abandoning our digs in the next several days during which I have a number of last minute appointments and undertakings scheduled. Noticeably the entire compound has lately become exceedingly quiet and seemingly isolated. Even the staff appear to be less engaged; and, as I pass by them on my tricycle I feel somehow I have overextended my stay, that I should be getting on my way to permit them to do whatever it is they do during the upcoming 180° of the year.

The ribbons about the package are the cheering expressions of “Safe home!” and “See you next year!” reciprocally exchanged by the evaporating crowd of winter sojourners. The standard question about the pool over the winter was not “Have you been here before?” rather “How many times have you been here before?” Buttonwood Bay is unquestionably a society of returning membership. The underlying streams of interest are nothing more advantageous than a common commitment to acquaintance and sociability but there is an outstanding insular nature to the congregation. Repeatedly I have heard of those who have ventured in other nearby places; but who have gleefully returned here instead.

Strangely enough, even after having spent six months here, I recognize that there are many features of the place I have yet to discover.  Certainly part of this limitation was wrought by the usual hesitancy which accompanies any new venue; and, my immobility played a rôle as well. But paramountly the constraint was none other than the failure to try to open the doors which are here. Many of the passages to discovery are narrow laneways from within the compound onto the adjoining sea, places into which one might reasonably be reluctant to venture because of initial ignorance of the limits of private or common access. In any event I am leaving my tricycle here.  Hopefully it will survive until we return in November. At age 75 years I shall then pursue what further unknown territory awaits both here and perhaps moderately abroad!