The first time I arrived at Smathers Beach in Key West was during Christmas time in 2003. One of our college friends, who had moved to Fort Lauderdale earlier that year, invited us and another family of four to join them for a holiday visit.
It was the early days of digital photography, and while the technology was taking off, storage still proved erratic and unreliable. Our photos from the trip to Florida were stored on a PC, which inevitably broke down, leaving us with a corrupted hard drive. It felt even worse than the era of film photos — at least with film, you had tangible memories. Without any pictures, it was as if the trip had never happened, except for a few fragmented flashbacks. One such memory was the massive storm that forced a layover in Atlanta instead of Denver, followed by our luggage going missing when we finally arrived in Miami.
Our lost luggage showed up two days later, but how we managed without it during that time is a complete blank in my memory. It’s strange how something that should have been a challenge became so forgettable.
Of course, we had to visit Key West. We were huge fans of the 1994 movie True Lies, which had introduced us to the beautiful route connecting Miami to a string of islands leading to Hemingway’s residence at the southernmost tip of the U.S. Unfortunately, I don’t remember much about that trip, either. I can’t recall whether our kids came with us or how we got to Key West and back to Fort Lauderdale. But I do remember that beach.
We didn’t have much time to explore — it was a quick drive through the town as we were rushing to the mainland. From the window of our car — though I can’t remember whether it was a van or a sedan — I caught a glimpse of the beach and the turquoise water, glistening in the golden light of the sunset. That moment, as brief as it was, left a lasting impression on me.
“I will come back and walk on that beach,” I told myself.
And sure enough, I did — thanks to a last-minute family trip. This time, Key West International Airport was nationally accessible (since 2009), making arrivals and departures much more convenient. I booked the only hotel just 50 yards from the beach. It was also only a 20-minute walk from the airport, which, by the way, is the smallest international airport I’ve ever been to in the U.S.
The weather was unexpectedly cool, with temperatures in the low 70s. To the locals, this was practically a cold front, equivalent to a few sub-zero days in other parts of the country. I had packed all my cold-water swimming gear — thermal tops and pants — and even brought a swimming cap and Speedo goggles. I realized that I would look out of place among the bikini-clad snowbirds and locals if I hit the beach in the middle of the day, so I decided to test out my new gear in the early morning.
I saved it for Christmas Day.
The morning was overcast and gray, with temperatures around 70 degrees. There was hardly anyone on the beach, making it the perfect time to try out the gear I had given myself. I went to the front desk to ask for beach towels, and the staff couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. In their eyes, I must have seemed like someone who had flown down from Ottawa, Canada, not sunny California.
They might have had a different opinion if they’d ever swum in the cold waters of the Pacific near the Bay Area. The icy water there is cold year-round, and it’s a shock to see anyone wearing a bikini in those conditions. Similarly, the locals of Key West were probably just as surprised to see me suited up in a full wetsuit, swimming cap, and goggles.
I happily plunged into the ocean — two decades after making that wish. To my surprise, the water wasn’t cold at all. In fact, it was warmer than the pool at my gym back home. However, the small currents beneath the surface, which appeared placid, caught me off guard. The water wasn’t gentle; it was a reminder of the locals I had encountered earlier, giving me the same hawkish, sizing-up stare. They were tough, unwelcoming, and always looking for a chance to take advantage of any perceived weakness.
The water wasn’t like the gentle, loving embrace of a big wave. But it was perfect for training for a triathlon.
Nonetheless, I was thrilled to give myself this Christmas gift. And one day, I hope to swim beneath the Golden Gate Bridge or across to Alcatraz. I just hope it won’t take another two decades to make those dreams a reality.
