Sarasota | Disaster at Big Bend Station

Article by Peter Brooker

It was time to check out of the Aloft hotel. I thanked the young man at the canteen for the coffees and he wished me Merry Christmas as I began to walk away. For some unknown reason I turn and point to him with the same emotional look that Jerry Maguire gives Rod Tidwell outside the men's changing room when he asks through a sea of reporters 'Where is my agent?' Though we fall short of hugging it out.

We took one stop off on the way to Sarasota to see the manatees. One thing that is not promoted enough in Tampa is the Manatee Viewing Center which is just by the Big Bend Power Station. As a lucky bi-product from this Power Station, hot water circulates in the bay next door attracting the manatees during the winter months. Manatees as I've come to learn care not whether the water is brackish or not, just whether it's warm. And who can blame them?

The Power Station looks remarkably similar to the one I'm sure many of my middle-aged readers would have seen at the end of the film, Robocop. It is still in production and although this was not mentioned on any part of the tour, 5 workers died in an accident on that plant when

trying to remove a lava-like substance called slag, from one of its large tanks. The headline read "Big-bend-hellfire-from-above."

Death by exposure to Molten Slag, I've come to learn after about an hour's worth of tumbling down some of the darkest rabbit holes you could ever wish to imagine, is by far the most grizzly of deaths one could ever have the incredulous misfortune to encounter. One online contributor who once had some gainful employment in the Iron pouring industry simply wrote this in the comments, "Slag sticks to you like [...] crazy. Iron hurts, Slag kills. The companies I worked for were [...] negligent, but no-one, I repeat NO-ONE fucked with slag." I have left a link to this tragic affair in the bibliography, but as they might even say at the beginning of Robocop, viewers discretion is advised.

Back to the Manatees and more savoury observations. Manatees look blubbery, but they are pure muscle. One fluke of its tail could do serious damage should a juvenile Bull Shark (for example) try its luck and get a little peckish. It's quite the thing to see the sharks and the manatees co-inhabit the bay, like lions and elan at a watering hole. A mutual telepathic understanding that so long as don't fuck with one another, we can all live happily ever after. Indeed a Manatee can live up to 40 years in the wild. The oldest on record was Snooty, a Floridian legend that lived in the South Florida Museum in Bradenton up until the age of 69. Sadly Snooty got stuck in a maintenance hatch and drowned. Although there were mysterious circumstances surrounding Snooty's death no foul play was suspected and the Aquarium manager was consequently shitcanned.

Shitcanned is indeed an Americanism, one I wish the British would imbibe to their vocabulary. We only have the missive, you're fired or got fired. Which has been so saturated over the years thanks to the TV show, The Apprentice. Its origins date back to North America some time in the early 60s according to Merriam Webster, but I'm quite done with internet rabbit holes for one day so you'll have to do your own research into that one. But I hope whole-heartedly we can see and hear more shitcanning in the British lexicon in the future.

Once we left the Big Bend Power station, we drove down to the Dali Museum in St Pete. Whilst most of the routes are generally uninspiring bar the odd dead alligator and billboard advert showing scantily clad females holding machine guns advertising some kind of gun fare, one can amuse oneself by jotting down the names of the roads turnpikes, and imagining them as 90s sitcoms or Billy Joel B-sides. Bullfrog Creek for example is a 90s sitcom for sure starring a coming of age Winona Ryder or Claire Danes whilst Sunshine Skyway on the other hand is a Billy Joel B-side that simply doesn't get enough airtime in my opinion.

We parked up at Saint Pete's Pie and I suggested to the wife that she sort out the parking ticket whilst I ran ahead to Percy's restaurant on the corner, ordered a craft beer and took a much needed piss. Needless to say this didn't register as a constructive contribution, so I holstered my brimming bladder and stood behind the wife for nothing more than moral support as she negotiated the parking meter. It's always something of a faff (a word that I wish Americans would begin introducing to their lexicon. It's common parlance in the UK where many a faff will occur on a day to day basis. The irony that a faff becomes more of a faff as I have to explain the definition of a faff to Americans, is not lost on me) first one must connect to the free WiFi, to download the app, if there is none, one must connect to the working HotSpot from the one working US phone we have between us, then download the app, then enter payment details, registration, social security, date, times, gender, and finally the girth of your penis, and voila you are now free to leave the parking structure.

After a wonderful beer, shrimp salad and a glorious piss at the restaurant, it was onto the Salvador Dali Museum. The building alone, somewhat silo'd from the Yacht Bason, is Ken Adam-esque in design. A large free-form geodesic glass bubble known as the “enigma” swallows parts of the 18-inch thick hurricane-proof walls like a python trying to digest a coffin. 1,062 triangular pieces of glass afford the interior's helical staircase all the natural light it needs to create a mesmeric effect and cast a myriad of shadows on the floor beneath.

As is the case with so many modern museums these days, you have a mix of antiquity and technology. We paid for an immersive 3D tour of one of the paintings, (I forget which, the one with the elephants with the disproportionate legs) where you get to virtually walk around inside the painting. Another example, an old lady trying to film a short Dali interactive video projected inside a dome building on her iPhone, not realising she has the torch light on and is blinding everyone in the audience.

I whispered over to her. "You have your torch on." Keen to see the voice that came through the darkness she shone her torch into my face.
"Que?" she asked.
"You've activated the torch light on your phone. And now you're blinding me! Entiendo Senora?" You'd think, despite the obvious language barrier, that the peso would drop once you've discovered you're directing a spotlight directly into someone's retina in a blacked out theatre. But alas, this is often the case when antiquity meets technology. Thankfully a dutiful assistant showed her the error of her ways, which put a stop to a lot of chuntering and disquiet from the rest of the audience.

After a mad dash to the car, knowing the parking ticket was running out, we drove onto the Art Ovation Hotel in Sarasota, where upon checking in, we were offered a very welcome cocktail each in a plastic cup, which we took with us into the elevator. A sign in the elevator promoted,

"Wake up cocktails at 7am."

There was also a notice promising a free glass of wine and a tour of the art within the hotel upon check-in. We didn't even step out of the elevator when we hit our floor, instead sent it right back down to the lobby where upon asking, we were further instructed to head to the bar for the free wine and art tour. The art we learnt largely consisted of various interpretations of the American Flag (boy do they love a flag out here) by local artists. The house wine was of course piss, and after a half hour wait, we were told the tour was cancelled. To make up for this indiscretion the sweet and chatty Irish lady behind the bar compensated us with another free glass of piss, which for some reason I considered a win.

The day was still relatively young, and the wife considered this an opportune time to take a brisk hike from the hotel, around Marina Jack, and up to the botanical gardens that was predictably closed. I'm always reluctant to ask the wife where the hell we are going and what the plan is, because it often sparks some kind of indignation, no matter how softly I say it.

'What a wonderful day dear. How blessed are we to be so madly in love and experiencing these meandering walks around new rich whitey neighbourhoods. I want to just bottle this moment and drink it in. (Speaking of water. If only I knew we were walking six kilometres today round rich

whitey town and with the sun is just at the right height to burn the back of my neck, I might have had the presence of mind to bring some.) Not that matters to me dear, not one jot. You know I'm just happy to live moment to moment. From one closed garden centre to the next, but by chance do we have a destination in mind today or are we just - "

"You had 2 hours in the car to come up with a plan." She said. Not in a raised voice, she never raises her voice. "Actually I booked these flights back in August so you had close to 5 months to come up with a plan today. But you didn't. Had we left things to you we'd be drinking that piss right now at the hotel and watching some repeat of some inconsequential football game between two teams, neither of which, not only do you not support, but you've never heard of."

Yes, I should have known better than to open my mouth. We double backed around Marina Jack, over the Ringling Bridge where the silence was finally broken as the wife yelped at the sight of two dolphins leaping out of the water below. Of course I missed it but I'd rather she saw them. The causeway from the bridge to The Presidents Boulevard is straight and is split by the Plymouth Retirement home halfway down. The home looks like any other run-of-the-mill beachside hotel, and that's the point. How many retirement homes overlook an uncrowded shoreline with nesting turtles and unsullied quartz sand?

We pondered around tacky souvenir shops, had some lunch and further cocktails and decided to catch a boat tour around the harbour. The guide pointed out the back of Jerry Springer’s old house and the lead singer of ACDC, Brian Johnson's mansion which boasted a swimming pool

shaped like a guitar. Although the pool itself was consumed with diggers, the guide was unclear if it was destroyed during a hurricane or a bolt of lightning, more than likely both.

Back at the hotel, it was just warm enough outside to be seated for dinner. David, our unashamedly camp waiter did not need much encouragement to tell us that he used to cook for Elton John and Billy Joel. He said his 'watermelon salts' were enough to give him diabetes and then Elton John warned Paul McCartney that "stump" , his nickname for Heather, was going to take him for all he had. All the staff at the hotel had their name badge, plus an artist's name underneath. David had Brad Pitt. Once he'd finished namedropping more A-listers he'd have some tenuous connection to or gossip about, I asked him,

"What's your favourite Brad Pitt film?"
"Meet Joe Black," he said without missing a beat.
"Death and Taxes." I replied.
For the rest of the meal I managed to convince Anastasia that art is not subjective, and there is a right and wrong when it comes to opinion. Anyone that has Meet Joe Black over Fight Club, Twelve Monkeys and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is only compounding my argument.

After two bottles of wine, on top of all the day's libations it was time to turn it in and watch some tele in the room. On the Florida Tonight Show, they were running the three biggest stories of the year. One was a highland cow called Jason Moo Moa getting a boat trip through Pinellas County waters. Another documented a Florida man named Walter Frymire. Following Walter's 26th arrest on charges of trespassing and possession of methamphetamine, a body scan at the Polk County Jail revealed a thermos lodged inside his rectum. It had slowly (or at least I assume slowly) pushed its way through the large intestine and into his abdomen and had to be surgically removed.

I didn't quite follow the gist of the third story because the wife was straining my attention about how someone was hacking into her online back account, but from the visuals I could piece together an amusing story of a golfer cautiously putting around a 15 foot alligator who was sunning himself on a green somewhere in Naples.

Another 30 minutes or so was dedicated to sorting out a litany of erroneous credit card charges, and I can't remember if I cordially brushed my teeth, washed my face and said good night to the wife in a dignified like I normally do, or if I simply passed out watching the news. The latter is probably the most likely as I awoke in the same seated position on the bed with remote in hand. What was that noise? It sounded like the groans of the shadows that come to collect the souls of bad guys in the Patrick Swayze movie Ghost.

Of course. How silly of me. It was the frightfully predictable sound of a man puking his guts out so violently, I thought I could hear him cry between vomits. To add another layer of hell, synchronising to the thunderous splats of puke hitting the toilet bowl, a baby cries perhaps in solidarity. Or perhaps as a direct result of being woken at 3AM, who knows for sure.

Photo by john vargues on Unsplash