Eric returned from morning pickleball with the boys. He dumped three sweat soaked T-shirts in the washer as he limped in through the garage. Three shirts was a sure sign that the heat and humidity had returned. His heartbeat was ragged as he chugged a pitcher of electrolyte laced limeade then flopped into the pool in his briefs in an effort to lower his core temperature. A switch had flipped and the Florida summer rolled in without any pomp and circumstances or afternoon monsoons to announce its arrival. The rain would come two weeks later (yesterday) in a deluge that triggered a state emergency. But he would only hear about that on the national news and wonder if the flood waters reached his front door. For now, floating on his back in the 85 degree pool water, he thought, time to drift north..
Florida has two seasons, picture perfect and hot as hell. A true Floridian claims the heat as a badge of honor. They thrive in the swelter, and relish the traffic thinning from the departure of the snow birds. Tee times are cheap and plentiful. Restaurant reservations are not required. In the afternoon, the skies open and dump buckets of water like an Amazon rain forest. A true Floridian drives shirtless with their car windows down embracing the hot sticky air. Air conditioning is for Yankees. We live next door to some native Floridians, but having endured a June and July the year prior, we know we couldn’t hang with the big, hot dogs this summer.
The neighborhood is adjacent to a construction project of unparalleled retail convenience and resort living, or so say the brochures. Eric popped the drone up over the future location of 74 villas and a hotel wondering what the landscape might look like upon return. Construction zones may present as chaos but the cleared land and giant equipment hid a detailed plan for retail development at Heritage Harbour Marketplace. Eric contrasted his neat and tidy pack-job of Boss, which gave the impression of planning and organization, when in reality only the briefest outline of a plan existed in his head. We have never left with so little in the way of reservations. Is it misplaced bravado or just laziness we wondered even as we did nothing about it. Time will tell.
Roxie the fifth wheel is long gone, pawned off on an RV dealer back when the RV lots were not packed with inventory like they are now. Boss’s bed and backseat would have to hold the essentials and curated comforts needed to live for a month or more off-grid. Just transfer the gear from garage to the bed and haul the bin of unused hats and coats from the spare bedroom closet to the backseat. Under the intense south Florida sun, Sheri put away the swimsuits and sundresses and pulled out the Hi Line hats and hoodies for a summer on an island rock, 2800 miles north and jutting out into where the North Atlantic Ocean meets the Labrador Sea. Hopefully the solar panels will work that far north and soak up some sun to keep the Dometic fridge cold.
There are 2800 miles and 100 million people between sunny south Florida and the Island of Newfoundland. Crossing the George Washington Memorial Bridge outside the Big Apple, Sheri thought most of those 100 million people were probably surrounding her in cars right now. First Baltimore, then Philadelphia, next New York and then Boston, the major metropolitan cities fell by the wayside, each with its own closures, accidents and infrastructure improvements as Boss rolled north. Like migrating Canadian geese, we have no plans beyond a desire to find cool. Hopefully not too cool. Or too wet. Or too windy. Beyond reading the WIKI on Newfoundland and watching a YouTube video of a dude and his dog taking the ferry to the Rock, we have no plans, no reservations, no destination. It is a super uncomfortable feeling, probably a terrible idea. We are doing it anyway.
