On a back road between New Smyrna and Sanford I pulled off to the side in front of a goat farm. A pond sat in the front pasture between the house and the roadside fence. I’d always heard of people asking farmers for permission and it looked fishy and I wanted to try it.
The crushed rock and sand driveway under my feet made loud sounds as I walked to the house, causing the nanny goats and kids to look up from their grazing and I could feel them staring at me behind my back. No one answered when I knocked on the door–I couldn’t find a doorbell button–and I quickened my step going back to the car. I closed the driver-side door against a chorus of bleating. On the road I fell in line behind a truck with the back window covered by a confederate flag.
An immutable law of the universe is that in August, it rains in Florida at 3pm. I knew this as I pulled the rental car over by the money canal near the airport. I tied on a bug against the backdrop of a rapidly darkening sky to the south and west and a quick succession of thunder claps set me to breaking my rod back into four pieces.
The windshield wipers made a syncopated rhythm in lockstep with the heavy rain that beat on the car on the way to the terminal. It finally let up near the parking garage and I looked at my watch. I’d seen a little body of water near the cell phone waiting area, and I still had 30 minutes to clear security.