3 Mango Bay

by Bill Myers

  “You'll get three months free rent and all you have to do is sniff around and see if you can figure out why the place isn't making money. And to keep your cover from being blown, you'll want to check out problems with the park’s wifi.

  “With your computer background, the wifi part should be easy.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem.”

  Anna pointed to the clock over the kitchen sink. “You've got less than two hours to check in over there. So shower, shave, and go.

  “Call me tonight. Tell me how it went.”

  She turned and headed for the door.

  “Anna, wait. I really appreciate you finding me a place. So thanks. But I've got a feeling there's more to this than what you've told me.”

  She smiled. “You're right. There is one thing I may have left out. Serenity Cove is a clothing optional resort.”

  With that bombshell, she left before I could ask any more questions.

  As I mentioned before, Anna is a kidder. And I was hoping she was kidding about this.

  There was no way Serenity Cove was a clothing optional resort. Especially not here in Englewood, Florida.

  It's a small town of less than twelve thousand people, most of whom are over sixty years of age. Almost all are retirees who moved here to escape the cold winters up north.

  Unlike other areas of Florida, Englewood is not a tourist destination. There are no theme parks, no roadside attractions, not a Micky or Minnie Mouse to be found.

  Just a small beach town half way between Sarasota and Fort Myers.

  It's not on the interstate and it's unlikely you'll end up here by accident. Your GPS is not going to route you through Englewood unless it's your final destination. You're either coming here on purpose or you'll never know it exists.

  If you do visit though, you'll find there are no traffic jams, no rush hours, and so little crime that Englewood doesn't even have it's own police department.

  Life here is slow, the big attractions are the weekly farmer's market on Dearborn street and the sixteen miles of sandy beaches on nearby Manasota Key.

  For some, the place is too tame. But I kind of like the slower pace of life here. In fact, it didn't take me long to figure out Englewood is the only place in Florida I wanted to live. But not if it means living in a 'clothing optional' resort.

  So after Anna left, I fired up my computer and searched Google for 'Serenity Cove, Englewood Florida'.

  According to the search results, Serenity Cove had been established as a nudist resort. A place where people could camp in their RVs and tents, and run around naked if they wanted to.

  But it hadn't worked out well.

  The owners of the Serenity Cove Nudist Resort had failed to factor in the average age of people visiting Englewood. Mostly retirees over sixty. And among that group, there weren't many interested in seeing the private business of other senior citizens.

  So after two years of high vacancy rates, the Serenity Cove Nudist Resort went out of business. New owners came in and immediately dropped the 'clothing optional' rule and removed “Nudist Resort' from the name of the park.

  The new Serenity Cove was relaunched as an upscale active adult RV resort catering to snowbirds who wanted to spend their winters camped under palm trees near the Gulf of Mexico.

  It had forty-eight spacious RV sites, each with full hookups and a private parking area. Amenities in the park included a swimming pool, a tennis court, a covered picnic area, and a small boat dock on Lemon Bay.

  Satisfied that I wasn't really heading into a clothing optional campground, I heeded Anna's advice and took a quick shower and changed into clean clothes.

  After my shower, I packed up the motorhome, freshened up Mango Bob's litter box and unhooked from shore power.

  The only thing left for me to do was to bring in the slide room. But before I could do that, I needed to find Bob.

  Mango Bob is the cat that started all this. He's the reason I'm in Florida and the reason I've been able to park my motorhome in the old boat yard for free.

  Officially, Mango Bob is Sarah's cat. She'd found him as an abandoned kitten and taken him in. They had lived happily for two years until Sarah's new boyfriend gave her an ultimatum.

  “Either the cat goes or I do. Choose one.”

  Sarah chose the boyfriend, and Mango Bob was shuffled off to live with Sarah's sister in Arkansas.

  Not long after, Sarah discovered she'd made the wrong choice. She should have kept the cat and dumped the boyfriend. She wanted Mango Bob back.

  That's where I came in.

  The deal offered to me by Sarah's sister was simple. “Deliver Mango Bob to Sarah in Florida and you can live in your motorhome for free in the old boat yard.”

  I'd never owned a cat before and wasn't sure about traveling cross country with one who might try to escape at every stop. But living in a motorhome near the beach in Florida sounded pretty good. So I accepted the offer.

  Traveling to Florida with Mango Bob turned into a real adventure. Bob tested me throughout the trip, trying to see what he could get away with. At one point he was able to escape, and it was only with the help of some very kind folks that I was able to get him back.

  But in the end, it turned out alright. I was able to deliver Mango Bob to Sarah, and as promised, she let me live in my motorhome in the old boat yard.

  Three months later, Sarah closed her business and took a job in Venice, moving into an apartment where they didn't allow cats. She asked me to take care of Mango Bob until she could work out better living arrangements. Bob has been with me in the motorhome ever since.

  The funny thing is, he seems to like living in the motorhome. He's got his special hiding places and he knows where his food and litter box are. And even though it took some work on his part, he's got me pretty much trained to do his bidding.

  One thing that surprised me is Bob likes it when we travel. He'll come up front, sit in the passenger seat and talk to me as I drive down the road.

  I'm never exactly sure what he's saying, but I generally agree with him.

  The point is, Bob's been living with me for three months now, and I've kind of grown attached to him. And that's why I need to find him before I bring in the slide room in the motorhome.

  See, when the slide room comes in, it brings the driver's side exterior about three feet into the motorhome, and if Bob were nearby, it could be very hazardous to his health. So I never do it without first finding and locking him in the bedroom where he'll be safe.

  To find Bob, I picked up his food bowl and gave it a shake. “Bob. I've got something to show you.”

  From behind the couch I heard, “Murrph”.

  He had heard me, but wasn't ready to come out just yet.

  I rattled the bowl again. “Come on Bob, we're going on a road trip. You know what that means.”

  Again, I heard Bob say, “Muurrph?”

  He was getting interested but he wasn't coming out just yet. So I put the bowl down and went up to the front of the motorhome and pretended not to be interested in what Bob might be doing in the back.

  A few moments later, Bob came out and I could hear him crunching a bit of kibble. When I turned to check on him, he yawned, then trotted back to the bedroom.

  This was exactly what I wanted him to do. I closed the bedroom door behind him, then flicked the switch to bring the slide in. Once it was in, I opened the bedroom door and let Bob out.

  With the outside utilities disconnected and the slide room in, I did a final walk through to make sure all the cabinet doors were closed and the TV antenna was cranked down.

  Satisfied that we were ready to roll, I sat in the drivers seat and called out, “Hey Bob, we're going be moving soon. You'll want to get up here.”

  I started the motor and this got got Bob's attention. He knew that when the motor started, things were going to happen. I patted the passenger seat. “Up here, Bob.”

  He understood. He came running from the back and jumped up
on the seat and settled in.

  We were ready to go, so I put the motorhome in gear, and we headed out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It took us ten minutes to get from the old boat yard on Mango Street to the front gate of Serenity Cove. My first impression of the place was not a good one. It definitely did not look like the photos from the web.

  Instead of a nicely paved drive that led past a well kept office building, I found a potholed and muddy lane leading to a run down cinder block structure desperately needing a coat of paint.

  Maybe this was the reason the park was losing guests. The front entrance scared off potential customers.

  I parked in front and headed into the office. A bell attached to the door announced my presence. There was no one at the front desk, but I could hear a TV in the back room.

  After five minutes no one had come to greet me or check me in. Noticing a bell on the desk, I hit it twice with the palm of my hand.

  From the back room I heard someone grunt, followed by the scraping sound of a chair against the floor.

  The door leading to the back room opened just enough for a man to show his face. He looked at me, then said. “What?”

  He stared, waiting for me to answer his question. I obliged. “My name is Walker. I'm the wifi guy. You have a spot reserved for me.”

  Saying nothing, the man nodded and walked up to the counter. He appeared to be in his late thirties, had greasy unkempt hair, unshaven face, oil stained cargo shorts and a gray t-shirt that probably started out white.

  Reaching under the counter, he retrieved a sheet of paper and slid it over to me. “Fill this out.”

  It was a standard check-in form. Asking for name, address, license plate number.

  I needed a pen to fill it out. But I didn't have one on me, nor did I see one on the counter.

  I pointed to the form. “You got a pen I can use?”

  The man behind the counter looked at me as if I had just insulted his sister. “What did you say?”

  Speaking slowly, I repeated my request. “Do. You. Have. A. Pen. I. Can. Use?”

  He stared at me for a moment. A prison yard stare. The kind you see just before someone starts a fight.

  He reached under the counter and produced a pen which he dropped on the registration form. “Ring the bell when you're done.”

  He turned and walked into the back room leaving me alone in the office.

  Most places are happy to see you at check-in. The people working the front desk usually go out of their way to make you feel welcome. But not here. Here you feel like you might get stabbed by the desk clerk if you ask the wrong question.

  Clearly this wasn't the Hilton.

  If this was the guy potential guests first encountered, it might be why many were leaving to go somewhere else.

  After I completed the check-in form, I rang the bell.

  No response from the man in the back room.

  I waited two minutes, then hit the bell again.

  This time, the man came back out. He looked pissed. Like I was interrupting his day. He reached across the counter, picked up the bell and tossed it toward a trash can against the far wall.

  His toss went wide, the bell hit the wall behind the can and bounced onto the floor. I was tempted to say something, but thought better of it.

  He turned toward me, picked up the form I had filled out, looked it over, then held out his hand. “Six hundred dollars.”

  I shook my head. “No, I'm the wifi guy. I'm here to work. My spot has been reserved by the owner of this place. She said I could stay rent free.”

  He stared at me. “No one stays free. Six hundred dollars. Cash.”

  He held out his hand waiting for me to give him money.

  I shook my head and smiled. “You don't understand. The owner of Serenity Cove has arranged for me to stay here while I work on the wifi. Rent free.”

  I reached for my phone. “Maybe I should call and straighten this out.”

  The man's demeanor suddenly changed. No longer surly, he smiled. “There's no need to call. We're good. Your rent is paid up. You'll be in space eighteen.”

  He slid a sheet of paper over to me.

  “Park rules. Read them.”

  I picked up the paper and scanned it. The rules were pretty straight-forward.

  1. Residents and guests must adhere to all state and local ordinances.

  2. Sites must be kept clean at all times.

  3. Cars are to be parked in designated areas only.

  4. No open containers of alcoholic beverages outdoors except within the pool area.

  5. Quiet hours are from 8:00PM to 8:00AM and are strictly enforced.

  6. Pets must be on a leash and owners must clean up after pets.

  7. Speed limit is five miles per hour.

  8. Motor homes must stay in assigned site during stay. No day travel in motorhomes.

  9. No firearms, BB guns, or bows and arrows permitted.

  10. Fighting, profanity, public intoxication or drugs strictly prohibited.

  Scrawled across the bottom were the words, 'Report problems to the park manager, not the police!'

  When I looked up, the man behind the counter was looking at me. “You understand? If you have a problem, don't call the police. Come up here and report it at the office.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I got it. No police.

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “You'll need this.”

  He handed me a slip of paper. It had the following printed on it:

  Gate Pass Code: 2013

  Wifi Password: serenity

  Without waiting to see if I had any questions, he turned and went into the back room closing the door behind him. A moment later, I heard the TV volume go back up, followed by the sound of a beer can being opened.

  I guess we were done.

  Back out in the motorhome, Bob was sitting in the front seat waiting for me.

  “Well Bob, looks like we've got a place to stay tonight.”

  He said, “Murrrph”.

  He was happy.

  I put the motorhome in gear, and we headed into the park looking for our site. The site numbers were clearly marked, and space eighteen was easy to find. Not only did it have the number 'eighteen' painted on a post in front, it was the only empty space I'd seen in the park.

  I pulled past the site, then backed onto the paved parking pad, using my rear view camera to make sure I didn't hit anything.

  The site was wide and getting in straight was easy. Checking the side mirror, I could see there was plenty of room for the slide to go out. I picked Bob up and held him while I extended the room. As soon as it was out, I put Bob on the back of the couch so he could check out the view of his new digs.

  A tall palm tree sat between our site and the next, providing both shade and a bit of privacy. Beyond the palm in the site next to us sat a late model Airstream trailer.

  Little did I know that the person living in that Airstream would change the course of my life forever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When it comes to motorhomes, there are several different kinds.

  There's the big buses that the rich and famous have, the rolling palaces that can cost upwards of two million dollars.

  And then there's the Class A motorhomes, which are typically 35 to 45 feet long, and look like buses, but are more affordable and within the reach of the not so rich.

  And then there's the small Class B camping vans – which seem to be quite popular these days, but are a little too small to live in full time.

  And in between, there's the Class C motorhomes. These are built on a standard heavy duty truck chassis, and range in size from twenty to thirty two feet. Because they are built on the same foundation as a large truck, they are pretty easy to drive, handling much like an SUV.

  And that's the kind of motorhome I have – a Class C.

  It's a 28-foot Winnebago, and even though it is six years old, it's pretty nice inside. Much like a small condo, i
t has granite counter tops, solid oak cabinets, double door fridge, full bath with shower, and a private bedroom in the back.

  There's also a dinette table and couch which can be folded out to make a guest bed. And it even has a lounge chair with a reading lamp.

  It's a nice little package and has just about everything a person would want or need while on the road. While it'd probably be too small for a family of four, it suits me just fine.

  The only problem with living in a motorhome is if it's your only vehicle, it means you have to unhook from shore power, bring in the slide and drive the motorhome everywhere you go.

  If you need to pick up groceries, you drive the motorhome. If you want to visit the local hardware store, you drive the motorhome. If you want to eat out at a restaurant, you drive the motorhome. And this can be a problem, because you have to plan ahead and make sure that everywhere you go is wide enough and long enough to get in and out of without getting stuck.

  I'd gotten used to doing this, to driving my motorhome to grocery stores and other places to pick up supplies. And yes, it was inconvenient, but doable.

  But now that I was living in Serenity Cove, I wouldn't be driving my motorhome that often.

  See, some longer stay RV parks, including Serenity Cove, don't want you driving your motorhome in and out of the park every day. They want you to keep it parked, until you get ready to check out.

  This 'keep it parked' rule actually makes sense, especially in parks where people are staying for months at a time. If you didn't have this, you might end up with motorhomes and trailers coming and going at all times of the day and night, creating lots of traffic and noise. And that wouldn't be good for anyone.

  So they have the rule, and enforce it.

  This is one reason many motorhomes owners have a 'toad' – a small car they tow behind their motorhome. The toad gives you a way to leave the park and drive to the store or the mall without having to rely on the motorhome.