Welcome to the Jungle

According to the Florida state census, there were 397,994 Collier County residents in 2022. That June, after marrying a Naples woman, I made it 397,995. 

I'd been to Florida many times before, mostly to escape the New England tundra, play golf, and stop shivering for one merciful week. I hadn't planned to become a Florida resident, but a lightning bolt of middle-aged love changed everything.

At first, connubial bliss, ubiquitous golf courses, and modest gas prices made the transition smooth. The caress of a warm breeze in winter never gets old.

But eventually, I had a chilling realization—I'd moved to one of the most dangerous places on the planet. In Florida, even the most banal activity puts me and my loved ones in mortal jeopardy.

A round of golf is fraught with danger. And not just to people in the vicinity of my tee shot. Four species of poisonous snakes, even a massive Burmese python, can lurk in the underbrush, where I usually spend most of my round. Alligators give a new meaning to "water hazard." There's a video of a giant alligator attacking a passing golf cart on a course in Ave Maria, presumably because he hadn't given them permission to play through (hyperlink on website https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehZzZCTzfp0).

Walking my dog puts both our lives at risk. Poisonous cane toads are biblical in number. Then there are the snakes, alligators, and in cold spells, falling iguanas.

Just driving to the store is a daredevil mission. Florida is the third deadliest state in the U.S. in the number of fatal car accidents. I've never seen red lights run so frequently. In a recent TV interview, a Collier County Sheriff called it "insane." Every main intersection in Naples has long skid marks from someone deciding at the last minute that red really does mean "stop."

In Naples, yellow means" hurry up," red means "floor it!" and "green" means go…eventually. Response times to green lights can be painfully slow. Maybe it's people texting. Or perhaps it's drivers like me waiting until the idiot running the red light barrels through the intersection. 

As tempting as it may be to flash a digit at red-light runners and road hogs, this is a potentially fatal mistake. There's a lot of angry drivers out there. And a lot of them are packing heat. Florida ranks third in the U.S. in most road rage shootings.

As of June 30, 2024, 4,663 Collier County residents had a license to carry, roughly one percent or one out of every 100 cars you see. 39 Collier County residents were denied licenses. But given that permitless carry was made legal on July 1, 2023, you can bet those 39 rejects and many more firearm flunkies are now locked and loaded. There also has been a dramatic drop in the number of people taking gun safety courses, which was previously mandatory for a permit to carry.

What could go wrong?

My wife thinks it's overkill for me to hire a tank commando squad to escort her to Publix, but I stand firm. It took me 61 years to find "the one," and after driving in these parts for two years, 

I'm not leaving anything to chance.

I started walking to the store, assuming it would be safer than driving, but I was wrong. Florida is the second most dangerous state for pedestrians. According to the Governors Highway Safety Association, there were 801 pedestrian deaths in 2023, 21 more than in 2022.

Then, there's the lightning. Storms crop up quickly in these parts. I enjoyed the fireworks and the cooling breezes until I read that the National Weather Service designated Florida the lightning strike capital of the United States. From 2013 to 2022, there were 51 lightning strike deaths; from 1959 to 2016, there were 491 deaths.

Florida is supposed to be hot. I like hot weather. After two years, I've almost completely thawed out after 20 years in New England. But when people are taking saunas to cool off, something is askew. Heat-related deaths in Florida increased by 88% from 2019 to 2022, when 1,713 people perished. This summer, Heat Index records have been shattered all over the state. On July 7, the National Weather Service forecast a record-breaking heat index of 110 degrees Central Florida. In an unprecedented move, Disney World began providing water to guests for free ($40 for chilled). Due to truth in advertising laws, Disney World's official slogan is now "The humidest place on earth."

I count myself lucky—as a Collier County resident, I can always cool off with a dip in the nearby Gulf. But it turns out that dip is also fraught with peril. In 2023, Florida led the nation with 16 confirmed unprovoked shark bites, which represented 44% of the U.S. total and 23% of unprovoked bites worldwide. Then there's rip currents - eight people drowned in rip currents this past June. Florida was home to 31 of the 82 rip current deaths in 2023, the most in the United States.

I decided the best way to mitigate my mortality risk was never to leave the house. But again, I was wrong. Cluttered garages are a favorite habitat for Black Widow spiders, and Florida is teeming with four, yes four, different species of Widow Spiders: the Southern Black Widow, the Northern Black Widow, the Brown Widow, and the Red Widow.

I had to make adjustments before my wife became a Blonde Widow. 

First, I switched to mini-golf. This significantly reduced the odds of snake and alligator encounters; better yet, my handicap dropped three strokes.

I began wearing a football helmet and water wings at all times. I respectfully disregarded my wife's tearful pleas not to wear them out to restaurants. To her great relief, I realized I had no business going out in public in the first place. So, I started getting all my meals from DoorDash and working remotely in my new fallout shelter. 

My plan was working beautifully until the air conditioning broke down. My safe space quickly became a lethal, sweltering oven. Fortunately, my helmet and water wings broke my fall when I succumbed to the heat. I was slipping into the Great Beyond when Providence intervened, and the DoorDash driver arrived with my Baconator and fries. 

I'm writing this from my hospital bed, watching the slow drip of my IV, listening to the faint beep of my heart monitor. As I slowly drift off, I give thanks that I somehow survived another perilous day in the Sunshine State.

I hope lightning doesn't blow out the power.