It’s amazing how far some Key West residents will go in the name of hospitality.
Take me, for instance. In the early 1980s I hung out with a crowd that, because of some members’ illicit occupations, tried to maintain a low profile. But that wasn’t possible the night Moses arrived at Dog Beach.
Before becoming a prophet, Moses was famed Nashville-based photographer Slick Lawson. With credits that included a Jimmy Buffett album cover shoot, Slick got religion after being internally baptized with Barbancourt rum. Unfortunately, he was my guest at the time.
Of course, many people have had religious experiences in Key West’s taverns and other places of worship. Few, however, have attempted to part the Atlantic Ocean and lead a flock to Cuba.
It all began quite innocently. Slick, our crowd and I headed for Louie’s Backyard, planning to have an after-dinner drink on the renowned restaurant’s oceanside cocktail deck.
The plan went awry as soon as Slick spotted the small stretch of sand beside the deck.
Called Dog Beach, it was a spot where dogs could frolic in the water, chase Frisbees or coconuts, and sniff their friends’ tails. Every evening, dogs and their owners gathered there — the pooches to play and their owners to watch and chat.
By the time we arrived, the dogs had dispersed for the night. The tide was out, and the Atlantic was still and clear as Russian vodka. The sandy bottom stretched invitingly toward Cuba, while the full moon overhead shone pale as bone.
A full moon is commonly blamed for bizarre behavior in many places. But in Key West, where bizarre behavior is the norm, a full moon is lethal. A full moon in Key West could make Mother Teresa do the cancan.
Its effect on Slick Lawson was instant. Muttering something about the Red Sea, he walked as if he’d received a divine call — down the beach and straight into the water.
Naturally, I followed. The man was my guest. And given my friends’ desire to avoid the spotlight, a newspaper headline like “Prominent Photographer Drowns While Key Westers Do Nothing” would hardly be appreciated.
When I reached the water, trailed closely by the others, the errant photographer was up to his waist and had assumed an entirely new persona.
“Come, my children,” he intoned. “I will part the waters and lead you to Cuba.”
He swooped down on a 5-foot piece of submerged PVC pipe, waved it triumphantly aloft, and headed for the open sea.
It was a stirring sight. Though I had no desire to walk to Cuba, Slick’s compadres followed this southernmost Moses like an obedient flock. Once again mentally reviewing possible newspaper headlines, I splashed resignedly along behind them.
Suddenly the air was filled with a raucous noise. Moses had discovered that, by blowing through his PVC pipe, he could create a squawking sound like a conch shell being blown. Only louder. Much louder.
Once we were all thoroughly wet — and had expressed our dislike of the PVC concert — the excitement of leading a flock apparently had paled. Moses turned and waded toward the unused boat ramp leading to the cocktail deck at Louie’s.
Demanding strong drink, he delivered a surprisingly coherent Sermon on the Ramp. Then, gesturing back to the water, he leaned toward his fascinated audience and prodded with a twinkle, “Now, tell me the truth. I know I didn’t really part the Atlantic Ocean — but don’t you think I dented it a little?”
It’s amazing how far some Key Westers will go in the name of hospitality. I, however, had gone far enough. After urging Moses and his flock safely ashore, I left them on the newly hallowed sands of Dog Beach.
