The Sting

           Mog was trying real hard to keep it together.  But after so much time riding the same road, I knew better.  He seemed to have developed a cough that was getting worse.  I was hoping the warmer climate would help out.

          What a treat to have moist tropical air in December with an ocean warmer than any swimming pool I had ever been in.  The sea was restless and none to clear.  The breeze kept things comfortable on the beach, as the rays pelted my body, oozing the strain of two months of travel out of my limbs.

          Each morning, on my way to my accustomed spot, I would gingerly step my way through hundreds of Portuguese Men of War, like so many sailors' ships of old tossed and blown ashore by the onshore breeze.  Drifting offshore like a water sodden log,  I let the trip, the Mog, the highway ahead, and what had been behind, recede and fade away.  Bobbing like an old cork, pulsating in harmony with the waves, I was weightless and content.

           Searing, white hot pain etched itself in rude reality across my consciousness.  In an instant arms and legs were flailing towards shore leaving in their wake the remnants of my repose and a slightly battered jelly fish which had fired full volley across my chest!  I had just been branded by natures own branding iron.  Writhing in pain, noxiousness creeping in, numbness slowly working its way insidiously up the back of my arms, breath becoming labored withy excruciating pain, I crawled like a wounded animal into the warmth and seeming security of my tent.

           It was little solace to know that few stings are fatal and in a few short hours most symptoms would disappear.

            Days blended in a smooth transition in the warm womb of the Florida Keys, and in later thoughts would be but an instant in time.

           Uneasiness crept into my leisurely pace as time trickled by.  Days spent in shell and seed collecting gave way to concern about the tomorrows.  Anxiety, anticipation, impatience started to dominate my thoughts.  The decision to leave the Keys was made and a quick check of the health of the Mog did little to ease these concerns. 

           Mog and I had a much needed rest but his recovery needed more than just time.  A check list of troubles painted a bleak picture:  timing chain much to loose; wheel bearing going out; steering loosening to absurdity; starter, generator, throw-out bearing, and that every annoying miss coming from the heart of Mog.

           Quickly packing with nervous hurriedness to get the odyssey started and let the cards fall as they may, Mog and I started our dash up the west coast of Florida.  Destination:   Houston.