Sugarloaf Key, Florida: Keeping Good Company
Observing ibises and kayaking among sharks, author Barbara Ehrenreich savors life "up the Keys"
- By Barbara Ehrenreich
- Photographs by Robert Wallis
- Smithsonian magazine, July 2009, Subscribe
In my case, anyway, geography is hard to disentangle from biography. For almost 20 years I endured the aesthetic deprivations of a lower-middle-class suburb so that my children could go to the town's first-rate public schools. Then the kids grew up and moved out and, independently of that, my marriage crumbled. I made a mad midlife dash to Key West, where I had a few friends and soon took up with a good-looking, outdoorsy local. We liked our Old Town condo well enough, but eventually, worn down by the all-night pool parties in the guesthouses next door, decided to look for a place of our own "up the Keys," where the property was cheaper and the nights still as death.
The second, and last, place we looked at was on Sugarloaf Key, a patch of land jutting out into the Gulf of Mexico from the lone highway connecting the necklace of islands that make up Florida's Keys. We drove to the end of the paved road, then onto a dirt road cutting through a low jungle of indigenous buttonwoods, poisonwoods, sea grapes and thatch palms. At the end of that was a pleasant gray house linked to the water by a boardwalk and dock, and at the end of the dock was a revelation: more than 180 degrees of turquoise water dotted with a series of tiny emerald mangrove islands. Live here, said a voice from the blue-green vastness—whatever it takes.
It took far less than it might have because the former owner had the interior decorating tastes of a serial killer. All floor space was occupied by mounds of old newspapers, receipts, porn magazines and crusty Styrofoam containers. We had the place cleaned out and painted, hauled up some used furniture from a store in Key West, and settled back to savor the gaudy sunsets and try to figure out what kind of a wild place we were settling.
Down in Key West, you can imagine you are in a patch of urban civilization, slightly shiftless and louche, but well-stocked with restaurants, supermarkets, gossip and dense human drama. In fact you could live your whole life on Key West, if you chose, without bothering to notice that you were on an island suspended more than 100 miles below the Florida peninsula in the middle of the Caribbean. But on Sugarloaf there was no evading the fragility of our existence. Under us, a thin uprising of fossilized coral; to the south, the Atlantic; to the north, the Gulf. Here, you don't think of global warming as an "issue," but as the vivid, if remote, possibility of being eaten in bed by sharks.
The very idea of an Atlantic and Gulf side is a conceit more appropriate to continent-dwellers, because there is, of course, just one all-surrounding sea. But our side, the Gulf side, a.k.a. the "backcountry," is different in ways that can make townsfolk a little uneasy. Before moving up there, I remember talking to a sponger—that is, a man who fished for sponges in the shallow transparent waters of the backcountry—and he spoke about the velvet silence of the tropical nights, the smooth undulating traffic of stingrays and sharks. But then he faltered as if there were something he couldn't figure out how to say or even whether to say it.
I wouldn't be overwhelmed, I thought, because I am a scientist or at least a scientist manquée. I could make observations—of the birds, for example. Portions of Sugarloaf are included in the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge, but it's the ibises that fascinate me. They tend to move in groups of 6 to 30, suggesting some rudiments of social organization. As the sun sets, they flock to a nearby mangrove island to roost for the night; at sunrise or thereabouts, they take off again for their feeding grounds. I would kayak out to watch both events. The morning liftoff can occur before or at sunrise, and it can be either messy and anarchic or a single, coordinated action involving up to 100 birds at a time. What, I wanted to know, determined the timing and nature of the liftoff? A couple of years later, when I put this question to an old friend and animal behaviorist, Jack Bradbury, a professor emeritus at Cornell University, he told me, essentially, that there were probably some leaders and trendsetters among the ibises, but there was also simply safety in traveling in numbers. In other words, within certain parameters like hunger and the need to stick together, they do pretty much what they damn well please.
The dolphins, though, became the freewill stars of my new cosmos. I'd never know when or where I'd run into them, in what season or depth of water, and whether it would be a single one or a pod. I was out on my kayak one day when I noticed some furious splashing off to the north. Paddling to the action as fast I could, I saw two dolphins playing some rough, elegant game involving alternating leaps out of the water, and when they saw me, they decided to include me in it. They'd swim alongside the kayak, then vanish under it and pop up dramatically on opposite sides with those wide dolphin grins on their faces. This went on for about a half-hour, until they zipped off to find a better player.
Meanwhile things were not going well with the one human in my daily life. It turned out he acutely missed Key West, where his afternoon round of errands on bike could easily involve a half-dozen conversations. On Sugarloaf, our nearest errand destination was Jen's grocery store, three miles away, where we got our newspapers, mail and a little chatter about, say, a crocodile sighting or the possibility of a front coming through. ("Weather" is too static a word for what we have in the Keys; instead we have "fronts.") My companion wanted to spend more long, boozy evenings in Key West with friends. I didn't want to miss a sunset, a moonrise or whatever other show might be playing.
And there was so much going on, especially in spring and summer when the water cycle goes into overdrive. All day the sky sucks steam from the warm seas, dumping it back in the psychotic violence of a late afternoon squall, then finishing up with a sweet consoling rainbow. You might get waterspouts skidding across the Gulf in late summer, miniature tornadoes that mainly bother the birds but can take off a roof. One July night, we stepped outside to find the horizon ringed with at least six discrete lightning storms, each in its own separate sphere of pyrotechnics, leading my friend—a man not known for metaphysical pronouncements—to mutter, "There is a God."
Was it a god? I am not a religious person, but I began to understand that I was being drawn into something, maybe into that very thing that the sponger had hesitated to describe. I came to think of it as the Presence, what scientists might call an "emergent quality," something greater than the sum of all its parts—the birds and cloudscapes and glittering Milky Way—that begins to feel like a single living, breathing Other.
It is not always benevolent, this Presence. Oh, it can be as seductive as the scent of joewood flowers riding on a warm November breeze, as uplifting as the towering pink, self-important, Maxfield Parrish-type cumulus clouds that line up to worship the rising sun. But then, just like that, it can turn on you. I've gone out on the water on a perfectly inviting day only to find myself fighting for my life against a sudden wind and seas that had turned into foam. I learned to take kayaking more seriously—never going out without a water bottle, some trail mix and a plastic container for bailing. I learned to keep going when survival was not guaranteed, did not even seem likely, by uttering a loud, guttural "unhh!" with each stroke of the paddle—who was there to hear?—as a way of transcending exhaustion and fear.
When my companion and I separated, I held on to Sugarloaf and still go there when I can afford to and don't have a tenant. I get up at sunrise and go down to the dock to check out the fauna—the parrotfish, the snappers, maybe a barracuda or, most recently, a fair-sized octopus. At high tide, and if the wind permits, I kayak out to the still, sheltered spots in the mangrove islands where I know I can find little sharks, two to three feet long, to keep me company. In the evening, after watching the sun set, I have my white wine and grill some local grouper or mahi-mahi. All this may sound unenviably solitary, but do not imagine that I am alone.
Barbara Ehrenreich's most recent book is This Land Is Their Land: Reports From a Divided Nation.
Subscribe now for more of Smithsonian's coverage on history, science and nature.
Comments (21)
Barbara,
Any thought to you renting out your place to a fellow writer who desperatively needs to get away to do some soul searching and express her self on paper. Really need to get some of my thought out on paper. Any suggeations are greatly appreciated
Best Regards,
Kathy B
Posted by Kathy Bautista on March 17,2011 | 11:30 PM
I read your article when I got the issue and was all excited because I used to live there. I remembered all of the little places you mentioned. Sugarloaf and the others near it like Cudjoe and Summerland are some of the best of the quiet places in the Keys!
Posted by Shannon Hudnell on December 3,2009 | 03:54 PM
Just want to say thank you to Barbara for a wonderful read. I have kept the magazine open to her story and next to my bed for a month now so that when I do my own writing, and can use her as inspiration! Thanks!
Posted by Mary on September 17,2009 | 01:44 PM
Barbara and Bonnie how could we forget to mention what I believe to be one the finest pieces of architecture anywhere. The Bat Tower............nuff said.
Posted by Joan Diteman on July 18,2009 | 11:47 AM
my wife and I worked for about a year at an experimental radar site on the atlantic side of lower sugarloaf. My wife being a New Englander had a hard time adjusting at first, but did so quckly. Me being from So Cal fell in love right away. My observation was it took about two weeks for the most uptight mainlander to be absorbed by the Keys. We lived a couple of keys up on Summerland. After work we would have Daiquiris with the dolphins at the Restaurant. We would have hamburgers at the all pine lounge on Big Pine. Our site was the competitor for Fat Albert which was on Cudjoe, I think. We would jeer as they reeled it out and in. After a while no one cared - just do the work well, and then live. It was a great place, and we fell in love with the place. Each key has it's own personality. And that extends to the the flora and fauna too, which is so different from the mainland. So whatever your mood at a particular time you drifted to that place for a while. I just floated in an old dingy and watched the sun come up and then later watched the sun go down. Someday we will go back.
Posted by Bill Mosier on July 15,2009 | 05:53 PM
Dear Editor: Many, many thanks to you & to Barbara Ehrenreich for sharing with readers her idyll on Sugarloaf Key -- sure wish I had an ibis in MY backyard! All the best, Joan W. Drake
Posted by Joan W. Drake on July 15,2009 | 08:15 AM
hello,
My name is Brian. I recently moved down to marathon key right off of the vaca cut. I currently work down here and made the ultimate trip to finish up college at the local community college. I made my journey from Detroit, Michigan and am now 22. Getting down here was an adventure itself. Recently as a local you might of hear of the whale shark through the cut and things of that. That is my window watching i get to look at every morning, and my cheers go to the sunset in the evenings. Recently my grandmother mailed me your article in the mail and i finally felt at home, I was struggling from a hangover from a night in key west when i read this, and helped me realize what i really love to do which is relax by ones self or with a trusty companion watch the sunset and soak it all in. So hopefully the author is seeing this because i wanted to thank her for all she wrote about. and to the others who read it and wish they could do it. I got here by doing not wishing. Common down even if you sleep in a tent for two nights you will look at the water sun then stars and be as lucky as us down here. Thanks again Barbara. Feel free to email when a front comes through.
Posted by Brian Pilarski on July 14,2009 | 01:20 PM
My sister lives off Mile Marker 17 (Lower Sugarloaf) and Barbara captured the venue just perfectly. Aside from the skeeters and potential for an occasional scorpion - it is a paradise. If you ever travel to the Keys and like to camp - you must check out the Dry Tortugas National Park (space is very limited and you take the catamaran out of KW. Reservations can be made with the catamaran company). The Milky Way is phenomenal and the isolation of being 70 west of KW on a 1/4 mile speck of land is unforgettable.
Posted by James E. on July 9,2009 | 10:56 PM
I too have long coveted a life in the Keys; not the party-life in Key West but the serene life of Big Pine Key, Islamorada, or even Marathon. There is beauty abound there and the scene in, on, and under the water is ever-changing.
Thanks to all for sharing. I will be back in the keys in two weeks and will remember what I read here today.
James
Posted by James on July 3,2009 | 08:29 PM
The Tree of Life, namely the United States of America, has grown sooo tall and the enriching, enchanting Spirit of which Ms. Ehrenreich speaks, is being lost. No longer is Nature engrained within our souls, many never see the sunrise or sunset and shy away from the rain only to miss the double rainbow. As we neglect our roots, the great tree seems to become less sturdy, may it never fall.
Walk through the woods with the Solstice moon until as it sets, the sun rises. Stand upon a peak, having expended the energy to summit, and listen to the still small voice within the wind, look at the intricate windblown ice formations as they melt to provide moisture to the emerging spring. Read, "My Side of the Mountain".
Thank you, Ms. Ehrenreich, for returning each of us to the Keys and to the many wonderful ocean ventures of our lives. God Bless my Friend, and God Bless America, Randall
Posted by Randall on July 3,2009 | 01:39 PM
Sugarloaf Key is one of the most fabulous places I have ever lived. From the sound of this article, I am guessing that Barbara also lives on Upper Sugarloaf, the older part of Sugarloaf Key, where some homes (including mine) date back to the 1930's, and there is a large nature preserve where the tiny indigenous Key deer roam, as well as other endangered species, like the white-crowned pigeon, a rather large black pigeon with a white lozenge-shaped mark on its forehead, and a taste for the berries that grow on the dreaded (by humans) Poisonwood Tree.
Joan Diteman's post commenting on this article brought a smile to my lips. You might enjoy knowing that the Goods are still operating Sugarloaf Lodge and Restaurant, Fat Albert still graces the sky. one can still buy tie dye shirts at the Big Pine Flea Market, and, yes, I remember Sugar the dolphin. I once tossed a dime into the lagoon where Sugar lived, and (with only one eye) she found it and brought it to the surface on her beak! The waters are still constantly changing, and, at this time of year, we are seeing land crabs and turtles crossing the roads, returning (I assume) to some place they make an annual pilgrimage to.
Posted by Bonnie Netherton on July 2,2009 | 07:30 PM
For those of us fortunate enough to live on Sugarloaf Key (or anywhere comparable in the Keys), neighbor Barbara has written beautifully for us all. Thanks, and come home more often.
Posted by Susanne Woods on June 29,2009 | 09:16 AM
Wonderful read. It makes me want to go there. Maybe I will. After all, it's only a 3 mile bike ride from where I live.
Posted by Louise Wood on June 28,2009 | 03:56 PM
Does anyone still remember Sugar the one eyed dolphin, or Pam the all knowing and remembering waitress from Sugarloaf Restaurant? Or the 200 pounds of turkey dressing made for Thanksgiving dinner and stolen by another restaurant because it was the best and they hadn't made any? Or Mr. and Mrs. Good, first class people operating in a world of military retires, fishermen, barefoot hippies with babies on their hips selling tie dye shirts at the Big Pine flea market. Or the small planes forced down on Sugarloaf Roads suspected of trafficing in drugs, or the marine patrol screaming up along a fishing boat in a Scarab confiscated from the drug dealers and being able to finally outrun them. Or last Fat Alpert getting away from it's teather and floating out to sea where it was eventually shot down by the fighter planes of Stock Island and its surveliance contents recovered by the Navy. I remember mostly driving the same stretch of road and never seeing the water the same ever. The times, tides, wind, clouds, and probably God made sure it was new and different to those who passed that way more than once.
Posted by Joan Diteman on June 28,2009 | 10:57 AM
Loved this great writing and perspective....
Posted by Sheila on June 27,2009 | 05:15 PM
Hello Barbara,
Loved your piece of "poetry" of the pull of the Keys---yes, their is a God---for in the Keys you see his/her mysteries at work. Thanks for bringing back memories of a wonderful time in my life. Best wishes to you in your writing career and to having a few moments of respite on Sugarloaf Key.
Warm regards,
Sandra Stevens-Miller
Posted by sandra stevens-miller on June 27,2009 | 01:51 PM
I've never been to the Keys. But maybe I have felt that "other-ness" described in your fine story. It is like an early morning on the Wacissa River, when an alligator turtle swam in concert beneath my kayak in the crystal clear waters. It is like the little blue heron that stood and posed for pictures on the Wekiva River, cool air still settled across the water and the transparent waving grasses beneath the waters beckoning.
Flip flops on the dock, for the splinters are hidden in the weathered boards. The sweet smell of salt and sea. I could go on, but mine are moments, yours are a lifetime.
Thanks for reminding me I need to return to the water.
Posted by Mike on June 26,2009 | 12:56 PM
Hi, Barbara
I hope this is going to the author of the article above. I have enjoyed reading it so much I have decided to add some of my thoughts. I have a son who lives in Key West and had visited him there numerous times, either by road or by little plane, either passing through the Sugarloaf Key, or flying over it. I often wondered what it is like to live in one of those keys. Now I know exactly what it would be like. I now live deep in Catskill Mountains in upstate New York, the polar opposite of land/sea dichotomy. But the presence of THAT, the OTHER, the mystical life that sustains us all, the universe, is felt here as well, especially when there are thunderstorms in the summer.
If I ever experience the freedom of the kind you have experienced in the past, I would definitely consider living alone in one of the keys. Thank you for your wonderful story.
Akira
Posted by Akira Odani on June 26,2009 | 10:59 AM
Sounds great to me. Enjoyed the read.
Would like to visit sometime - only problem being I am now working in Baku, Azerbaijan.
Posted by Derek Boulter on June 25,2009 | 01:50 AM
Hi there, your story intrigued me and also made me homesick for Key West. Until 3 years ago, I lived there for 7 months of the year and the remaining time in Rhode Island. I definetly had the "best of both worlds" believe me, I know it. Family matters, and health reasons put an end to living in "paradise". My good friend and former roommate still lives there, but not for long. The failing economy and skyhigh prices are forcing him to leave and move back to RI (where we both are from originally). He has lived in Key West for nearly 20 years and has endured many tough financial peiods, but not to this degree. Without a job and unable to pay the rent he might lose his condo. It's a sad situation, but one felt throughout this country.
After reading the article I longed for my previous life, and the wonderful expereinces I will never forget. Thanks for the memories!
Posted by Diane Rainone on June 25,2009 | 12:33 AM
Wow! I now understand the lure of the keys! Truly sounds like paradise! Ms.Ehrenreich's vision placed me smack in the middle of it all. Thank you!
Posted by Sasha on June 25,2009 | 05:55 PM