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Florida is flat. The entire state is flat. The highest point in the entire state is Britton Hill, elevation 435 feet above sea level. The lowest highest point of all 50 states. South Florida is even flatter than the mountainous north of the state. This is one of the things that I dislike about down here.
Forget about how flat Florida is for a while. We will get back to it soon enough (edit: or not but eventually. i sort of promise)
My friend George and I got the chance to drive some boats across the country to San Diego for a race. “Got the chance” was a euphemism for “foolishly volunteered for what was a suicide mission.” The boats belonged to some people in the Bahamas. I still wonder how close I came to being on America's Most Wanted either as the villian or the victim. The van and trailer we were driving belonged to some guy who lived in Georgia. The van belonged to a nice enough sounding guy who was an aerospace engineer. In my mind I pictured a very meticulous gentleman in a white lab coat. The reality of it was he was one of the get your hands dirty type who wouldn't think much of climbing out on the wing of of an airplane in flight to do a little bit of maintenance on the engine. The van was sold shortly after George and I returned it. I am pretty sure that some one bought it, did a lot of work fixing it up nicely and then wrote “Free Candy” on the side of it and its picture is now making the internet rounds.
The van had a multitude of issues that might scare the hell out of a normal person but were perfectly normal for someone who thought nothing of on the fly aircraft repair. The steering wheel acted more as a suggestion box than as a control. The engine “ate” oil. A lot of it. It was a mystery. It never leaked oil and there was never any telltale smoke in the exhaust of oil being burned. I concentrated more on the steering problems. “HOLY SHIT WE ARE BURNING OIL” was never as crucial as “HOLY SHIT WE ARE GOING TO HIT THAT SEMI”
I think it was some sort of insurance scam as the boat owners seemed genuinely shocked and dismayed when George and I showed up with everything intact in San Diego and then doubly so when we made it all the way back to meet the cargo ship to take the boats back to the Bahamas. Our adventures in the van included the oil, the steering, corroded battery cables, leaking fuel pump, getting stuck a few miles up a desert road, and losing the all the lights on the back of the van and the trailer.
The trip to San Diego was 2,600 miles give or take a few detours, some planned, some whimsical, some just because the van didn't always take our steering suggestions. We rested a few days. Played in the surf and enjoyed the laid back beach vibe. George is a good surfer. I wallowed about trying not to get “saved” by the lifeguards or run over by the surfers who spent more time riding their boards than under them.
Once our hands relaxed from the white knuckled death grip they had become frozen in from the trip from Miami, we decided the only natural thing to do during the down time in a road trip was to... take another road trip. We figured that a rental car would make much more sense. Part of our itinerary was to Yosemite. Minus the need to tow a few thousand pounds worth of boats and trailer, not having to negotiate with the van over steering decisions while going around mountain roads seemed well worth the extra cost...
(I am getting to the part where Florida being flat comes into play.)
