I’ve been going to Key West since just after high school, and somehow it continues to feel familiar and new every time I make the trip. I was back again this past July 4th weekend with friends, but my history with this island stretches all the way through my adult life—quiet Christmases when I didn’t want to be home alone, long weekends with people I love, and countless trips just to breathe salt air and reset my head.
I’ve run the circumference of the island more times than I can count. I’ve fished its flats, photographed its beaches, and wandered Duval early in the morning before the crowds return. I still remember the 80s and 90s: the Mallory Square sunset celebrations, the steel-drum players lining the sidewalks, the street magicians, the characters, the energy. I’ve listened to incredible guitar players at Hog’s Breath and found old Cuban refugee boats washed up along Smathers Beach. I’ve driven the Overseas Highway more times than I can even remember—bridges stretching out over water so blue it never looks real—flown into EYW on everything from private planes to commercial flights, and even sailed into Key West Harbor on the way back from Havana.
There’s a reason writers and dreamers gravitated here—Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, Jimmy Buffett, Henry Flagler. Something about Key West sparks creativity, slows life down, and reminds you not to take anything too seriously. It’s a place where the light hits differently, and where the days blur in the best possible way.
This photograph is one of my earlier works, taken around 2008. Every time I look at it, I’m reminded of the sunsets I fell in love with here—the kind that stop you in your tracks, the kind that feel like they belong only to this island at the edge of the world.