About turn.
We pulled out of Key West after three sun-soaked, car-less, carefree days, and all too content. Easy to stay longer. Too easy. But the road was calling, and stories were still waiting up north.
So we fuelled up and pointed the car back at US1.
Through the Keys again, mile by mile. The only way back is the way you came. What we missed on the way down, we'd catch on the way back. The road gives you a second chance.
In Islamorada, we pulled into Robbie's — a ramshackle slice of old-school Keys charm. Tourists queue up to feed tarpon the size of toddlers. You buy a bucket of baitfish and lean out over the wooden pier while dark shapes swirl below. Then — flash, splash — a silver giant launches from the water and vanishes as fast. It's half spectacle, half dare.
They say tarpon don't bite. Maybe not. But we saw a couple walk off with bloody fingers, grinning like they'd survived something.
All the while, pelicans loiter like pickpockets, eyeballing every fish you don't drop fast enough.
Tri and I dared each other to try. Neither of us passed the bravery test.
We checked into a hotel at Key Largo. We'd not eaten much all day, so we decided to go for an early dinner. It was still hot, but we knew of a place that didn't have walls and served legendary conch fritters.
You don't stumble on Alabama Jack's. It's off the grid, past the mangroves, where the bridges feel forgotten and the air goes still. The place leans like it might fall, held up by plywood, rust, and stubbornness.
Inside? No frills. Car licence plates and dollar bills are the decor.
Creaky boards. Plastic chairs.
Saw it on Bloodline. Danny at the bar — dead eyes, beer in hand. Gotta go there.
We pulled in — gravel crunch, no cars, air thick as soup.
Place looked closed.
Big guy steps out. Backwards baseball cap, sun-faded tee, arms like dock pilings. Meets us in the lot with a look that says Don't get your hopes up.
"Kitchen's closed," he says. “We're shutting down."
What? It's only four-thirty?
He shrugs. "Mosquitoes.”
"Been killing business," he adds. "Too much rain. Folks ain't hangin’ around. Hope you got spray."
We told him our story while swatting anything that came near. Over from the UK. Saw the place on Netflix. Heard about the conch fritters.
He nodded, made a good job of pretending to care. Probably gets these stories a dozen times a day.
Still, he offered us a drink. And that's more than most would. "Beer's on me." And he meant it.
Then: "Look, if you guys are around tomorrow, come back at lunch. You won't be disappointed."
We did and we weren't.
