Bobby Akart - First Strike

He slid his hands into the pockets of his white linen pants. Hank didn’t have a uniform per se, but if he did, white linen pants topped with a Tommy Bahama camp shirt would be it. No shoes required. He looked and dressed the part of a retired islander with sun-kissed skin, bleach-blond hair, and a slightly weathered face courtesy of years of exposure to the sun and salty sea.

Hank, however, was not retired. He operated the Driftwood Key Inn, a property on the National Register of Historic Places, built by the Albright family in the early 1920s. The inn, which was more of a village, actually, was situated on a twenty-eight-acre island in the heart of the Middle Keys just west of Marathon.

Driftwood Key was unique in that it was not located directly on State Road A1A, a north-south Florida highway that runs along the Atlantic Ocean from Key West to Fernandina Beach at the Georgia border. Many a crooner had belted out a song about A1A, providing imagery of swaying palm trees and margaritas to music lovers.

The Albright property was an anomaly in the Keys. It was only accessible by a private bridge that connected it to the much larger Vaca Key. It was exclusive as room rates go, yet all-inclusive, meaning it was an expensive property to visit, but its guests were provided everything they needed for their stay.

Throughout Driftwood Key were nineteen self-catered cottages complete with kitchens and all the amenities. Food was delivered to the guests daily by the inn’s staff or, at their option, they could have dinner with Hank and other guests in the main house.

The private beach and stunning freshwater swimming pool were surrounded by native palm trees and vegetation. The mature growth, coupled with the ever-present breezes off the gulf, allowed guests to completely block out any sound or light emanating from the other keys.

Hank loved his home and business. He understood why people were drawn to the warm, maritime climate of the southernmost part of the U.S. Who could argue with a beachfront umbrella, toes in the sand, and a cold drink in hand? Most couldn’t and were willing to spend their entire budget on a multi-thousand-dollar stay at the Driftwood Key Inn.

Hank mindlessly kicked at the sand that morning as he spoke to his wife, a daily ritual since she’d died of breast cancer eight years ago. He still missed her, and coming out to the beach with the break of dawn was his way of keeping her close to his heart. The sadness and despair over her loss had passed years ago. There were constant memories of her throughout Driftwood Key. A random flower garden planted here. A secluded hammock hung there. These reminders didn’t torture Hank. They allowed him to hold her close to his heart.

“Good morning, Mr. Hank!” a voice cheerily announced.

Hank turned to greet Jimmy Free, the youngest son of Sonny and Phoebe, who had worked for the Albright family since they were young. The entire staff at the inn referred to him as Mr. Hank. Early on, he tried to force them to call him Hank. Heck, he’d grown up with most of them, and attaching the word mister to his name didn’t seem right. Nonetheless, out of respect, once he took over the inn’s operations, they began to refer to him as Mr. Albright. Hank pitched a fit, and finally a compromise was struck. It was agreed that he would be henceforth referred to as Mr. Hank.

Jimmy, like the rest of his family, who’d worked on Driftwood Key for generations, was of Seminole Indian descent. Their ancestors had immigrated to southern Florida in the late eighteenth century and had been employed by merchants after the railroad was built. The Frees were one of the largest Seminole families in the Keys. Jimmy’s aunt, Lindsey Free, was the mayor of Monroe County.

“Good morning, Jimmy,” Hank greeted heartily. He genuinely liked the young man who’d just taken over the water sports activities at Driftwood Key. Jimmy was one of the many young men who grew up involved in all manners of water activities, from fishing to diving to beach games. His zest for life was addictive, which made him a favorite of the inn’s guests.

He handed Hank a red Solo cup with a straw protruding out of it. “Mom asked me to bring this to you.”

Hank took the cup and looked at the concoction. It was adorned with a pineapple slice.

“It’s a little early for cocktails, don’t you think?”

“Said no one ever,” replied Jimmy with a toothy grin. The young man’s joke was surprising in light of the fact Jimmy had never had a drink in his life as far as Hank knew.

He shrugged and took a tentative sip. His eyebrows rose, and he nodded his head with approval. He sucked it down in earnest the second time around.

He raised the cup in the air. “Hell yeah. I approve. What is it?”

“It’s a new breakfast smoothie Mom’s trying out. She added flax seed, papaya, banana, and protein powder. Hella good, right?”

Hank laughed as he took another sip. The icy-cold drink gave him a mild attack of brain freeze.

“Hella good,” he repeated Jimmy’s words.

Jimmy began to unpack his scuba bag containing fins, mask and a snorkel, although he rarely used it. He was capable of holding his breath under water for nearly ten minutes, five times the average person.

“I’m gonna empty out the lobster traps and then get everything set up for the backgammon tournament.” The inn had set up dozens of traps around the island to catch Caribbean spiny lobster. Jimmy also liked to dive near the reefs and catch them by hand.

“Fins up, Jimmy!”

The young man provided Hank a thumbs-up and began to jog down the beach. Hank turned toward the main house just as the sun was peeking through the palm trees on the east side of the island. It was gonna be another glorious day in paradise.

Friday, October 18

Driftwood Key

Hank turned up the smoothie and made sure to consume every drop. He would encourage Phoebe to make this a part of his daily routine if she had time. Hank rarely stopped for breakfast in the morning unless some of the Albright family stayed overnight or a notable guest happened to be in residence.

He bounded up the broad, sand-covered steps leading to the porch of the main house. The sand covered part of the porch, a wood deck covered with an upper balcony and kept cool with numerous ceiling fans that also served to shoo away mosquitos during the summer months. Hank glanced to his left and greeted the man who truly kept the inn running smoothly.

“Whadya say, old man?” he said with a laugh.

“Not as much as you, old man, but my words of wisdom are worth listening to,” Sonny Free shot back.

Since they were boys, the two men had grown up together as brothers just as close as Hank was to his actual brother, Mike. Hank enjoyed all things water, and Sonny had spent much of his time understanding the unique ecosystem of the Florida Keys. While in high school together, they were in an American literature class that taught Ernest Hemingway’s works, including The Old Man and The Sea . Sonny referred to Hank as the old man in the sea, and Sonny was playfully called the old man on the land. The nicknames had been used between the two men for thirty-five years.

Sonny noticed the empty cup in Hank’s hand. “I see you got a serving of my missus’s new concoction. Could you taste the secret ingredient?”

Hank was puzzled because he thought he could identify the fruit and even the hint of vanilla from the protein powder. “Which one?”

“Conch, naturally.”

“Really. I swear I couldn’t taste it.” Conch, which didn’t have a strong flavor, usually left a bit of a salty aftertaste. Its rubbery texture must’ve been obliterated in the blender. “Why would she add conch?”