Episode 7: The Other Punta Gorda
The Punta Gorda airport was a narrow strip of asphalt adjacent to the RAF airbase. Nothing remotely resembling a terminal was in the vicinity. When I arrived for my flight, everything was at a standstill, a heavy fog stubbornly refusing to lift. As per our agreement, Kendrick was to return to Belize City alone. We had a strictly one-way deal. The thought of another long drive through difficult terrain was in itself unappealing, let alone traveling with a taciturn Kendrick Smith.
The fog, though, had changed the schedule. The morning flight was now an afternoon affair. To kill time, I wandered around taking photos until interrupted by two British MPs. Although I clearly had no devious motives—something I thought fairly obvious—they objected to my taking pictures of an active RAF facility, despite the fact that the operational part of the airfield was a considerable distance from where I stood. There was even talk of confiscating my camera before I thought to mention by name my acquaintances from Caye Caulker, both of whom were stationed at the base. The MPs settled for the film. I didn’t argue. There would have been no point.
I had no way of knowing, of course, that I would have a similar experience many years later in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. A rather more disconcerting one. After boarding my flight, but prior to takeoff, I had been using my cellphone to take pictures of the antiquated aircraft that lined the tarmac. Spotted from the ground by two Uzbek soldiers, I quickly had company. They insisted on seeing the pictures I’d taken. They were rude, hostile, and spoke little to no English. They did, however, carry Kalashnikov rifles. I quickly handed over my cellphone. Just as quickly they handed it back and said, show us. At least that’s what it sounded like. So I did. After a brief one-way discussion, they insisted I delete the shots. I obliged, as they watched me. Apparently satisfied, they deplaned. Angry, I ruminated for a while over my lost photos. They possessed zero espionage value but had been remarkably good shots of aircraft that hadn’t flown in years. Hoping to find at least one shot that hadn’t been deleted, I searched all the photos on my phone. In the process I discovered the “recently deleted” folder. I’d been unaware of its existence. So had the Uzbeks.
Once the fog lifted, I boarded a Piper Cherokee six-seater for the flight to Belize City. I was the only passenger. Oddly enough, the pilot was the same brusque individual who had piloted my flight to Ambergris Caye. A tall, thin, gray-haired Brit, Ralph had a huge chip on his shoulder only marginally alleviated by a dark sense of humor. Dishonorably discharged from the RAF for failure to follow procedure and putting his crew at risk, Ralph strongly disagreed with the military court’s decision. There was, however, no right of appeal. He was out and the incident had left him embittered. I’d first heard the story from Jim. They were casual acquaintances. Mentioning his RAF problems to Ralph, however, was a huge mistake. Not because he minded that Jim had told me, but because he insisted on making sure I understood he’d been unfairly prosecuted. It made for a fascinating conversation on the flight north, if not more intense than I would have preferred. And frankly, after all was said and done, it sounded to me like the RAF had cause.
Ralph flew regularly for Tropic Air, but he made his real money from an extremely lucrative side business. In Belize, charter flights were the domain of the wealthy (of which there were few), business executives on expense accounts, and drug cartels. Disappointingly closed-mouthed about everything except his animosity toward the military, he refused to talk about his charter business. Confidentiality a key to its success. He did, surprisingly, offer me a choice of routes north. I requested the coast, as I wanted to see Punta Gorda and Dangriga from the air, but we soon switched to the jungle as I’d gotten only a small taste of it on the drive south and wanted a better perspective. A short detour inland followed, as Ralph wanted to show me the palatial estate of a suspected drug dealer.
An architecturally surreal structure, the estate looked very much out of place in the interior of Belize. A sprawling, multi-level dwelling painted entirely white, roof included. From the air it appeared as a series of oddly shaped boxes placed one on top of another. It reminded me slightly of a Frank Lloyd Wright building. Shutters covered the windows, the place seemingly unoccupied at the moment. No doubt the reason Ralph felt comfortable flying overhead. The house was surrounded by a large, open expanse—easily a quarter mile in every direction—neatly divided into checkerboard squares by extra thick, low hedges. Approach without notice would be impossible. Despite my obvious curiosity, Ralph offered no commentary, turned the plane east, back toward the coast, and much like Kendrick, disappeared into himself.
Had I been smart, I would have sat back, relaxed, and enjoyed the ride. Instead, I began an unprovoked and unnecessarily harsh review of my time on earth—the only planet with which I had any real experience. Initially, I tried to detect a grand plan in all that I’d done to date but came up short. A patchwork quilt was a more apt description. I’d begun writing stories in high school, but those efforts were destined to become an historical anomaly. After college, and after having failed to identify a profession that might have furthered my creative aspirations, I veered toward a more prosaic career in management. I’d always thought I’d return to creative work, but the longer I waited, the less qualified I became to make a change. Then the seduction of work well done—complete with accolades and money—kicked in and I unwittingly succumbed to the path of least resistance. While I’d handled most of my Boston jobs successfully, none had captivated me. They’d all felt fairly minor league even when they weren’t. Now—high in the sky—it was quite clear I’d spent too much of my career unfocused and had been too easily distracted from pursuing a more adventurous, and possibly a more gratifying, path. All along, management had simply been a convenient cop-out. Frankly, I was scared to try something riskier. Something at which I might actually fail. Instead, I’d allowed myself to get comfortable. Except I wasn’t comfortable. I was manifestly unsatisfied. I remembered how acutely unhappy my father had been, never having done anything professionally he was passionate about. I didn’t want to fall into that trap. But it certainly felt like I was well on my way.
As we began our descent, I realized the time to leave Belize was now. The trip to Punta Gorda confirmed that I’d had enough. Fate, unfortunately, hadn’t dealt me a winning hand in this bleak backwater of a country. Morley had been mistaken. Then again, I hadn’t tried very hard. Impulse had driven me out of Boston, and now it would do the same in Belize. Although having failed to unravel the problems I had unwittingly brought along, I was still glad to have come. I had, at the very least, put some distance between the frustrations of Boston and whatever lay ahead. Maybe that was the best one could do.
I’d promised to house-sit for Jim until he returned from Michigan, and he was due back the next night, so no big deal. I’d already said goodbye to Ramona. She could thank Jim for me. I splurged on a cab to his ramshackle apartment on Alvera Street and packed quickly, all the while thinking about how the town had simply grown too small, especially when everybody thought they knew your business. An unemployed American with money to spend and a much younger Chinese girlfriend, the daughter of the owner of Shen’s Pagoda, no less. That Sumei wasn’t actually my girlfriend didn’t seem to matter. Besides, I was never going to find work and stay in the country. That fantasy had died almost upon arrival. And the longer I stayed, the more problematic my relationship with Sumei was destined to become.
Too restless to sleep or read, I impulsively returned to Shen’s for a farewell drink. As seedy as it was, there was an exotic air about the place that captured my imagination. And I wasn’t concerned about running into Sumei. Pops didn’t allow her there at night. I wound up having drinks with some of the regulars. Although I’d kept mostly to myself while in Belize, that hadn’t prevented me from having a few good drinking buddies. After a time, though, I tired, said my goodbyes, and headed back to the outskirts of town. How Jim managed to live there was a mystery to me. I sat for a time on his balcony, letting the alcohol in my system metabolize and drawing a blank about where I was headed next. Finally, I hauled myself off to bed. One last night under the hated mosquito netting.
Despite what I thought had been an amicable parting with Sumei before I left for Punta Gorda, the next morning she showed up unannounced at Belize’s International Airport at Ladyville. Someone at Shen’s must have told her I’d booked a flight. I thought we’d reached a satisfactory understanding. Apparently not. The volatile emotions of a twenty-year-old, even an unusually mature one, were not easily held in check.
An uncomfortably awkward scene ensued. Sumei insisted on rehashing our earlier conversation. I had nothing new to add to what had already been said. I’d simply been selfish. I shouldn’t have allowed any kind of intimate relationship to develop. Now I was paying the price and so was she. To Sumei I represented life beyond Belize. She didn’t want to let go. What was I supposed to do? She knew how to get in touch. That was the best I could offer. I asked her not to wait for my flight, but she refused. As I sat there counting the minutes to boarding, I couldn’t help but feel like a jerk.
After landing in Miami, I took the train to Boynton Beach. I had planned to keep my mother company for a few weeks. I lasted four days. Badgering me from the start with questions I couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, she refused to let up. And stepping outside for a breath of fresh air provided little relief. Leisureville quickly engulfed you. The retirement community where my folks had chosen to spend their golden years was just plain depressing. Safe, staid, and boring. Old people hanging out with old people. No annoying children. No loud barbecue parties. No screeching tires. The unnatural quiet interrupted only by the not infrequent arrival of an ambulance. All the houses looked alike, and all were painted white, by community rule. This utter lack of differentiation was reinforced by a draconian landscaping policy. Deviate at your own risk. As for the owners, the required minimum age of fifty-five demographically skewed the community, and an unwritten rule insured a lily-white population.
1316 SW 23rd Street was my mother’s home, not mine. It didn’t look or feel like any place I would choose to live. One afternoon, after too many martinis, I told her that although she and my father had committed numerous unforced errors raising me, I always knew I was loved and had a home. Maybe so, but after college their home was a way station at best. Traveling in Belize, no home had been necessary, but back on US soil, it was painfully obvious that staying in Boynton for any length of time wasn’t an option. I needed to pick a direction quickly. But where? Did it matter? At forty-one, I was in the throes of a classic mid-life crisis. Just hit the road and drive, I told myself. But to do that I needed a car, and I no longer owned one.
My vehicle requirements were simple. The deal took less than a half-hour. Knowing little about cars, I felt that reliability was a must, as was an enclosed trunk. I’d hoped to start writing, and would be traveling with a cumbersome Mac SE30. I needed a safe place to stash it, aesthetics be damned. My accommodations would most likely be cheap motels. I wanted a plain vanilla vehicle. The one least likely to be stolen. Not surprisingly, the used car salesman was sure he had just the automobile for me. He’d even offered it to his son that very morning, but the kid thought it too stodgy and uncool. Perfect. An ugly four-year old Ford Tempo in excellent condition. After a short test drive I agreed to buy it. I sweated a little as the salesman ran a credit check, but within moments I had wheels. Now I needed a purpose.
After reading a story in the local paper that evening, a quixotic notion materialized. Across the peninsula from Boynton on Florida’s Gulf Coast, a woman had shot her husband in the head after learning he had been abusing their daughter for years. The trial was scheduled to start in just a few days, provided the judge didn’t grant a motion for change of venue. The husband, a wealthy attorney and a pillar of the community, had family ties in the area dating back generations. The wife planned to claim self-defense. Good luck with that. The case hadn’t yet attracted national attention because of its backwater locale—Punta Gorda, Florida. An omen if ever there was one.
I’d always had a fascination with crime, especially murder. Maybe this was the opportunity to try my hand at writing again. I’d penned hundreds, if not thousands, of business proposals and memos, but I hadn’t written anything particularly exciting or imaginative since college. Maybe I could just slip into town, cover the trial—filled, hopefully, with lurid testimony—and send unsolicited stories and updates to the wire services. A long shot to be sure, but what did I have to lose? I’d spent my professional life dodging the impulse to write. Fear of failure—the monkey on my back—had kept me from the thing I most wanted to do. At the very least, the trial would provide a good excuse for leaving Boynton. Besides, an omen was an omen.
The day before the trial was to start, I arrived in Punta Gorda, a town of twelve thousand and the only incorporated municipality in all of Charlotte County. Isolated, with few amenities, it had little crime and even less traffic. Unlike its namesake in Belize, Florida’s Punta Gorda was more than ninety-eight percent white. Located in the hot and humid southwest part of the state, it felt like the small southern town it was. Excited but anxious, I splurged on a decent hotel room across from the courthouse. I was on to something. I could feel it.
Early the next morning I stuffed myself on fried ham and grits. Fortification for the day’s proceedings. As I was finishing my coffee, I heard a commotion in the hotel lobby. Curious, I signaled the waiter. Big news. An unexpected plea bargain had been accepted by the defense only moments earlier. There would be no trial. Surprise quickly turned to disappointment. Despite unjustified expectations, I felt deflated. Now what? I paid the check, left a big tip, and wandered around town, killing time for the rest of the morning. Was this some kind of omen as well? Returning to the hotel shortly after noon, I had a few drinks with some of the local reporters in the bar, as we all reflected on what might have been. Then I checked out.
On the road to Tallahassee, depressed and dejected, I smoked a little weed to chill out. Covering the trial had been a cockamamie idea and it had been presumptuous of me to believe I could do it. But the possibilities it presented excited me. A reflection, no doubt, of how badly I needed to change direction. But a significant course correction—at close to the statistical mid-point in my life—was hard to imagine. Unable to do so, I chose instead to ignore my predicament because I had no idea how to resolve it. And so, with the ever-present fear of slipping back into a well-paying job, but a mostly unsatisfying life, I did what I have always done in these situations. I just kept moving.
Belize had been an intriguing, if not a wildly exciting, adventure at best. It hadn’t solved anything. The problems that plagued me when I departed Boston were still along for the ride. They were relentless. They craved attention but received little. My trip had been a wholly unsuccessful attempt to outrun my demons. Was it finally time to turn and face them? Maybe, but I elected instead to prolong my escape from reality by commencing a six-month tour across the country. A stalling tactic to be sure, but a good one. Staying on the road was simply easier than finding the right exit ramp.
I floated through Florida’s panhandle, Louisiana’s bayou, the west Texas hill country, the desert Southwest, California from south to north, the Pacific Northwest into Canada, the Great Plains, the Upper Midwest, the Ohio Valley, New England, and finally the Big Apple. It’d been an interesting trip to say the least, but suddenly I felt the need to get serious. I was now extremely low on funds, my credit card ploy having all but run its course. And New York without money and a place of one’s own is a very tough place. I needed work. The meaning of life would have to wait.
Acknowledgements:
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