A PENGUIN IN THE HEAT

     Let me first state that there are no penguins in Canada. Other than the odd gaggle or flock that might inhabit a local zoo, I will once again state unequivocally that there are no penguins in Canada. There might be a chance that some demented collector of the Antarctic species might be harbouring a fugitive bird, but this is the exception to the rule. Canadians do not keep penguins as pets. Furthermore, although we have farms for emus and turkeys, I will boldly predict that a platter of penguin will never adorn a dining table in this country. We Canadians are penguinless and for the sake of political correctness "sans penguin".
    Snowbird, not penguin, is the title bestowed upon northerners who attempt the yearly migration to southern climes. There is a veritable diaspora of snowbirds in the state of Florida that is readily distinguishable from the local flamingos and pelicans. The Sunshine State is famous for its orange juice and theme parks but not for its diaspora of penguins. In fact, I am unaware of the presence of a solitary penguin living freely in the whole of the U.S.A. As a rule, penguins are rarely found anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere. However, I have known a few in the Galapagos Islands that were lured across the equator by the promise of an easier life. Most have returned south disillusioned in their quest for an aquatic Shangri-La.
    I had recently joined the ranks of snowbirds myself after serving a sentence of sixteen years behind the bar of an Irish pub. I had made the mistake of feeding my daughters so that they grew up and removed themselves to some distant corner of the country for more book learning. I was not prepared to spend another winter alone in the frozen tundra, so with my canoe strapped to the roof of my minivan, I had set off down I-75 looking more like an armadillo than a migrating snowbird.
    I decided to come south and sponge off my mom and dad. I took to sponging like a penguin to water, procrastinating with all my chores. Eaves troughs could not be cleaned for several days until the wind velocity and direction were just right. Rooms could not be painted for weeks because of the humidity and susceptibility of latex paint to ultraviolet rays. I was very patient in explaining these scientific phenomena to my parents while I ate them out of house and home.
    Dunedin is one of those picture postcard towns. Disney would be envious of the main street with its quaint shops and manicured parks. It is also the home of spring training for the Toronto Blue Jays. However, since I was there in January, I contented myself on the bike paths and beaches that were relatively deserted at that time of year.
    However, I did not exactly fit in with many of the snowbirds. Many were born when Roosevelt was President (Teddy not Franklin Delano) and were outright hostile to my innovations such as permitting body checking during shuffleboard games. Xenophobia was rampant when the greatest odyssey in most of their lives was navigating the interstates to Florida and back again. The salty dogs were the exception to this rule and a cold Bud could always wrench a hair-raising tale out of them. Two or three Buds would raise the hair higher than a launch from the Kennedy Space Center.
    What we all shared was a loathing of inclement weather, particularly the kind that froze your pipes up and solidified one's bloodstream. The rising costs of utilities returned this blood to boiling proportions. We all agreed that for climatic and economic purposes we were in paradise. There was also a consensus that Canada should acquire some island on the Tropic of Cancer we would not be at the mercy of declining exchange rates. We reasoned that this would depopulate the country for six months of the year except for hockey players and skiing enthusiasts. Besides, the island might be plagued with parasitic penguins from which there was no known antidote.
    I was happily plying a salty dog in our driveway one morning when the call came in. It was from an agent named Sharpy who I had fired several times but had always bounced back with an offer I couldn't refuse. Five star resorts in the Muskokas had turned out to be logging camps in Northern Quebec. Syndicated television appearances had deteriorated into cablecast telethons for his daughter's soccer team. I was skeptical until he told me that he had already faxed the contracts. News spread quickly around the park that I was to be co-starring in a Hollywood musical with Robert DeNiro and Elizabeth Taylor about some murdering penguins in Patagonia.
    Snowbirds and penguins were the farthest things from my mind as I sped down I-75 on a sunny February morning. I had just left my parents' home in Dunedin and had three days to do the six-hour haul to the Port of Miami. There I was to be employed as a musician on one of the shiny new cruise ships doing the grand circle of the Caribbean, graciously denying assistance from Bob and Liz. I had rented a minivan rather than drive my own vehicle, because the ship's itinerary ended in Tampa. This way I could deposit the rental in Miami and not have to return there at the end of the cruise to retrieve my vehicle and a costly parking bill.
    Although I had driven this route many times before, I wanted a few days to poke around and explore the Everglades. If time had permitted, I would have poked around the whole west coast of the Sunshine State that would entail a lot of poking, but I was on a mission. Like many others, I had pretty much confined myself to the white sand beaches around Clearwater as well as the myriad theme parks. I knew that there was a hidden Florida beyond the condos that was begging to be explored at some later time.
    My guide was to be a wiry old fellow by the name of Carlos who ran a camping and canoeing outfit southwest of Miami. I had found his name on the Internet and considered this choice to be less touristy than the others. I had camped in dozen of countries but had never camped in my adopted state. Canada is perhaps the most spectacular country for campers but has a relatively short season unless one relishes frostbite. I had done some fantastic trips in the Serengeti and Palau, as well as many others, so KOA in Florida was just not going to do it for me.
    As I turned east and proceeded across Alligator Alley, I was treated to the sight of several of the highway's namesakes basking at the sides of the road. There are no alligators in Canada either. Sabal palmettos dotted the landscape as I searched for some tropical music on the radio. About an hour later I pulled off at a dusty fruit stand and decided to ask for directions. My excitement rose as an old Seminole woman pointed towards a dubious looking dirt road that disappeared into the marshes. "Tell Carlos that Sally sent you," she said with a smile that seemed to evoke distant memories. After this curious meeting, I set out on my last leg of that day's journey trying hard not to think about penguins


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