We were staying in Key West, the southernmost point of the continental United States, yet we were headed even further south, seventy miles out into the Gulf of Mexico, to a place where the map simply stopped: the Dry Tortugas.
The day on the island was a whirlwind. We snorkeled the coral heads just off the beach, floating above vibrant parrotfish and barracuda, the silence of the underwater world a stark contrast to the hum of the ferry. We walked the moat, peering into the crystal clear water at the cannons that once guarded the harbor. We toured the fort, climbing to the top of the parapet where Dr. Samuel Mudd was once imprisoned, looking out over the endless sea. yankee freedom iii dry tortugas ferry
We rushed to the rail. A pod of twenty dolphins was surfing the bow wake, their sleek gray bodies arcing through the water with effortless grace. They moved so fast, turning and spinning in the air. It was a reminder that while we were tourists in a metal tube, this was their home. The Yankee Freedom III sat idling in the swell, allowing us to soak it in. It was a moment of magic that the schedule didn't account for, a gift from the sea. We were staying in Key West, the southernmost
And then, even that vanished.