We remained in Key West for the remainder of 1979 and into1980 for a number of reasons. Foremost was that the boat, ripped to pieces during the drug bust during which it had been seized, needed a lot of work before it could be deemed seaworthy, especially on its engine which was as good as useless. We continued to live out of the VW camper, which was now parked at a campground on Stock Island. To get to the boat, which was docked in town at what used to be the old naval submarine basin, we bicycled. We lucked into securing dockage at what then referred to as Truman Annex; the Navy had just closed down the base and except for a few contractors, the place was abandoned. It was big, almost a town unto itself. The city, anxious to collect any revenue as soon as possible from its recent acquisition, began renting dockage. Besides our boat, there were only maybe half a dozen others.

Secondly, our funds had dwindled after many weeks of living large, seeing the sights all the way from St. Louis to the Keys, so we had to find jobs. He was lucky; it so happened that he was a handy sort of person, and a private contractor hired him to do odds and ends, electrical and otherwise. It was the perfect situation, because he could work on our boat in between jobs. Also, he got paid in cash, which was just as well because we didn’t have a local bank account. Like a library card, a bank account was impossible to get without a local address or phone number. Our mail was being forwarded to “General Delivery, Key West, FL 33040” and we didn’t have a telephone.

Finding a job was more difficult for me. I got rejected for every one that I applied for, something I had never experienced. Jobs such as refueling airplanes at the airport and working in the mail room of the local newspaper, the Key West Citizen were unattainable, the reason given usually having something to do with being “over-qualified.” I had to stop admitting that I had even gone to college let alone had a degree, which is kind of funny, considering how driven I was to complete four years’ worth of work in three. Where we were was a lot different from where we had come. Key West was not yet thought of as a destination; it was considered the end of the road–and it literally was for U.S. Highway 1–a place where one could escape conventional America and allowed to do one’s own thing, unabashed. People who had “pasts” came here to escape, as did people whose alternative lifestyle might have made it too difficult to live elsewhere. Things like homosexuality and pot smuggling were accepted and unquestioned. Only people like long-time Conchs and Hemingway admitted to having last names.

I succumbed to a waitressing job at a nightclub called Captain Horn Blowers, not that I think I am above waitressing–actually, I loved my job–but the owner of the nightclub, Captain Horn Blower himself, was a coke-head. His temper was unpredictable and would often be misdirected at the help. After a few months, I quit. Concurrently, the boat we had named “Foreigner” was ready to go, as well. We began thinking about leaving Key West.