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Goodbye backache and jet-lag! It is largely nostalgia, though, why I chose to live in Key Biscayne. My mother would rent a bungalow — low to the ground, thick concrete walls, nothing glamorous — for reunions of our Cuban family.
Later, my own children, now at university, summered here, too. It was always slightly chaotic, but served the best milkshakes and ham croquettes. The Cuban waiters, preternaturally cheerful and friendly, knew our names. The simplicity of those summer days has long gone. Over the past two decades, the Key has transformed itself from a laid-back beach town into an uber-wealthy enclave.
It is also sinking as sea levels rise. Most of the bungalows that dotted the Key — even Nixon had one — have been razed. In their place have risen modernist McMansions, with elevated floors to protect against flooding; quarters for white-uniformed servants around the back; and ground-floor parking for the SUVs and sports cars of the Latin American rich.
Still, it is possible to lead a simple island life. My two-bedroom apartment is on the fifth floor of a modest building across the main road from the fire station and supermarket. My aunt, who moved down from New Jersey 23 years ago, and my cousin, who followed from New York shortly after, live downstairs. We coexist with a conviviality that is part coincidence, part out of extended Latin family tradition.
All of which helps keep things real. From here, I trampoline around the region, tethered through the ether to the FT. It is a roving and rather rootless life, although no more so than many other executives and workers who seem to treat Miami the same way.
They launch themselves into Latin America every Monday and return to their families on the Friday. There is the Global Entry-assisted swish through immigration at Miami airport; the half-hour cab ride along the Route 95 flyover that snakes through the illuminated skyscrapers downtown; the short drive across the Rickenbacker Causeway and through the dark avenue of trees of Crandon Park.
Then the palms outside my building, the now near-permanent puddle by the front door that is an inconvenient reminder of climate change; up the elevator, kick off the shoes; home!
I sometimes have to pinch myself that I live here. Most days have an early start. First out in the morning light — I see them from my balcony as I check overnight emails — are the joggers. Next come mothers on their school runs in electric buggies, ready-dressed in Lululemon spandex for their Pilates and yoga classes.
Leaf-blowers and palm frond pruners — small armies of gardeners — complete the morning routine. In the evenings, I walk to the lighthouse at the end of the point. The weather is unmatchable, six months of the year. Mostly nobody, with the exception of sun-starved British tourists, visits then.
For all of the new developments, there is still a s innocence to the Key. Sometimes, I swear I hear Bee Gees music on the evening breeze. But there can also be a claustrophobic smugness to it all, wrapped around a yawning vacuousness. It is in the perfectly trimmed hedgerows, perfectly toned bodies and self-entitled rudeness of the Latin well-to-do.
In high summer months, researchers have counted up to boats ringing a single group of orcas. How much the love-fest cramps the orcas' style is an ongoing debate. Researchers have tracked subtle changes in behavior when more than 15 boats come near the whales. The animals might change direction, make sharp turns, dive deeper, come up less often to breathe and forage less.
Researcher Bob Otis, a behavioral psychology professor from Wisconsin, has spent 17 summers studying how boat traffic affects orcas in a zone off San Juan Island. In 9, hours of orca observation, he and his crew counted orca pec slaps, cartwheels, 1, spyhops, 6, tail slaps and 3, breaches. In all the tallying, he still can't figure out why an orca breaches, or predict when it's going to happen.
And surface activity is only a tiny piece of the behavioral puzzle. Granny and her tribe spend 95 percent of their time underwater, out of human view. Maybe it's the not knowing that fuels the killer whale mystique. Devotees can't get enough of Orcinus orca. They long for connection. The boldest have set out in float tubes, inflatable kayaks, even air mattresses seeking eye-to-eye encounters.
One professor in Nevada decided to bring his students to San Juan Island to swim with killer whales, a project that luckily was halted by police. Sometimes, it's orcas, not humans, that make the first moves. Two lost killer whales that made international headlines -- Canada's famous orphaned orca Springer and our wayward southern resident Luna -- sought out human contact when they were separated from their pods.
The lonely, highly social animals followed boats, bumped them, even rubbed up against them. Humans successfully reunited Springer with her tribe in Luna, from L-Pod, didn't make it. The young male orca -- believed by a tribe of First Nation natives to embody the spirit of their deceased chief -- died this March when he was sucked into the prop of a large ocean tugboat.
Orca advocates went into mourning. They threw flowers on the water, wrote elegies to the "brave little whale. Mary Getten on Orcas Island says she telepathically communicates with southern resident orcas. In a talk with Granny, she asks about porpoises "harassing" J-1, Ruffles. The killer whales have shown up -- and chowed down -- for more than half the concerts. The choir's harmonies mix with their vocalizations, heard through hydrophones placed underwater, as the sun turns apricot and melts over Haro Strait.
They get such a bad impression of us, with our irritating and interfering noises," West said. One day, he was motoring out of Admiralty Inlet across the Strait of Juan de Fuca when he ran into a thick blanket of fog. Within 10 minutes, the southern residents converged on his boat, crowding around.
There were more than 80 whales, some only inches from the hull. Granny was among them. The old one and her family swam slowly with the boat for two hours, until the fog cleared.
Were they guiding the boat around shallow shoals? The year was , the same year Worldwatch Institute reported that seven out of 10 scientists believed we were experiencing "the largest mass extinction of species in history. Munro joked that J-6's family would arrive precisely in time for the ceremony's start.
As if on cue, Granny's family appeared directly offshore, just as Munro was about to launch into the introduction to his "Goodbye to Ralph" speech.
Munro didn't have a chance.
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