Bahia Honda. Middle of the Keys, middle of the day. 91ºF.
Already, my t-shirt looks like I've been jogging all morning.
We're at the remains of the old Overseas Railroad — Henry Flagler's dream. Built on money, ambition, and stubbornness. Steel and concrete marching across open water. Finished in 1912. Hurricane took it out in '35.
What's left is history, rusted ribs stretching toward nothing. Cut off. Dead end. Still standing. The kind of thing you don't just drive past. You stop. You shoot. No golden hour. No soft shadows. Just hard light and relentless heat.
I frame the shot, and the screen goes dark. Not glare-dark. Not, I-can't-see-because-the-sun’s-reflected, dark. No, this is like someone hit a dimmer switch and forgot to stop.
The phone's cooking — I know how it feels. It's doing what it does when it hits the wall: shuts itself down without shutting off. Quiet throttling. Exposure tanks for no reason. Shadows block up like wet cement.
Usually, I'd wait. Golden hour, soft light, long shadows. But we're on a road trip. I'll be out of Bahia Honda inside an hour. So I shoot anyway. Each shot an almost blind gamble.
Between frames, I press the phone against a cold bottle of water wrapped in a cloth so I don't fry the internals or soak the ports. I keep it out of the sun when I can, try to let it breathe. Airplane Mode helps too — less background chatter, less heat. No shooting while charging — that's just asking for a meltdown. No case, either. Hoping I don't lose my grip in sweaty palms. Let that titanium skin breathe like the rest of us are trying to.
Back in the car, AC blowing, phone finally cool enough to use. I check the roll. Some are trash. A couple might work. But I got the bridge — what's left of it. Twisted, rust-bitten, still reaching. The kind of thing Florida doesn't build anymore. The kind of thing that doesn't wait for you to have the right gear or the perfect light.
Out here, the light doesn't care if your phone's ready — it just shows up, burns through, and moves on.
