Anyhow, we disembarked the Washington plane at a couple minutes before the scheduled Palm Beach departure, and in spite of assurances that the next flight was being held for us, the three of us (our rowmate, coincidentally, was also connecting to West Palm) rushed across Hartsfield Airport. We made it to the plane and, as we were amazed to discover an hour and a half later after landing on schedule, so had our luggage. All's well that ends well.
Not being very familiar with Miami, and only having been to the Memorial once, I asked my father for directions. He mentioned the MacArthur Causeway, which rang a bell, but then sent my head spinning with mention of a right on Alton and a turn on Lincoln ... I asked if he had a map available. No such luck, but just follow the signs to the Convention Center.
I later mentioned to my father that I'd consulted a map and wouldn't have any problem getting to the memorial. He was still convinced it was a right on Alton. I told him that from the looks of the map, turning right there would drop us into whatever strait that is at the bottom of Miami Beach.
Two more items of interest: My dad gave us his cellular phone for the trip, and the Boca trip had left JJ's feet wet from the air conditioner. Don't worry -- all these subplots will somehow tie together!
For those of you who have never traveled to the Keys, let me describe the ride down from Miami. Just a few miles south of the MacArthur Causway junction in the downtown area, Interstate 95 comes to a sudden end, dropping you onto US 1. The next 27 miles go through rather unattractive portions of South Miami and the south suburbs, culminating in Homestead; you're basically plowing through Hurricane Andrew's albeit rebuilt ground zero. Like much of US 1 in South Florida, it does not pass through the best of neighborhoods.
Around Homestead, Florida's Turnpike comes to an end, like 95, dumping its southbounders onto Route 1. Then, within a few hundred yards, like magic, the strip malls, fast food and pawn shops come to a sudden end, and drivers are thrown into the Southeastern Everglades. Twenty miles of mostly two-lane road, with hardly a turnoff, until the road crosses a small drawbridge, and without fanfare, you're in the Keys. Soon you see a semblance of civilization, the town of Key Largo.
Key Largo's probably the biggest thing until you get out to Key West, which isn't saying a whole lot. To a driver traversing the Keys on US 1, the only visible industries are fishing and tourism. Quite a lot of the latter, with restaurants, lodging and activity sites in ample quantity. The houses are mostly modest, pleasant, and often with appropriately decorative mailboxes.
Between the towns are empty, vegetated areas, sandy soil, parkland, and occasional turn-offs for fishing and/or swimming. That's basically it. After about 100 miles of that, you get to Key West. And on the far side of that small island are all the famed locations and activities.
Anyhow, we were having a nice ride, had passed over the bridge blown up in True Lies, and gotten to Milepost 35 or so when it started to rain hard. Back up went the top of the car, and that's how we arrived at our hotel, somewhat after 3 PM.
We did some of the traditional things, visiting The Southernmost Point in the Lower 48, swimming at one of the local beaches (and then seeing a potential contamination alert there), having a delicious Cuban dinner, and watching the sun set into the Gulf (almost -- clouds and an island got into the way). We were having fun.
As we blazed across the Keys, the air conditioner was making big puddles on the right side of the car. Around Mile 60, a big popping sound came from the right front speaker. This was especially disturbing, since we had the sound system completely turned off. There were some more pops. Thinking that the a/c drip might be causing some short-circuiting, we killed the air conditioner. Nonetheless, the haunted Rice Crispies on Steroids Symphony continued. We pulled off for gas. Maybe some off-time would help.
Nope.
We drove a bit more, got worried, and pulled off again. The noises were continuing with the car shut off. I cell-phoned my dad. Denial probably best describes his response. That and an unwillingness to make the long trek to get us. Could we go any further? No idea. Neither of us are too swift when it comes to auto mechanics. Ok, we'd try to get a bit further.
It got worse. We were getting more spooked. We started seeking a garage, but (reread that description of this stretch of road) every gas station had no garage, just a mini-mart for the turistas. We came up blank passing through the towns: Islamorada, Tavernier, Key Largo ... no-man's-land was fast approaching!
Finally, JJ spotted a Firestone on the left, and was confident that they could give it a look. I weheeled over to the left lane, U-turned, and pulled in. They had competent mechanics, but we'd brought in a challenge.
Their first idea was to drain all the leakage. Fine, except none of the liquid was getting under the hood; it was all in the passenger compartment. They unplugged the right-front speaker, which did nothing for the noise from the other speakers. The disconnected the radio fuse, and the popping continued. They took out all the fuses, and it wouldn't stop. The only thing that caused the popping to halt was to disconnect the battery, and we couldn't get too far that way. And when the battery was reconnected, it all started again. The radio wiring ran under the floor, and had most likely gotten wet, but they'd have to tear out the floor to discover the extent of the problem, something they didn't want to do on an unfamiliar make of car. We asked the team, is the car safe to drive? They waffled, and one finally said he wouldn't want to.
Nor did we. We decided to call AAA (hooray for our 100-mile free towing plan; that would at least get us close) and grab a rent-a-car. I phoned my father again, and filled him in. He finally resigned himself to the situation, and in the next breath asked: "So, did you go to the Memorial?" After an affirmative response, he followed it up with, "Was it a left or a right?"
We all have our priorities.
The rest is sort of anticlimactic. We got the rental, the wrecker came ahead of the promised time, and we headed toward the Boca mechanic my father wanted the car brought to. The only remaining adventure was when we hit a severe shower west of Miami and it took me a few moments to figure out how to activate the Saturn's wipers.
As the bus approached the lot, it was right behind another shuttle bus. The first one drove up to the bus entrance, signaled the gate to go up, and drove on in. We followed. The gate started down. It clanged against the side of the bus, scraped along it, then fell to the ground. Amazing!
Once we got settled in at home, I was on the horn to my father. The mechanics found nothing wrong in the car other than the radio! Never mind that something caused it to go kablooie. JJ's convinced that they're just taking a CYA position (did they do the initial a/c fix?) Anyhow, JJ later spoke to her father, who knows a few things mechanical. He said that had we driven on, three things could have happened, and there was no way of telling: The radio could have continued to short out with no other problems; the car could have caught fire; the short could have at some point shorted out every system in the car, leaving it suddenly dead. Heck, we're glad we chose as we did.
