Four D’Amicos, six Learys, one house on the water in Marathon, and a week of salt, sun, and questionable sunburn management.
Base camp was a waterfront house in Marathon: pool, dock, and enough bedrooms that nobody had to sleep on the couch. Mostly.
Jupiter to Marathon, one very long bridge at a time, with the mandatory milkshake stop at Robert Is Here in Homestead before the 18-Mile Stretch. Grocery run, unpack, first sunset from the dock.
Sombrero Beach morning, then the famous Turtle Hospital tour while the afternoon storm did its thing.
The Keys' postcard park had other plans. Sargassum seaweed was piled high on every beach, so the cookout never happened and the park earned its new family name. We came, we saw, we held our noses.
Eight to noon on one of the best reefs in the Keys, all ten of us in the water. The glassy-morning theory did not survive contact with the actual ocean, but we snorkeled it anyway. Then everyone scrubbed off the salt for family pictures at 7, and golden hour delivered.
Hemingway's six-toed cats, the lighthouse climb for the brave, butterflies for the smart (it's air-conditioned), a beach at Fort Zach, Cuban food, key lime pie on a stick, and the sunset circus at Mallory Square.
Sparky's Landing: wood-fired pizza, water views, and hometown heroes Abstract Radio playing into the night. We were the table of ten under the tiki lights.
One more day of pool, dock, and island time with the whole crew, and one last Marathon sunset before the goodbyes.
Checkout and hugs, then the four D'Amicos headed up to Key Largo for a 1:00 snorkel over the Pennekamp reefs (the boat left straight from our hotel's marina, planning doesn't get smarter than that) and a bayfront night at the Reefhouse.
A lazy resort morning on the water, then up the highway to Miami for the Phils and the Marlins. Home to Jupiter by midnight, sandy and satisfied.
A protected spur-and-groove reef with 150+ species of fish, seen through decidedly un-glassy water. All ten of us went in anyway.
Some 60 cats β many with the famous six toes β with full run of a literary landmark. The real owners of Key West.
Marathon's own β twin brothers raised a few mile markers from our rental, playing rock & funk under the tiki lights.
The Keys' postcard park, buried under a summer's worth of sargassum. The cookout never happened, but the nickname is forever.
One more reef in America's first undersea park, and the snorkel boat left from the marina at our own hotel.
The road trip finale. Four of us, one ballpark, and the drive home to Jupiter after the last out.
Nothing on the shelf yet β the camera rolls are still full.