Key West's World Records

Key West is the ultimate blend of sensuality, sexuality and reality; the very essence of what Travel Libido is about. But instead of just traveling to the island, I have chosen to live here. So let me help you get a handle on its many facets. For instance, you know you’re in Key West when the cock crows at 3 a.m.--or at 3 p.m. for that matter. On this southernmost island in the United States, it seems these feisty, free-range fowl party ‘round the clock with visitors, who also can’t seem to get their wake-up calls in sync with normal sleeping habits.

Duval Street in the heart of Old Town Key West (and the 'longest street in the world', which runs from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico) is notorious for letting the good times roll until dawn, but daybreak is not the time to retire from this sinful seaport city. Sunup is also full of excitement: Cuban coffee shops open, fish bite, birds fly and boats gear up for SCUBA diving along the only living coral reef in the United States.

From snorkeling the near-shore waters to sunset cruises and world-class dining on balconies that overlook Key West’s harbors, time spent on the island is time wrapped in every shade of blue water and sky. Embraced by the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary, most everything underwater is protected here; conch shells and coral, for instance. On terra firma, tiny Key deer and yes, even raucous roosters are protected species along this international flyway, a migratory path for hummingbirds, hawks and most things winged.

Then of course, permeating the island is an anything goes, positive mental attitude accidentally protected by the island’s remote, tropical location at the end of the Overseas Highway—a 150-mile, two-lane sliver of concrete and bridges recently designated an All American Road. Closer to Cuba than to Miami, Key West is the absolute, dead end of the road. This vehicular lifeline is so crucial to the island’s economy that in 1985, when tourism came to a screeching halt following road blocks set up by federal agencies to snag drug smugglers, crafty city officials declared war on the United States. By announcing to the world that Key West was seceding from the Union, overnight, the two-by-four-mile island reinvented itself as the Conch Republic, an independent island nation. It then demanded one million dollars in foreign aid to compensate for the loss of income.

The money was never forthcoming, obviously, but the publicity stunt immediately ended the road blocks, and ever since, Conch Republic Days have been celebrated in April, with mock sea battles between the Conch Republic Navy’s flagship, Schooner Wolf, and the United States Coast Guard.

Somewhere, there must be a world record for a military encounter as bizarre as this one.

Attractive though the Conch Republic mindset is, weather is a bigger attraction, and potential visitors should never assume that weather forecasts for Miami are the same as for Key West. Indeed, South Florida's daily summer showers are not the norm for Key West. The island's tropical micro-climate ensures sunny skies, balmy breezes, lush foliage and a minimal temperature swing of ten degrees almost year round. Daytime highs hover at or near 90 degrees Fahrenheit; nights are 80.

In the winter, temps are usually 80 during the day, with nights at 70. But when bitter weather fronts ravage North America in January, the occasional cold snap can usher in a rare week of 60 degree days. And in spite of 2005's record-breaking, 41-degree nights on January 12 and 13, Key West is the only location in the continental US that never freezes. Never.

With stats like these, swimming suits and shorts are fashionably correct outdoors or in. In fact, sarongs run the gamut from beach wraps to wedding dresses, and flip flops--the ever present footwear of golden-tan girls and buff-muscle boys--go both ways, too.

Naturally, sway is in order for those who know the difference between high-fashion flips and low-fashion flops.

Although tongue-in-cheekiness applies to some of Key West’s records, some people are dead serious about the world championships they pursue in power boat races offshore the island each November, or the Grand Slam record catches of permit, tarpon and bonefish made in these waters; or the amount of sales in restaurants and bars along Duval Street, where arguably, more beer is consumed in a two-mile stretch than in any other two miles on the planet.

Travel to Die For

The side-glances are frequent and blatant; the eye contact prolonged. Shortly, he and his two sidekicks accept the unspoken invitation and meander to our side of the ferryboat...if you can call it that: a 20-by 40-foot wooden raft that hauls six cars via a stretched steel cable across a no-name creek flowing into the Gulf of Campeche is hardly a modern miracle of transportation, let alone a seaworthy vessel.

This remote part of the Yucatan peninsula between Merida and Campeche has already delivered an ample range of surprises. Uxmal, a Mayan temple hidden in the dense jungle is more sensual than any Caribbean nudie beach. All-you-can-drink, all-night discos in Cancun are wickedly physical. The half dozen or so “ferryboats” connecting the two-lane blacktop road that stretches 100+miles along this rural coast tweak an anything’s-possible attitude. And the broad-faced Mexican swaggering my way holds all the promise of temptation and thrill rolled neatly into one big, blond package.

My two amigas and I have been touring Mexico for 10 weeks in Libby’s VW convertible, and thus far, the quick shifts from pine-covered, arid mountains to sweltering palm-lined beaches peak our senses as surely as the local gentlemen have gone out of their ways to show us a grand time. Eduardo leans on the frayed rope railing and points to dolphin offshore. Says he’s a fisherman, has a five-boat shrimp fleet in some nearby village.

“Would you care to join me for coconut milk when the ferry docks?” he asks in fluent English.

A quick huddle with the girls, and “Yes, that sounds good,” I reply.

Sunglasses on, hair flying in the wind, we’d follow Eduardo and his buddies anywhere. Their valentine-red pickup truck turns left into the jungle here, right onto a gravel road there. We pass through luscious banana groves, up hills, down orchid-laced ravines and around massive banyans strung with Spanish moss.

“Are you keeping track?” Libby asks nonchalantly. I am, after all, the navigator riding shotgun: “Yes, and no I don’t know where we are. According to this map we’re going in circles. None of these dirt roads are on it and I haven’t seen anything that remotely resembles a coconut milk stand.”

As grim reality settles in, I shriek to nobody in particular, “What the hell are we doing here?”

We three glance nervously about the thick, treetop canopy and almost ram the back of the blood-red truck breaking to a stop in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere. Out pop Eduardo’s pals with machetes in hand, and our terrified eyes collectively scream: “This is the place; this is where we’re gonna’ die.”

Libby already has the VW turned around when Eduardo opens my door. From her position in the back seat, Adriana grabs at my sweat soaked shirt, but in a single swoop I’m lifted out of the topless Bug into Eduardo’s arms.

Libby screeches to a dirt-raising, rock-spewing halt: Real friends do not leave girlfriends stranded in the jungle.

“I own this island; this is my banana plantation,” he whispers smoothly and slowly into my ear as his arm sweeps my whole body in a semi-circle that lets me focus on two men shinnying up a tree.

“My men are climbing that tree to cut down coconuts for us.” And then Eduardo throws in the punch line: “Have you anything alcoholic in the car?”

“Oh sure,” I sputter weakly. “Wild Turkey or Absolut?”

With the precision of surgeons, these guys whack off the tops of six coconuts. Three strokes each and natural milk cups are readied for Vodka cocktails.

“Limes by any chance?” Libby wonders out loud. Better yet, Eduardo’s machete-swinging compadres serve up lemons, the only ones we’ve come across in all of Mexico.

And of course, this was just the beginning: Libby and I were invited to Eduardo’s village to partake of the already-in-progress weekend fiesta honoring the patron saint of fishing. Shrimpboat captains were partying-up for the opening season. Then Eduardo offered Adriana the services of his private airplane and pilot--she wanted to get on to Mexico City to keep her date with a man she met last week in Cancun.

Such fantastic events, and much, much more highlighted my South of the Border summer in 1976, when the United States was atwitter with its Bicentennial Celebration on a tourist-packed East Coast just a tad farther up the North American continent.

Back then, I was insatiably curious and hopelessly smitten with the heady stuff of adventure and romance and fantasy inherent in travel. Still am, in fact, these days I rarely bypass impromptu cocktail parties in the jungle. Join me in the Amazon, in Africa, in Australia and all over the world for Travel Libido, my new blog. Photos are coming shortly.

Brand New Blog

This is my brand new blog; just working on the design and details. Follow me from Key West, Florida to other exotic locations around the world. Look forward to hearing from you.