Warm weather destinations in winter shall continue indefinitely, no debate necessary. This trip was just further, undeniable proof, that I am meant to live by a beach. Someone alert my future real estate agent… Oh wait, we already have one and bought our lot! And for once, we stayed in the country for a trip. The journey itself was a whole production — husband, mother-in-law, three dogs, and me, all packed into the truck for the drive down from Stuart. Somehow we all arrived in one piece, only slightly wrinkled and smelling faintly of dog. For one glorious week, the impossibly charming Duck Key became home. Tiny, quiet, and stitched together by little bridges — the kind of place where the biggest decision of the day is whether to nap before or after the second cocktail.
Iguanas ruled the island like tiny prehistoric landlords, sunning themselves on rocks and seawalls like they owned the place (and they did). Mornings blurred into afternoons of fishing, snorkeling, and the kind of sunshine that makes you forget what winter even is. The water did that impossible turquoise thing it only does in the tropics, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time just staring at it like it owed me money.
Duck Key itself was mostly quiet residential streets and waterfront homes doing their best magazine cover impression. Commercial anything was basically an afterthought, which honestly felt like the whole point. One restaurant, Angler & Ale, held down the fort as the island’s sole dining establishment, tucked right along a dock like it knew exactly how good it had it. There’s also Hawk’s Cay Resort & Villas — the island’s one nod to “mini resort” life, but beyond that? Nothing, no strip malls, no chain anything, no distractions. Just houses, water, and the occasional iguana traffic jam.
I made a habit of daily walks around the island, slow loops past waterfront homes that had me doing quiet math in my head to determine if I could ever afford one. Gorgeous doesn’t even cover it — many homes looked like they belonged in a magazine article entitled “Ways to Feel Inadequate About Your Own Backyard.”
One afternoon, the mother-in-law and I ditched the boys (aka. husband and Yeti monster) for a little island hopping shopping excursion, poking through boutiques on a neighboring cay. Nothing says vacation bonding quite like browsing overpriced sundresses and pretending you’re not going to buy the third one you tried on (I bought the third one). Because I’m the perfect wife that I am, I even got the husband two absurdly priced shirts for his troubles (by troubles, I clearly mean tolerating my daily antics).
We set out snorkeling under a sky that had clearly not gotten the “Florida Keys” memo — cold, gray, and drizzling just enough to feel almost ominous, like the ocean was daring us to get in anyway. Of course, we did. The visibility wasn’t exactly postcard-worthy, more murky with a chance of fish than crystal clear paradise. By the time we climbed back onto the boat, the clouds had finally given up their moody act and burned off into full sunshine. The crew chummed the water and suddenly a whole swarm of bright yellow fish materialized out of nowhere, darting and swirling around us like they’d been waiting backstage for their cue. Not the best snorkeling of our lives, but sometimes a school of hungry, sunshine colored fish is all the redemption a rainy day needs.
Every evening wound down into cocktail hour because… vacation. Something about a sunset and a cold drink makes all your problems feel very far away, or at least very small. Each of those evenings, I attempted to capture the fading light in slow motion on my phone. Same ritual every time… poised on the trees at the back of our rental with my phone perched on my tripod. And then the clouds showed up uninvited to ruin it. Rolling in right on cue like they had a personal vendetta against my camera roll. Just as the sky started doing its best fiery orange performance, some smug little cloud bank would drift directly into frame and swallow the show whole. Even my creative threats at the sky fell on deaf ears. Finally, on the final night in this perfect little key, the clouds gave me the break I needed, revealing a gorgeous sunset.
A week of sun, salt, snorkels, iguanas, and quality time with people and pups. Duck Key, thank you for having us.
December 2024