Islands In The Stream

Vacationers and vagabonds have long flocked to the Florida Keys in search of an escape from the cares of mainland life. Now the future of these islands may depend upon letting go of that castaway mindset—and confronting the influence of the outside world. On a road trip down the archipelago, CHARLES GRAEBER observes the fragile beauty of life in paradise.

-  Charles Graeber

If you’ve made the trip, you know the moment I’m talking about. Around 24 kilometres south of Miami, there’s a point when the highways unspool and the horizon opens. You’re driving up and over palmetto scrub, then estuary, then swamp. Then the land drops away and suddenly, you’re flying. On one side is the sunrise Atlantic; on the other it’s the Gulf of Mexico, the sunset sea. In between lie the Florida Keys, a constellation of fragile, sugar-sand isles dissolving into the impossibly blue currents of the 24th parallel. This is the moment when most visitors—myself among them—like to hoot and holler and wave their arms out the sunroof.

Highway 1 connects some of the larger clumps of coral into a 265-kilometre road trip, but each of the 1,700-odd dots of sand is an island to itself, both timeless and transient. Every so often a storm blows through and changes the map; sometimes the water that birthed these islets claims them back. This is shifting, almost casual geography, and it sets the tone for travellers. Like tropical islands everywhere, the Florida Keys seduce the visitor with the promise of a blank slate. The moment you cross the causeway, there’s no doubt that you’ve left the rest of America behind.

My girlfriend, Gabrielle, and I have taken several trips to the Keys, enjoying vacations high and low. We’ve slept in national parks and 1950s motels, quaint B&Bs and posh private resorts. The price tags varied but the sunsets were universally spectacular. It’s hard to go wrong. Low-pressure fun is the secret to any Keys trip, but ample time and a good budget don’t hurt, either.