DRUG OF CHOICE
We roll out of the campground toward Long Key with the windows open. Bleached shells and limestone gravel crunch under the Westfalia’s tires. Birds make their vibrant predawn racket, a symphony in stark contrast to my brain’s lethargy, stymied as it is from last night’s festivities. At least I remembered to set an alarm clock.
My good friend Toby interrupted his slumber, too, and left the rest of our spring-breaking comrades to their own convolutions so he could chauffer me up the Florida Keys to meet a flats guide. In the pocket of my khaki shorts, I clutch payment for the charter, a post-deposit $250 that I hid, lest it end up in the rum fund, but other than that I’m ill-prepared. I’ve caught a few trout on streamers in northern Michigan, but I’ve yet to cast a fly, let alone an 8-weight, in salt water.
Like a narcotic, a salt breeze washes over the cab as we swing onto the highway. The
