Because I never really am–it only looks like it. I don’t have the big picture. I don’t own the map home. I simply try my best to follow my path and play my part.

I’m getting moved across the street and down the road. To what we call Deep Hole. It’s a sink hole where all the alligators live. And wild pigs. But they’re far, far away. And I don’t have much of a choice. It’s the peak of tourist season, coming up on Spring Breaks and the snowbirds have all migrated down. I could’ve taken the offer from the ranger at Bill Baggs when he called, but that’s long gone now.

“I’ve had a last minute cancelation if you’d like to come down for a month or two,” he’d offered. A state park with a lighthouse, on Biscayne Bay–just outside of Miami.

“Tempting,” as I proceeded to scan my moral code. But even as somewhat unsure as I was about my current park in the middle of February, I didn’t think I could up and leave. Leaving them in the lurch.

How ironic.

I’ll be isolated, but I’ll probably get a lot of writing done. And I learned, again, that all parks are not my park. I’m not going to fit everywhere. And honestly, when I look at this park and feel how it is to be up in that ranger station, I kind of take that as a compliment.

I thrive in certain environments: open and honest communication, appreciation, an attempt to enjoy oneself while doing a job, The feeling that there’s an ease and a flow, with people connecting and being a team. Having a heart. At least most of the time. My last two parks have not been like that. I’m not really sure what I can do to guarantee I’m at a park like that, either. Vet them better? I spent 45 minutes on the phone with the volunteer coordinator for this park. Get stuff in writing? I could, sure, but that’s no guarantee. Take a new offer as a sign of something about to go down and jump ship, integrity be damned? Possibly. At least take a moment to consider the possibility. Keep trusting that all is working out exactly as it should and always with my best interests and ultimate happiness in mind? Absolutely.

This is a part of it. Being on the road and seeing where it takes me.

Still… I really hate living at an alligator pit.

This too shall pass.

As bad as showing up in Rome without a reservation on an, unbeknownst to me, holiday weekend? Spending my last few days in Australia in a squat, bad? Or hiking around an island off Nicaragua hoping for an opening and sliding into the only one because of a cancelation?

I guess that will remain to be seen. I’m still in the midst and swirl of it all. Things have randomly and radically changed again. And in the place where I am because of the last radical change. The dust hasn’t settled yet. It’s dusty as hell, actually–literally and figuratively. I’m in a state park, the first place I stopped on the maiden voyage of the Starfish Enterprise; going where this woman has never gone before. The Captain’s Log around that star date, about four years ago, would reveal my camper starting on fire a little bit.

Luckily I was outside, watching my-guy-at-the-time do some backing up and trying to learn something. That’s when the sparks really started to fly! And not the good kind. The sway bars hadn’t been put on correctly and the friction rubbed through the power cord plugged into the back of my truck. Sooo, back to the ranch to rewire and re-place those sway bars. Myakka River State Park was the closest and chillest spot–back to nature to balance and calm me. The photo here is after we arrived safely and before the truck wasn’t going to start when we wanted to leave.

We got that figured out, it was a fuse, and motored on in search of filling our now pretty starving stomaches and calming our rattled nerves. Landing at the foot of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, right on the water with sunset giving a show through the dining room window, all was forgiven. Some people may have thrown in the towel. Parked the camper, or maybe sold it. Gone back to good ol’ reliable sticks-n-bricks living. The thought never crossed my mind.

Maybe I have been here before. Maybe I only remember the good stuff. Like forgetting the pains of birth when the urge to have another baby kicks in. The room I finally found in Rome ended up being down the block from the restaurant where my soon-to-be Italian lover worked. While everyone else slept, Ainslee and I smoked joints and waxed lyrical as she painted images ignited and words worth remembering around my chair; in the morning it looked like an art gallery more than a squat. And waking up in a bungalow on the beach with a sunrise I could see from my bed, was how my aversion to making reservations worked out on that island.

I cling to that now, as I’m told there may be no place for me here in March. I hold onto every time it looked like things were really not working out for me. Something was always working in me and in my situation to bring about something better. Bigger.

I got a Christmas card years ago that said,

Sometimes we see only the underside of the tapestry of life.

All knots and gnarls and missteps.

But there is a Master Weaver who sees it from above.

And He weaves according to a plan

I considered and/or went to nine other places before I ended up at Harry’s Grill. It had been a couple years since I’d last been on Anna Maria Island–the place where my tour de Florida first began–and I have only limited time to visit my faves. It’s a bike ride guided by the greatest hits. But The Corona has changed things and so I look more like a pinball bouncing off of things, changing direction, and then bouncing off other things. I’m hungry and the sun is soon setting, so I land.

Mid mahi tacos the sun sets and brushes warm golden hues onto the streaking clouds giving the hibiscus bush I’m half hidden behind a radiant backdrop. Ahhh, it’s good to be back, I tell myself and the island again.

It’s a day that started at an appointment with a CranioSacral practitioner adjusting and opening the flow of my energy ever so gently but oh so powerfully. I’m all loose and peaceful as I back into a parked car. I’m even peaceful as I talk with the officer summoned by the owners of a freshly, ever so slightly, scratched bumper. My beach awaits and I’m stuck on the tarmac waiting for the runway to open.

And open it does, $163 and a scheduled court appearance later. I’m in my Wonder Woman swimsuit cover up so we bounce that seemingly negative experience right off those golden cuffs and again throw our lasso around Anna Maria Island. My first target is the woman who gave me said Amazon princess dress. I had admired it on the back of her bathroom door during a Halloween party and, not being able to find a new one, she gifted it to me for my birthday a couple weeks later. I get such a great range of reactions whenever I wear it–from young girls, comic geeks, a gay guy managing a Shell station in Key West running out to me while I pumped gas and begging me for it.

I’m wearing it as icing on the whole surprise cake and as I walk up the sandy steps of the beach cafe, I really hope she’s working today. With a mask and shades on it’s natural she would recognize the dress first and I watch as her eyes travel from my middle up to my face and she lights up as she hears my voice.

“Starfish!!” she squeals and gives me a big hug. Then she backs away, holds my face in her hands and then hugs me again, harder. I’m quite a bit taller than she is and I can hear her crying into my chest. I reckon someone being so happy to see you that they’re moved to tears is one of the greatest feelings there is.

I’m leaving Harry’s and its twinkle light laced patio so I can make it back to my truck before dark. Like many things in nature, this island is beautiful but dangerous. The bike lanes are either narrow or non-existent and it’s peak season for visitors. Not ending up as a splat on the pavement is always on my mind–that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

As I pull my pimped out for Valentine’s Day bike from the rack, the people at the outside table next to me exclaims, “Ohhh, is that yours? We’ve been admiring it!”

Exchanged pleasantries morph into conversation as I sit on my seat with every intention of riding away. But each sentence spoken triggers another and one thing in common leads to another as the dusk sets in around me and people with apologetic looks walk between us. We talk cats and COVID and travel (the daughter lives in an RV, too) and Grace, laughing and basking in this easy warmth between strangers. I sit perched there as their beers go from full, to half, to suds in an empty glass and I think, I should go several times as the sky continues to dim the lights. And then it comes out that they’re from Wisconsin. I should have known. I feel closer and also farther away from my roots. The pandemic is postponing my planned trip back there this summer like it did last summer, so these three are a really good temporary fix.

We finally break. They stroll to their car and I say a little prayer as I roll off into the night. It was worth it. I ride the main road awhile until I remember I can over a block to a parallel side street that’s less traveled and a lot prettier. I admire the houses; a mix of vintage and new construction and enjoy the quiet–my preference, regardless of mode, is always the prettier way. I think about how we didn’t exchange a way to keep in touch. How unfortunate. And I wonder why they wouldn’t have honked or waved when they passed me back on the main road.

Just then I hear faint calling coming from behind me. It’s them! Evidently they prefer the prettier way, too.

“Hey, we should exchange info!” the daughter starts.

“You inspired us. You were the best part of our day!” the mom leans out the window as they drive away.

I ride on and review the rollercoaster of the day, amazed once again by what at first glance seems like random events only to reveal itself as a divinely orchestrated plan for connection–the ultimate happiness. It’s like watching puzzle pieces fall into place and make a big, beautiful picture.