F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Vincent Bini
The Keys have always held a special place in my heart. From the first time I laid eyes on them, I felt a deep connection—and a sense of calm—that few places can match. I don’t know exactly what it is, but as soon as I cross over Jewfish Creek and come around the bend into Key Largo, I feel the weight of the world lift off me.
Maybe it’s the insane beauty, the promise of isolation, or the charisma of the historical treasures scattered across the archipelago. I can’t say for sure. The possibility of catching the fish of a lifetime is definitely a contender—and, at one point in my life, so was the promise of a good time at any given bar on any given night.
I love all the Keys, but my true love is the Lower Keys. I feel like I can disappear down there more easily. The seascape and the backcountry are just … different.
There’s one island in that stretch that offers more possibilities than most—from fishing to diving—but its heart and soul live on land. That island is Key West.
Maybe it’s the rebel vibe. The outlaw energy. Maybe it’s the fact that some of the greatest of the greats once walked those streets while taking a break from the typewriter. Maybe it’s all of it.
Truth is, I’m not a fan of crowds—or people, really—but somehow all of that angst disappears when I’m down there. Drunks, weirdos, terrible tourists … they’re all somehow evicted from the wheelhouse, also known as my brain.
So, when a group of guys from work decided to head to the Lower Keys for a few days—to fish our brains out and party like it was 1999 (which, mind you, was only a few years ago)—I was all in.
One of my buddies was staying up in Big Pine, while the rest of the crew were holed up in Marathon at someone’s house. They did their own thing during the day, and my buddy and I hit the flats hard. We fished the backcountry from dawn to dusk chasing the Big Three. We had a few shots, but ended up missing the boat—so to speak. It didn’t matter. Just being out there, having a chance at those incredible fish, was more than enough for me.
Besides, we were meeting the boys in Key West later and planned to live it up. Why not? We were young, not married, hard-working firefighters, and ready to blow off some steam. What could possibly go wrong?
If I remember right, we met up at The Green Parrot. One of my non-firefighting buddies was living in the Keys at the time, just across the street from the bar, so it made sense to start there. Not to mention, it’s an awesome place to kick off a night.
We began our journey deep into the Key West nightlife. After a few pregame drinks, we made our way to the infamous Duval Street—but not before stopping at my all-time favorite: Captain Tony’s. I’m certain my desire to drink there came from the late, great Jimmy Buffett. The opening lines of “Last Mango in Paris” spoke to me—even as a little kid. To be fair, I was already a delinquent, way before I ever heard the song.
We had a few more drinks at Captain Tony’s and somehow didn’t get kicked out, even though a couple of my buddies tried to yank down a bra from the ceiling. Yeah, it was that kind of night. We hit a few more hotspots before things really started to deteriorate.
The guys were all fired up, and I was right there with them. The drinks were going down way too easy. So easy, in fact, that I agreed to go into—how do I put this? — a gentleman’s club. Yeah. That’s what it was.
For the record, I’m not a fan of those establishments. Seriously. I don’t know what it is, but they do the opposite of what they’re supposed to do. Maybe it’s the awkward dances. Or the blank faces while spinning around the pole. Don’t get me wrong—scantily clad (or unclad) women are a wonderful thing. But maybe if they were up there picking up change or grouting tile, it’d be more erotic.
Anyway, we walk in and the place is rocking. Music blasting. Crowd cheering. We shuffle our way in and end up mid-pack, just a few folks back from the stage. We weren’t there two minutes before a girl struts out. She was good-looking and covered in tattoos. One tattoo stood out in particular: big, bold letters across her abdomen that read “RAGE.”
So me being, well … me—I kept yelling, “Against the Machine!”
I know. It was bad.
Unfortunately, it got worse.
The next performer came out, and that’s when things really went off the rails. The music kicked in, and she launched into her routine. At one point, she put one leg behind her head. The crowd went wild. Then came the second leg. That’s right—both legs, behind her head. Everyone lost their minds.
And then it happened.
She walked across the stage on her butt.
You read that right.
I was so amazed (and intoxicated), I yelled across the club, “HOW DID YOU LEARN HOW TO DO THAT?!” I was genuinely impressed.
The DJ heard me. Paused the music. Laughed into the mic.
“Did you just ask how she learned to do that?”
I shouted back, “Yes!”
He cracked up, hit play, and the night rolled on.
We didn’t stay much longer, which was probably for the best. I don’t think I could’ve handled anything weirder.
A few more drinks later, we were bouncing from bar to bar. It was late—really late—when we were making our way up Duval and saw a bar with karaoke going on. For the life of me, I can’t remember which one it was. No clue why.
Naturally, we decided we absolutely had to go in and sing.
So, we stumbled inside and started flipping through the songbook. After some slurred negotiations and indecipherable logic, we somehow landed on “Love on the Rocks” by Neil Diamond.
Yep. You read that correctly.
So, at nearly 3 a.m., five or six male firefighters stood on a stage in Key West, Florida, and tried to belt out a Neil Diamond song. I don’t remember much after that.
But I’ll never forget how much fun we had and how we all bonded over … brotherhood, I guess. Yeah. That’s it.
The next day, we got a very late start getting on the water.
Wonder why.
Must’ve been something we ate.
The post Duval on the Rocks appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
The Keys have always held a special place in my heart. From the first time I laid eyes on them, I felt a deep connection—and a sense of calm—that few places can match. I don’t know exactly what it is, but as soon as I cross over Jewfish Creek and come around the bend into Key Largo, I feel the weight of the world lift off me.
Maybe it’s the insane beauty, the promise of isolation, or the charisma of the historical treasures scattered across the archipelago. I can’t say for sure. The possibility of catching the fish of a lifetime is definitely a contender—and, at one point in my life, so was the promise of a good time at any given bar on any given night.
I love all the Keys, but my true love is the Lower Keys. I feel like I can disappear down there more easily. The seascape and the backcountry are just … different.
There’s one island in that stretch that offers more possibilities than most—from fishing to diving—but its heart and soul live on land. That island is Key West.
Maybe it’s the rebel vibe. The outlaw energy. Maybe it’s the fact that some of the greatest of the greats once walked those streets while taking a break from the typewriter. Maybe it’s all of it.
Truth is, I’m not a fan of crowds—or people, really—but somehow all of that angst disappears when I’m down there. Drunks, weirdos, terrible tourists … they’re all somehow evicted from the wheelhouse, also known as my brain.
So, when a group of guys from work decided to head to the Lower Keys for a few days—to fish our brains out and party like it was 1999 (which, mind you, was only a few years ago)—I was all in.
The Island Hopping Campaign
One of my buddies was staying up in Big Pine, while the rest of the crew were holed up in Marathon at someone’s house. They did their own thing during the day, and my buddy and I hit the flats hard. We fished the backcountry from dawn to dusk chasing the Big Three. We had a few shots, but ended up missing the boat—so to speak. It didn’t matter. Just being out there, having a chance at those incredible fish, was more than enough for me.
Besides, we were meeting the boys in Key West later and planned to live it up. Why not? We were young, not married, hard-working firefighters, and ready to blow off some steam. What could possibly go wrong?
If I remember right, we met up at The Green Parrot. One of my non-firefighting buddies was living in the Keys at the time, just across the street from the bar, so it made sense to start there. Not to mention, it’s an awesome place to kick off a night.
We began our journey deep into the Key West nightlife. After a few pregame drinks, we made our way to the infamous Duval Street—but not before stopping at my all-time favorite: Captain Tony’s. I’m certain my desire to drink there came from the late, great Jimmy Buffett. The opening lines of “Last Mango in Paris” spoke to me—even as a little kid. To be fair, I was already a delinquent, way before I ever heard the song.
We had a few more drinks at Captain Tony’s and somehow didn’t get kicked out, even though a couple of my buddies tried to yank down a bra from the ceiling. Yeah, it was that kind of night. We hit a few more hotspots before things really started to deteriorate.
The guys were all fired up, and I was right there with them. The drinks were going down way too easy. So easy, in fact, that I agreed to go into—how do I put this? — a gentleman’s club. Yeah. That’s what it was.
For the record, I’m not a fan of those establishments. Seriously. I don’t know what it is, but they do the opposite of what they’re supposed to do. Maybe it’s the awkward dances. Or the blank faces while spinning around the pole. Don’t get me wrong—scantily clad (or unclad) women are a wonderful thing. But maybe if they were up there picking up change or grouting tile, it’d be more erotic.
Anyway, we walk in and the place is rocking. Music blasting. Crowd cheering. We shuffle our way in and end up mid-pack, just a few folks back from the stage. We weren’t there two minutes before a girl struts out. She was good-looking and covered in tattoos. One tattoo stood out in particular: big, bold letters across her abdomen that read “RAGE.”
So me being, well … me—I kept yelling, “Against the Machine!”
I know. It was bad.
Unfortunately, it got worse.
The next performer came out, and that’s when things really went off the rails. The music kicked in, and she launched into her routine. At one point, she put one leg behind her head. The crowd went wild. Then came the second leg. That’s right—both legs, behind her head. Everyone lost their minds.
And then it happened.
She walked across the stage on her butt.
You read that right.
I was so amazed (and intoxicated), I yelled across the club, “HOW DID YOU LEARN HOW TO DO THAT?!” I was genuinely impressed.
The DJ heard me. Paused the music. Laughed into the mic.
“Did you just ask how she learned to do that?”
I shouted back, “Yes!”
He cracked up, hit play, and the night rolled on.
The Final Descent
We didn’t stay much longer, which was probably for the best. I don’t think I could’ve handled anything weirder.
A few more drinks later, we were bouncing from bar to bar. It was late—really late—when we were making our way up Duval and saw a bar with karaoke going on. For the life of me, I can’t remember which one it was. No clue why.
Naturally, we decided we absolutely had to go in and sing.
So, we stumbled inside and started flipping through the songbook. After some slurred negotiations and indecipherable logic, we somehow landed on “Love on the Rocks” by Neil Diamond.
Yep. You read that correctly.
So, at nearly 3 a.m., five or six male firefighters stood on a stage in Key West, Florida, and tried to belt out a Neil Diamond song. I don’t remember much after that.
But I’ll never forget how much fun we had and how we all bonded over … brotherhood, I guess. Yeah. That’s it.
The next day, we got a very late start getting on the water.
Wonder why.
Must’ve been something we ate.
The post Duval on the Rocks appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...