He woke up face first in the sand and wrapped like tamale in a bed sheet. Staggering off the beach and onto the only strip of hard surface from Miami to Joe’s in Key West. This was early morning Islamorada, sand on the blacktop, sun rising on the centerline of highway 1, and a cerebral pounding resembling Ringo’s bass drum.
Auto pilot steered him into the diner, which doubled as a laundry mat. Remember back in the day when you stuffed squares of mantequilla in between each hotcake? She spun on to the counter stool next him. She wore poorly measured blue jean cutoffs over sun brown legs, a small tight tee-shirt, dirt-blonde hair, and one sandal.
An Ivy League education, and an incredible passion for marine life, and the protection of the same, landed her on a house boat at a local marina. Too many wash cycles, and refills of joe, allowed them to mix and match their mutual interests. He had never fallen so fast.
Later, he leaned against the rail at the stern of the floating rental, watching her hang her clean clothes on the line to dry in the mid-morning sun. The syrup stain on her tee-shirt was a distraction, so she removed it.
The line of clothes blocked sight from the long floating pier that led to where they parked their Harleys. She had revealed much, but left out the part about her boyfriend. As he hustled past the four leather looking dudes pounding down the gangway, he sensed his chance of escape before detection of his piracy, was about 45 seconds. 
One can imagine his surprise to see his two friends, last seen in the Tiki Bar the night prior, were parked in their ugly orange Nova, just above the marina. As he dove into the back seat and shouted to get the hell out of there, they just glanced back from the front seat and knew he had been up to something, again.
