For reasons beyond control or comprehension I recently found myself marooned on Florida’s Gulf Coast, the Sarasota Keys to be specific. A fine place to escape the brutal end of a long New England winter, wasting away time on the tropical sand and seas. Bum landed squarely in the proverbial warm butter.

Beware these Gulf Coast folk though. They are, the large majority, captains of nothing sailing to nowhere. They know no law and serve no God between the Everglades and the Mississippi Delta/ Louisiana Bayou. Nothing to live for and certainly nothing to die for and in fact many are known Devil worshippers. They do have some goddam great motels down there though.

Tamiami trail is the place to be for those who have nowhere else to go and wouldn’t have it any other way. I seriously appreciate the aesthetic of a cheap, seedy roadside motel. Ask no questions, hear no lies. One can only imagine the type of characters you meet chain smoking and hanging around the pool like iguanas at these dens of iniquity. I absolutely love it.

In fact, were it not for this area’s notorious lack of surf, I would consider moving into the Cadillac Motel, Flamingo Inn or Golden Host Resort full time. I could start a fresh new life here, reinvent myself and get a job writing horoscopes for the Sarasota herald tribune à la Madam La Zonga in HST’s The Rum Diary.

Yesterday evening I found myself sweating under the thatched roof of the Ritz Carlton tiki bar on Lido Key, toes in the sand, squashed between and sharing a thin cigarette with an old leather raisin of a transvestite (his word) named Steven and a manatee in a bikini with the worst New Jersey accent I've ever heard. I have since forgotten her name. I told them I had no money so they were kind enough to ask for extra straws for their sugary daiquiris. My muses. I also told them I prefer tequila next round and they obliged, just happy to be paid attention to I think.

Unfortunately they asked if I would like to accompany them to a place called Memories Lounge for some dancing and to carry on the evening's festivities. Judging by my state this morning I must have said yes. Memories Lounge. The cruel and unusual irony.

I can’t be blamed however. I didn’t have my usual wits about me. I was falling victim to that typical après surf glaze. Stupefied, anesthetized, lobotomized. Dehydrated and sun stroked after too much time spent away from the tropics. Thank whatever Gods may be that we didn’t make it to The Gator Club. That would have been too much to handle.

I had heard hushed rumors before, nothing more than whispered mythologies I had thought of Gulf Coast surf. Extremely short windows of swell that fade as quickly as they come. Basically you have to be willing and able to fight a hurricane to have any chance of scoring here.

The wind has been howling onshore all week, kicking up chop and white caps all the way to the horizon. It seemed like there may be some potential on tap but I stopped myself short of any hoping, forcing it from my mind. Just enjoy yourself and forget about surfing for a week.

But then the miraculous happened. I awoke yesterday morning to find the wind had finally died and switched overnight but a nice little windswell had remained. The rumors were true.

I raced down to the local surf shop/ tourist trap in town, sure that I had seen a board rental sign somewhere behind all the bright tourist tees, lumo sunnies and big straw hats. The pimply faced gecko boy who worked there was adamant that they only hand out beat up, water saturated old soft tops but after much back and forth, the manager realized that I meant business and led me to a back room where he presented me with a yellowed old Puddle Jumper that could be mine for the day. This would work nicely so I thanked him in kind, grabbed some wax and skipped out the door.

I stood in the balmy morning and put on my leash as gorgeous, crystal blue, hollow little wedges broke only a few feet from shore. It was full high tide and the chest high waves were breaking in around the same depth of water, if not less. I could barely believe it. The local crowd was on it already and one stand out grommet got treated to the sweetest little tube while her dad filmed from a tripod on the beach.

After a couple hours, the tide began to drain and our magic little setup quickly started to deteriorate. It was fun while it lasted. Easy come, easy go.

Later in the long, slow day, I was enjoying a spicy grouper taco and the coldest of cervezas on the beach when I looked out over to the point on the North side of the key and saw the unmistakable white feathery lines of breaking swells on a sandbar. This required more investigation. Far too lazy to jog the mile or so up the beach, I retrieved a pair of binoculars from the condo to get a better look and found that the low tide had exposed a bank which ran almost parallel to the beach. The swell had dropped significantly and I guessed the waves to be only around knee high now, but they ran on and on and on and on and on…

I ran back to the shop and quickly requested to switch out the Puddle Jumper for one of their longboards. I was forced to settle for a faded pink, 9ft Catch Surf. Not my first choice but beggars can’t be choosers and it was the least wrecked board they had on offer.

The sandbar was further out than it looked and the paddle took a good few minutes but it was well worth the effort. The mini screamers barrelled down the beach and kept me on my toes. Trying to maintain trim as stylishly as possible, from upright soul arches to a knees in the armpits deep squat. This time, even the locals were caught in their siesta and only one other surfer came out to join me.

This oasis however, was also to be short-lived. Soon we were be-calmed, the swell had died and we made our paddle back to the beach.

It was such a long walk back on the beach and I was parched. I had a $20 bill in the pocket of my boardies and the tiki bar in front of the monstrosity of the Ritz looked too inviting to pass up.

The only vacant seat was between a manatee in a bikini and an overly tanned old man in a dress and wig.

It seems like a mirage this morning. Did it really happen?

I’m sipping fresh coconut water which is working wonders for my head and listening to The Rosarita Beach Cafe by Warren Zevon, trying to make sense of it all.

‘I've got a million dollar bill

And they can't change it

They won't let me leave until my tab is paid

So I might as well settle down

And buy the house another round

Send my mail to the Rosarita Beach Cafe…’

I won’t be moving here any time soon but I know I will be back before long. And I still won’t bring a board down with me next time.

But I will make it to The Gator Club tonight.