Pompano and circumstance, both bad and good

I meant to write this entry the minute I got back from my impromptu trip. I was afraid as time passed that my strange journey down the Florida Gulf coast would just get filed away into the memory bank of other trips and that shouldn't happen.

Before I headed down to Mobile to the wedding of my former neighbor and one of my best childhood friends, Jeb Pittard, my psychic adviser and hair cutter lady told me I should parlay this trip into a beach trip and I took her advise, as I usually do.

Since I didn't have to back in Birmingham until Thursday afternoon, I headed down Highway 98, the scenic and partially ultra-commercial strip of Florida that I've known most of my life. My destination was Apalachicola, the home of Jeb's uncle who, at the reception, told me I should drive down. All is well, the world the seems like a good place, the sky is blue and weather is breezy. It was like a "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" kinda day except he escaped trouble.

I noticed what looked like smoke coming out of my hood in Destin and was lucky in the fact that this is one of the most commercial areas along 98. The thermostat was past hot, for how long I don't know. I was in a state of bliss that can only be brought about by smelling salt air. Stopping at a gas station, I lifted the hood as my stomach simultaneously dropped -- a huge gash in the radiator. I knew it wasn't good. I called my friend, co-worker and car guru, Chris Tutor, and knew the prognosis would probably be bad, but wanted to hear it from him -- you need a new radiator.

Being the tech savy Internet guy, he found a place I could take it less than a quarter mile away. This was good since I was running beyond hot. The estimate was $500 and while my gut further sank as did my optimism about my beach trip, this wasn't the worst of it. While my car was being serviced, I found an ATM to check my account balance and discovered $700 missing. Luckily I had some money in savings and was able to do an emergency transfer over the phone to cover the car repair, but while on the phone with the bank, I was introduced to Mr. Devon Johnson -- a fake man, with fake checks, but with my account information on them. Bastard!

He wrote three of them in Atlanta in one day. The bank manager I later spoke thinks a check of mine was simply stolen from a cash register in Birmingham and he was off to the races, at least for one day.

The sun was setting, I was angry and not willing to continue driving all the way to Apalachicola fearing another pitfall since they do all seem to happen in threes. It was after business hours so I had no way to go into a Regions branch, report fraud and cancel my banking account so I opted to make the most of the situation and stop in the cheesiest commercial wasteland on the Gulf -- Panama City Beach. It being off season, I got a cooler of beer, a cheap beach front room and opened the sliding glass door to let the air in and all again seemed right in the world.

The rest of the trip was pure beach bliss once I made it to Apalachicola. The beach at St. George was beautiful and sparsely populated. Jeb's uncle David took me fishing in his boat in the sound between St. George and Little St. George where we caught pompano, croaker and sea bass. I got my fill of fresh seafood though not quite enough of the beach so I'm planning on another trip this summer. All's well that ends well the cliché goes and I'm back to the relative boredom that is everyday life, but I'll take it for now. I've had enough adventure to last me a little while.