Slow road to Florida

It doesn't matter that it's almost October and soon winter will descend in all its bone-chilling bluster. It doesn't matter because in your driveway lies the doorway to summer. Simply swing it open, strap on your seat belt, turn the key and head south for Florida.

There is nothing to it -- except for the 1,500 or so miles in between.

Beyond the windshield, Minnesota becomes Wisconsin, which in turn quickly becomes Illinois. Illinois, however, doesn't quickly become anything. As you can appreciate only by driving through it, the Prairie State is extremely long. At some point, as you bounce along the roads, the South begins. The landscape takes a subtle shift, reflecting a milder climate, and the accents soften into a drawl. Along the way, "pop" becomes "soda." Increasingly, the billboards scream out "Look at me!" for everything from bargains on towels to dubious discounts on tickets to Disney World. Also, driving turns tedious.

That's just about the time those loud billboards might lure you in. Better, though, to have a few planned stops, brief respites from the road: an angel museum in Wisconsin, a Kentucky town so quaint and well-kept that 20 blocks are on the National Register of Historic Places, manmade and natural glories in Tennessee. Finally, the Florida state line passes under the tires and one of the longest-standing roadside attractions is coming right up: The mermaids of Weeki Wachee.

Palm trees typically don't grow at the latitude of the Florida border. Tourists, however, expect to see palm trees, so there the trees stand, just inside the state line. And that, of course, says a good bit about Florida (and its mermaids) -- it is part reality and part illusion.

Lure of the mermaids

Sixty years ago on the Gulf Coast north of Tampa, cars were few, and when one was heard passing through the tiny community of Weeki Wachee, young women in swimsuits would rush out to wave. Sure, they were being polite to the tourists -- but they were also offering an incentive to see a show unlike any other in the world. Given the almost complete lack of development in the area, it would not be hard to imagine that more often than not, some combination of the friendly waves, the swimsuits and the girls themselves pulled drivers in much like the mermaids of ancient lore lured sailors.

After a week or so, those tourists went home with incredible stories of the things they saw. Figuring prominently were descriptions of mermaids smiling underwater -- and occasionally drinking a grape soda or eating a banana. Yes, underwater.

That, of course, made the tourists' neighbors want to see it. Tales of sunshine and mermaids were just the cure for the winter blahs in Minnesota -- or Michigan, or Ohio or pretty much anyplace that wasn't Florida.

Back then, Elvis came to visit Weeki Wachee and brought 15,000 screaming, sometimes fainting, fans with him, and the mermaids swam through eight shows a day in front of sold-out crowds.

Today the heyday may be over -- Orlando and its more polished offerings draw the huge crowds, and each year threatens to be the mermaid's last -- but the charm remains. Fifteen mermaids swim year-round in the 72-degree water of the natural spring while visitors watch through thick glass in a 500-seat theater.

The waters are a natural spring, so the mermaids sometimes have to compete with the occasional unexpected visitors.

"We get to see fish and turtles and manatees come in there," said Carli Dofka, a mermaid at Weeki Wachee. "We get an alligator every once in a while. A few months ago it was bad; we had a couple of alligators come in and they had to take them out. They were big gators."

During one act, Dofka, who has been a mermaid for three years, free dives to the bottom of the 117-foot-deep spring. To do so, she holds her breath for more than 2½ minutes. But she said, that's not the hardest part.

"The main thing is doing the ballet and trying to hold your breath that whole time. That's difficult," she said.

Onward to Sanibel

From Weeki Wachee, it is a short drive to paradise, wherever you deem it to be.

I favor the powdery soft beaches and swaying palms trees of Sanibel Island.

Visiting Sanibel is a bit like going to your parents' home after a decade or so and finding your bedroom as you left it. It's comforting. Despite a wave of development around Florida, there still isn't a stoplight on the island, nor are there fast-food restaurants. Jerry's Foods (of Sanibel, Eden Prairie and Edina) still has the best pecan elephant ears, and the parrots living in the adjacent courtyard are still crabby, just as they have been for years.

On the island, it's easy to become reacquainted with the simple pleasures of life, to allow yourself the luxury of simply appreciating a day coming to a close with a glorious sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.

Too soon it is time to leave Florida -- something that for me always becomes an exercise in lingering. I drive a bit and find a dead palm frond to pack in my suitcase -- or perhaps a shell to put in my pocket. When eventually I arrive back home, I touch those things to feel the sunshine still within them.

Somehow winter isn't quite so bone-chilling with shells in my pocket and sand in my shoes.

Freelance writer and Minnesota native Mitch Traphagen has made the drive to Florida many times.