The adventures of a Florida boy (part 3)

In the 1960s, kids ran as far and wild as their imaginations would take them.

ONE OF AN OCCASIONAL SERIES: My boyhood was spent in Florida in the 1960s on an island called Coquina Key. My parents’ waterfront home overlooked a large expanse of Tampa Bay. Back then, parts of the island were undeveloped, which left plenty of room for climbing trees, digging forts in the sand, and swimming in shark-infested waters (though we didn’t give the latter much thought).

This is part 3 of a random and mostly light-hearted series that I might eventually combine into a memoir. I’m telling these stories to the best of my recollection and changing names and physical descriptions just because it seems like the right thing to do.

“I’m doomed!!!”

My stepdad was an odd sort. He didn’t seem to care about the big things like skipping school or doing drugs. (Not that I did either until I was much older. At the time of this story, I was around 10 years old.) But he was a stickler for little things. For instance, if I was supposed to be home for dinner at 6 o’clock, that did not mean 6:01. If I was even a couple of minutes late, he would let me have it. To this day, I am rarely late to anything. And if I do happen to be running late, I am consumed with anxiety.

Another thing my stepdad didn’t like was having to tell me something twice. One day, my friends and I were throwing a frisbee in my front yard and it ended up on the roof of my house. My stepdad let me climb a ladder and get it, but he made it clear to not play with the frisbee anywhere near the house again.

Which of course, I did.

It was around dusk in late fall, which in 1960s Florida meant cloudy skies and temperatures in the high 70s. At least a dozen of my friends and I were hanging out in the street in front of my house messing around, tossing a football, dribbling a basketball, and throwing a frisbee. My stepdad and mom had gone somewhere—I can’t remember where—but they were expected back soon.

One of my friends caught the frisbee and then unleashed an epic throw. It spun beautifully, rose high into the air, and landed dead-center on our roof. There were audible gasps. All the kids knew my stepdad, and none of them dared mess with him. He wasn’t a physical guy, but his voice was damn scary.

I did what most kids do in situations like this.

PANICKED!

“Why’d you throw it up there?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“What am I going to do?”

“I don’t know!”

“I’m going to tell him you threw it!”

“I’ll lie!”

The clock was ticking. My parents could arrive at any minute. And the frisbee was clearly visible from the driveway.

What to do? What to do???

Then, I was struck by a moment of brilliance. I ran into the garage and brought out one of my fishing poles. It was already rigged with a lure. All I had to do was cast it up there, hook the frisbee, and reel it down to the ground. No harm, no foul!

My first cast was too short. So was my second one. So on the third try, I gave it a little more oomph. Too much oomph! The lure flew clear over the roof and landed in the back yard.

I PANICKED AGAIN!

As I reeled like a madman, the lure caught on the back-yard rain gutter. I tugged and tugged, but it was hopeless. Even as I attempted to overcome this latest conundrum, I heard one of my friends shout, “They’re coming!”

I turned and looked down the road. Sure enough, my parents were driving toward the house, just a minute or two away. I let go of the fishing pole. It dangled off the roof of the house, swaying back and forth. There was no way out.

It was then that I uttered two words that would live in infamy among my friends for years to come.

“I’M DOOMED!!!”

My friends took off running, abandoning me to my fate.

My parents drove into the driveway.

The fishing pole continued to sway.

I have no memory of what happened after that.

Read Part 1

Read Part 2