Free Matecumbe by James A. Michener

water but chose instead to settle on a remote sliver of land, far into the distance, that looked to be but a tiny toy in God’s gigantic hot tub.
    Joe, too, seemed awestruck.
    “I love to stop here and gaze at the water,” he confided, with one foot propped on a bulkhead. “I can do it for hours on end. If I ever need a little time by myself to think and to clear my mind, I seek out an ocean, and I just stare.”
    “I guess I get the same kind of a high you’re describing when I look into my fireplace on cold and windy winter evenings,” Melissa observed, “or when I travel to the New Jersey shore and sit on one of those boardwalk benches, watching the whitecaps crashing onto the beach.”
    “Fire and water are powerful symbols.”
    “You’re right, Joe. Maybe that’s why I always come away with a silent confidence, as if I’ve just completed some sort of prayerful penance.”
    Hand-in-hand now, they walked back up the sandy incline and kissed, ever so briefly, before continuing their southwestward journey.

    Melissa’s first impression of Key West was that it was a cross between Bourbon Street in New Orleans and Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.
    Key West’s steamy weather, the narrow streets, and the mix of black and white bodies in various stages of undress—bikinis, Bermuda shorts, and tee shirts galore—put it on a definite par with New Orleans’ French Quarter.
    A preponderance of sidewalk restaurants, large yachts berthed just off the main street, and oddly costumed street people were reminiscent of San Francisco’s waterfront.
    Joe told her that the best sightseeing plan would be to drive through the most interesting parts of town prior to any walking they might do later. And while they were cruising in the car, Melissa noticed just as many bicycles and mopeds vying for roadway space as there were automobiles.
    “Ernest Hemingway lived right over there,” Joe pointed, “in that big house behind the red brick fence. He was a cat fancier, just like you. We can take a tour through the house during our stay, if you like. There are still about fifty cats that roam the grounds. Legend has it they’re all descendants of the pets that Ernest once owned.”
    Farther on, in Mallory Square, at the center of the tourist area, Joe drove by the Key West Aquarium, where the featured attraction was a large, open swimming pool for sharks.
    Close by the aquarium was the John James Audubon building, which contained an exhibit of colorful and finely detailed bird paintings—all done by America’s foremost ornithologist. Melissa could tell at a glance, from the realism of the feathers, beaks, and eyes, that Audubon had dedicated thousands of hours to bird watching. She also knew that he painted from the carcasses of the birds he had killed.
    The easy and informative way that Joe described the importance of the local sites was impressive to Melissa. The more he talked, the more intelligent he seemed. And although the true essence of Key West may be more honky-tonk than haute couture, Joe’s descriptive commentaries—on the early Key West pirates, their jewelry, and their galleons— infused an aura of anecdotal history that rivaled the tales associated with Russia’s Winter Palace, with England’s Tower of London, or with Greece’s Parthenon.
    Likewise, his knowledgeable dissertation on Key West’s homesteaders made him appear kin to dozens of scholarly Sunday afternoon lecturers that Melissa had chanced hearing on her casual visits to renowned museums in New York and Philadelphia.
    Jutting out from the southernmost tip of the island was a long fishing pier, about five times the size of the Seascaper’s. After Joe stopped the car at the entrance to the pier, he and Melissa began walking toward the far end, arm-in-arm—as if sheltering each other from the increasing strength of the wind. They were treading noisily over the wooden planks when he asked her if she were nervous.
    “Not as long as you’re