An Occasional Rat

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St. Petersburg was exactly what I wanted, warm, lazy, clean. So far the first couple days I stayed under rover, sleeping late and sprawling on the white beach at Gulfport all afternoon. I eyed the blondes, watched the ripples chase each other across the warm blue waters of Boca Ceiga bay, and looked sleepily into the distance, where the keys ringing in the bay were darker humps of blue against the peaceful horizon.

Then the third afternoon I got to seeing things. The pelicans were Liberators and Flying Forts; the wheeling gulls were Corsairs — or screaming, diving Zeros. The white beach and lazily nodding palms brought a burning vision to my mind of a tiny dot in the Pacific, an island no one had ever heard of until a few guys — I among them — had bought the island from the little yellow monkeys of Japan with blood and sweat and angrily whining lead. That afternoon I decided to go back to work.

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