As much as we both value our personal daily routines, neither of us are rigid taskmasters driven to achieve daunting to-do lists day after day simply for the sake of accomplishment. Although if you ask Ashley, I may act like that on occasion. Nevertheless – when the days with visitors in January outnumbered the days without, we practiced flexibility while still finding time to do those core activities important to each of our lives. Cecil had been stationary for over two months at this point, the longest we’d been parked in one location since embarking on this RV adventure in early 2017. Whether or not we can still be described as full-time travelers and RVers is a matter for your private debate should the issue arise around the dinner table or local watering hole.

Ashley’s father arrived at his southernmost fish camp early in the month, bringing with him the prospect of proper fishing trips on a real boat rather than my usual kayak excursions and only the occasional fish or two to show for my efforts. The weather typically had other plans, but we managed to squeeze in a bit of fishing when the winds laid down long enough to get the boat off the lift. Remember the fish tale from last year? We recreated that day, to some extent, when the forecast indicated calm seas and blue skies. Heading offshore after a slight delay thanks to an extended attempt at filling the fuel tank (Key West Time is real, don’t be in a rush to do anything down here because you’ll undoubtedly wind up waiting on someone else), we motored for miles scanning the horizon for anything holding even the vaguest promise of potential fish.

After an hour or so of cruising into the deep blue, we eventually spotted a weed line in the distance – our best chance at finding a school of elusive mahi-mahi (or “dolphin” but definitely not the Flipper variety) while we employed the “run and gun” technique. Oh yeah – if you don’t want to read about fishing, you might want to skip ahead at this point. Rather than trolling, in which you pull lures behind the boat while slowly moving at a steady speed, or jigging, in which you constantly drop weighted lures down close to some sort of structure and reel in quickly in the hope of attracting a fish, we were hopping from spot to spot essentially hunting where fish could be hiding. See a bobbing buoy on the horizon? Let’s check it out, might be fish there! Weed line, two o’clock – wouldn’t hurt to try!

A lawn chair floating in the middle of a weed cluster caught our collective eye. Here we were, over 20 miles from shore, with a lone plastic deck chair bobbing in the sea. Three Atlantic tripletail floated on the chair, an odd tableau of legless marine life lounging on lawn furniture. These fish are known to float just below the surface of the water with one side exposed to the sun, mimicking floating debris. We weren’t necessarily searching for tripletail, but the sight of a few fish usually indicates the presence of more. Sure enough, the telltale flashes of iridescent blue accented with florescent yellow lit the clear water below – we finally found a school of mahi.

Rob eased the boat into position while Tony – another visitor in town for a bit of the famed Keys fishing – and I grabbed fishing rods. I began tying flies this past fall, inspired by all the trout fishing in New Mexico. I prepared for this particular outing a few days prior by tying a bunch of blue and white bucktail jigs, apparently the preferred “flavor” for mahi in the Florida Keys. Armed with one of these simple yet effective jigs, I cast into the school and was hooked up within seconds. Tony worked the other side of the boat with a bright chartreuse jig which was quickly gulped down by another hungry mahi. Two dolphin on the line with dozens more darting through the water. Ever the patient facilitator, Rob didn’t even have a line in the water at this point as he stood ready to move the boat if necessary and land our hooked fish after the fights were over.

When hooked, mahi fight vigorously with fast, long runs pulling line off your reel and showy, acrobatic leaps over the water. And really, I’m sure we’d react the same way if captured and forcibly ejected from our natural environment. These particular fish did not disappoint, and both Tony and I worked to bring in our mahi as they pulled line and jumped high into the air. Tony had his to the side of the boat first, and Rob was ready with the gaff to haul it aboard. I was focused on fighting my fish that I didn’t even notice the carnage on deck. Mahi bleed profusely and Tony’s fish was apparently doing its best to paint the boat while he wrestled it into the iced fish box.

The mahi at the end of my line was far from tired, and I chased it around the boat struggling to keep it hooked with enough pressure to wear it out without pulling too hard and accidentally snapping the line. You may dismiss this next statement as a typical angler’s exaggeration, but this particular mahi was bigger than what I caught last year, which Rob confirmed by sight when I finally brought it close enough to the boat.

But this fish was clearly more intelligent than the person holding the rod. While it seemed played out and ready for the ice box, the crafty mahi still had a reserve of explosive strength ready to deploy. I held the rod tight, straining to keep the dolphin at the surface. As soon as the gaff merely brushed its side, the mahi thrashed violently, shaking its broad head side to side in rapid succession. Because I had so much tension on the rod and thanks to the sharp angle in which I held it (experienced anglers will quickly realize this as “high sticking” and would avoid it at all costs), the last foot or so of the hollow fiberglass rod snapped in two and the mahi managed to either wear through or simply break the line. At this point, Rob claims that I exclaimed, “Damn!” but I don’t really remember anything except seeing that hefty beast by the side of the boat one second and then staring at a broken rod in the next. The fish won freedom and kept my hand-tied bucktail jig as a trophy, while I forced my body through the motions of grabbing another rod.

The entire school disappeared in a flash. We weren’t prepared with handfuls of chunk bait or scoops of pilchards to throw in the water to keep them feeding close to the boat. We searched in vain trying to find another school and even resorted to trolling a bit (which, frankly, is fairly boring) with no more fish to show for our efforts. With one beautiful mahi in the box, we began the long boat ride back home. Rob got Tony started on cleaning his mahi, as I lamented my loss while cleaning the boat.

My parents arrived in Key West for the second half of January, departing the frigid north during the tail-end of a snowstorm blanketing southeastern Pennsylvania and northern Maryland on the morning of their flight. Having visited Key West during a cruise years before, they had already seen bits of downtown but I was hoping to show them around more thoroughly thanks to the luxury of time. They hit the popular attractions like the Hemingway House, the Key West Butterfly Conservatory, and the Truman Little White House, in addition to some of the slightly lesser-known attractions in the Lower Keys like the always exciting Big Pine Flea Market, the quaint Sugarloaf Tiki Lodge, and the notorious Blue Hole (as covered in this post from last year).

Our trip to the Blue Hole did not disappoint, as we spotted the two alligators who call the Blue Hole home up close by the viewing dock, as well as a Key deer grazing in the middle of the afternoon. My dad ate his weight in Key lime pie during their visit, both chocolate-dipped on a stick and in its more natural habitat – on a plate. We even took the kayaks out for a paddle, despite my mom’s hesitation, yet she seemed to have fun and not drown (which was one of her concerns when we talked about kayaking). My dad and I paddled a bit more, eventually making the trek from the Geiger Marina to Tamarac Park, which may seem a bit daunting for your first or second time in a kayak. Although the weather did not allow for good fishing, we threw lines into the canal one day and my mom caught (and released) a small mangrove snapper. Ashley and I gave my parents a little glimpse into our lives here, and I was able to play music on multiple occasions during their days in the islands. They’ve since returned to Pennsylvania and I hear the snow might be melting enough by now to see out of the windows once again.

The local firehouse museum held their annual fundraiser on a Friday evening in downtown Key West, and I was invited to play with “Sweet Harriet” Riendeau, a singer and songwriter from New Hampshire spending winter in the Keys. She performed her mix of classic country, a little bluegrass, folk, and her original songs while I accompanied with mandolin and sax. The event was a shining example of the small-town spirit prevalent in an otherwise tourist-driven city. Key West doesn’t have to be all Duval, all the time; community is strong here if you know where to look.

Although our RV may be hibernating in a sense, our days remain filled with activity as though we were still in active travel mode. We might not necessarily call the Keys home, but welcoming visitors to the islands and seeing people arrive and depart more quickly than we are sure makes us feel more like locals. This past winter has been a polar opposite of the summer – the weather may still be warm and sunny, but suddenly we’re no longer the transient travelers just passing through an area. We’re becoming part of the community and sharing our everyday experiences with other travelers. The change in perspective may just help us empathize with the friends and family we visit this coming summer once we’re back on the road.

And for those of you commiserating in the loss of the hooked mahi from earlier, fear not – I still caught one in January. Maybe not as big as the one that got away, but satisfying nonetheless.