When Tom’s alarm went off at 5:30am on Saturday April 27, 2024, the first person to pop into my resin mind was Donald J. Trump. Not only were we headed to the one swamp he never tried to drain, but my photographer also had plans to take me to Trump’s Mar-A-Lago Club as well. I, for one, will document the visit – even though some of our time in Palm Beach might be considered classified.
After my camera guy got himself ready for the day’s adventures, he had no problem getting his wife’s keester out of the sack – which was likely due to the much-anticipated airboat ride in the Everglades. Even though our hour-long VIP tour didn’t start until nine o’clock, Tom’s goal was to arrive about an hour early because he wasn’t overly confident with the directions to the Everglades Swamp Tours. Like I’ve heard him say over and over, “I’d rather be an hour early than ten minutes late”.
Once my companions had the Jeep loaded, we left the Double Tree in Sunrise, Florida not too long after the sun rose over Florida. It didn’t take long after we got onto I-75 before we were surrounded by the Everglades. That section of expressway was known as ‘Alligator Alley’, and I kept my eyes peeled for some of those vicious reptiles. During that entire 17-mile ride to Exit 35, which was the Broward County Rest Area and where our tour was set to originate from, I never saw one gator. I began to think my photographer was right – we had a better chance of spotting a Sasquatch or an elusive Skunk Ape than seeing a wild alligator.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Rest Area, which was on the south side of the expressway, but there was no signage to indicate where the Everglades Swamp Tours was located. Within a minute or two of our arrival, however, a man pulled into the lot with an airboat on his trailer. We were in the right spot – unassuming and low-key as it was. In my mind, I wondered if the lack of fanfare at the site was an indication that our tour would be a disappointing one – similar to the airboat ride my photographer experienced in 1977. Since Tom shelled-out some righteous bucks for our VIP tour, I had certainly hoped not.
At roughly 8:20am, we met the captain of the small airboat we’d be taking into the Everglades. His name was Rusty, and the mustachioed, life-long native of the area said to my companions “I know your tour is scheduled for nine o’clock, but since I have the boat ready to go, do you mind if we leave early?” After Tom and Vic grabbed their light jackets, the three of us carefully stepped aboard the airboat. Then, just seconds before he fired-up the engine, Rusty said, “Be prepared for an hour you’ll never forget. While I can’t guarantee we’ll see any gators, there’s plenty of other wildlife in the ‘Glades that’ll impress the heck out of you.”
Initially, I thought the Everglades was a huge swamp. But it’s actually a slow moving, shallow river that’s 60 miles wide and over 100 miles long. And when I say shallow, the Everglades is only four to five feet deep on average. Knowing it wasn’t very deep helped ease my concerns, because I figured if my photographer accidentally dropped me overboard, he could jump in and rescue me from the hard limestone floor. Of course, Tom would be forced to not think about the alligators, pythons, cottonmouths, coral snakes, and the occasional Florida panther; all of which make the ‘Glades their home.
Less than five minutes after we began heading south on the Miami Canal, which was one of a series of canals cut into the Everglades over the years to help control the water, I saw something in the water. At first, I thought the dark object might be part of a small tree, but the closer Rusty navigated our airboat towards it, I realized it had eyes and a snout. To make matters more intense, there were two sets of eyes and snouts crossing the canal. “Alligators, straight ahead” was what I heard Rusty yell over the noise of the boat’s giant propeller.
For the next hour, Rusty took us deep into the heart of the Everglades where we saw a plethora of native birds, fish, and alligators. Several times, our guide stopped the boat while he explained the delicate ecosystem of our surroundings; or to give us an up-close glimpse of a gator. And near the end of our trip, Rusty pulled up a stalk of sawgrass for my companions to touch. Not only did the pair feel the serrated blades, but their guide also persuaded Tom and Vicki to taste part the stalk where the blades met the root system. While Vicki hesitated to pop the freshly plucked swamp plant into her mouth, my photographer eagerly nibbled the root as though it tasted like fried shrimp. Thankfully Tom didn’t put that darn thing anywhere close to my painted resin mouth – I couldn’t imagine eating something that had been pooped on by the 800 different species of critters who call the Everglades home.
We had returned to our starting point at roughly 9:30am, and I noticed my photographer had a case of sea legs as he carried me off the unstable boat. Thankfully, we made it onto dry land without him dropping me into the water, or him plopping his fat carcass into the canal. The three of us thoroughly enjoyed our tour, which was made even more special by Rusty’s knowledge and experience in and around the Everglades. When our airboat driver asked where we were headed next, Tom said we were going to find an orange roughy. Rusty replied, “Oh, you’re going fishing?” Tom looked at him and said with a straight face, “No, we’re headed to Mar-a-Lago.”
Throughout the 71-mile drive from the Everglades to Palm Beach, I knew Tom was nervous about our upcoming stop at Donald Trump’s estate, known as Mar-a-Lago. One of the reasons was because my photographer knew there were no sidewalks on either side of South Ocean Boulevard, which meant the two of us had to either stay in the road or walk on rich people’s lawns. The other reason was because the estate is still heavily guarded by the Secret Service and has a constant police presence, both agencies of which Tom doesn’t feel comfortable around. It’s not that we do anything wrong, at least for the most part, it’s just because my camera guy has issues with authority – or should I say, people who abuse their authority. I like to call it the ‘Barney Fife Syndrome’. The last time we came face-to-face with someone afflicted with that syndrome was on May 14, 2022. That’s the day my photographer and Bob Moldenhauer were nearly arrested outside Bethesda Naval Hospital for doing nothing more than taking pictures of the building from a public sidewalk. During our drive towards Palm Beach, I could tell Tom was having flashbacks to ’22; and I believe he figured there would be some sort of trouble outside of Trump’s home.
As we approached Palm Beach, and were within a mile of the President’s home, Tom went over the final game plan with his wife. I laughed to myself because my photographer made it seem like we were involved in a well-hatched illegal covert operation, while in fact, he was simply trying to get a picture of me posing in front of a Presidential site. “Listen, as soon as we turn the corner and head north along South Ocean Boulevard, stop the Jeep and I’ll get out. Once I close the door, you start to drive past Trump’s house for a bit, then find a place to turn around and come back the same way. While you’re doing that, I’ll carry the bobble head along the street until I get the first good view of Trump’s house. Once I get that first picture, I’ll keep walking north in front of the property with the hopes of getting a better view. The last pictures I’ll try to get will be directly in front of the main gate, even though I know there’s not a good view of the house from there. Then once I pass the gate, I’ll keep walking north and we’ll rendezvous soon after. Make sure to keep your cell phone ready – if I get in trouble or apprehended, I’ll call you. I’ve decided not to walk on the grass directly in front of Mar-a-Lago; I’ll stay on the opposite side of the road. That way I can’t be accused of attempting to trespass, even though I believe Trump is in New York City for his hush money trial.”
Vicki rounded the corner and soon after we began to head north, she pulled off the side of the road at nearby driveway entrance. With me in one hand and his camera in the other, Tom exited the Jeep. There was no turning back now; ‘Operation Orange Roughy’ was Go.
‘Operation Orange Roughy’ was going perfectly as planned, although a never-ending stream of traffic on South Ocean Boulevard made it difficult for the two of us to stay in the street. With each passing motor vehicle, Tom was forced to step up onto the curb, or take refuge on the grass just past the curb.
When the two of us stopped for pictures of Mar-a-Lago at two separate locations, I was awestruck by the massive size of the structure, although the architecture seemed a tad over-the-top to me. The estate was originally constructed between 1924 and 1927 for Marjorie Merriweather Post, the heiress to the Post Cereal business. Although Post died in 1973, Donald Trump didn’t purchase the property until 1985 because he thought the place was overpriced.
Mar-a-Lago features 58 bedrooms, 33 bathrooms (including one where the infamous classified documents were stored), 12 fireplaces, three bomb shelters, and a 29-foot-long Pietra dura marble-top dining table. A little over two years into his Presidency, Donald Trump declared Mar-a-Lago as his primary residence instead of Trump Tower in New York City.
Our last big hurdle we needed to clear was for Tom to carry me in the front of Mar-a-Lago’s main gate where I could pose for one final image. The closer we got to the opened gate, however, the more concerned we became as there was a police vehicle parked in the middle of the driveway. Even though we weren’t doing anything wrong, the vision of Bethesda kept filling my resin head.
As soon as we got into position, my photographer stood on the opposite-side curb where he stopped to take a picture. Just as Tom removed me from his camera case, I heard a voice yell out, “You need to keep moving. You can’t stand there, you’re on private property.” Sure enough, it was the damned cop who stood just inside Trump’s gate. I was furious, and I knew Tom felt the same way – we weren’t doing anything wrong and at no time were we posing a threat to anyone. Tom shouted back, “I’m a Presidential historian just trying to get a picture of a President’s home from across the street. I don’t believe the street or curb is private property – and I don’t believe I’m doing anything wrong.” The police officer, who seemed to have a hard time hearing my photographer over the noise of passing cars, yelled back. “You can’t stand there. You need to keep moving. That’s private property you’re standing on.” While the cop was shouting at Tom, he kept waving his arms and walking slowly towards us; all the while pointing for us to keep moving to the north. Then, in a last-ditched effort to communicate with the police officer, Tom axed the cop if he could come across the street and explain what we were trying to do. But my photographer’s plea fell on deaf ears, which didn’t surprise me as it appeared “Peppa” had Barney Fife Syndrome. “Stay on that side of the street and keep moving along. You can’t stand where you’re at and take pictures.”
Not wanting to get handcuffed, arrested, shot, tazed, or “Peppa” sprayed by the “porker”, Tom slid me back into the camera case as he slowly walked away from Mar-a-Lago’s gate. I could tell my photographer was peeved beyond words because he knew there’s a distance of 25 feet from the middle of any public road towards someone’s property line that is considered a public easement. And since there was a steady stream of traffic going up and down South Ocean Boulevard, it was obvious Donald J. Trump didn’t own the road. The two of us were doing nothing wrong, yet the cop still harassed us.
Just as the two of us reached Woodbridge Road, which was the first street north of Trump’s guarded entrance gate, we rendezvoused with Vicki in the Jeep. Tom quickly jumped into the front passenger seat and axed his wife to drive past the gate. “Go slowly past the opened gate because I want to snap a picture of that damned pig who harassed me. I’d love to give him a one-finger salute, too, but I don’t need him infringing on my first amendment right like he did with my right to walk peacefully on public property.”
Once we drove past and Tom snapped his photo, I heard him tell his wife, “I’m one hundred percent supportive of the police, and I know they have a tough job to do, but when they harass an American citizen who is following the law and not doing anything wrong in broad daylight, that’s when they transform from a police officer to a pig in my book.”
In my resin mind, we shouldn’t have been surprised by our Constitutional rights getting violated in front of Mar-a-Lago. After all, its owner doesn’t seem to be an advocate for some of the amendments, either; at least the ones that don’t directly benefit him or his agenda.
It was precisely eleven o’clock when we left Mar-a-Lago behind in the Jeep’s rear-view mirror. Our morning had been filled with an assortment of wildlife – from alligators and exotic birds in the Everglades to the prickly pig in Palm Beach. But our day was far from finished, and so was our wildlife encounters. After my companions made a stop to indulge in a couple of Wendy’s ‘Orange Dreamsicle Frosty’s’, we headed north towards Melbourne, Florida where we planned on visiting an elusive and cunning Kentucky Rhino named Tom McGrew.
“Rhino” is the nickname of my photographer’s good friend and former co-worker Tom McGrew, who for the past several months has lived just north of Melbourne. Even though this was the first time I’ve travelled on the Atlantic Coast of Florida, it wasn’t my first encounter with McGrew. In 2013, I had the pleasure of meeting McGrew at his home in the Pittsburgh area during my first-ever Presidential trip, and we crossed paths again eight years later during another trip which took us to Rhino’s residence in Corning, New York.
The two Tom’s became friends shortly after McGrew was hired as a supervisor at Cargill Salt in St. Clair, Michigan in October 2005. And although Tom McGrew has been known in the past to censor some of my photographer’s written material, and he’s also famous for creating bogus card games under the guise of poker, my cameraman considers Rhino to be one of his best friends. As a matter of fact, I once heard my photographer say to his wife, “I don’t think I’ve met anyone as friendly, generous, caring, and fair as Tom McGrew.” In my resin mind, McGrew would make an ideal United States President – if it wasn’t for his belief in censorship, that is.
After we made the 128-mile drive from Palm Beach into the neighborhood surrounding McGrew’s home, we were several minutes ahead of my photographer’s predetermined arrival time of 1:44pm. In an effort to keep up with his accuracy, and to impress his friend at the same time, Tom asked his wife to park on a side street for roughly five minutes while the clock ticked down to a minute before the scheduled time. I laughed to myself when we pulled into McGrew’s driveway at exactly 1:44pm – my photographer had a huge grin on his face and pointed to his watch as Rhino walked out of his front door. But Tom’s swollen head and ego shrunk when McGrew said he hadn’t been paying attention to the time.
Once the three of us had settled into McGrew’s home, my photographer and Rhino spent the next four hours playing disc golf around McGrew’s enclosed, built-in swimming pool. Even though McGrew has been an avid disc golf enthusiast for a long time, my camera guy had never thrown one of the discs before. But that didn’t keep the two from immediately engaging in a competition – just for gits and shiggles. Using McGrew’s single disc golf basket, the pair began their friendly competition by playing a couple rounds of H-O-R-S-E. As I stood and watched the duo sling the discs from all areas of the enclosure, I thought my photographer should’ve asked to play P-I-G instead, since he had some recent experience at Mar-a-Lago. But at the end of the day, it didn’t matter – McGrew’s expertise with the sport surfaced and my photographer was left licking his wounds. Then, to add insult to injury, Rhino convincingly won a game of ‘Around the World’ which left my photographer stunned with the agony of defeat. I laughed to myself when I heard Tom say to his friend in a sarcastic tone, “The last time you beat me at anything was when you held a card against your forehead and called it poker.” All McGrew could do was laugh out loud.
For dinner, McGrew led the three of us to one of his favorite restaurants called the Bean Sprout. The trendy diner featured Thai specialties, including what I saw my photographer eat – a dish called Bulgogi, which featured thinly sliced pieces of beef marinated Korean style and served with mixed veggies. Vicki went out on her usual limb and ordered sweet and sour chicken, while McGrew had some sort of spicy Asian cuisine that looked pretty good.
Back at the McGrew estate, I listened as the three ate ice cream and talked about “the good old days.” It seemed like old times for the two Tom’s as they laughed and joked about goofy stuff they’ve shared over the years. The only thing missing from the reunion was Jennifer, who was McGrew’s wife and a pastor. “Father Jenn”, as my photographer calls her, was still back in Corning as she tied up some last-minute loose ends.
Suddenly, our host mentioned there was a Falcon 9 rocket launch scheduled to lift off from Cape Kennedy at 8:34pm and if the cloud cover wasn’t too thick, we would be able to see the flame of the Space X craft from his backyard. Seconds after the scheduled launch time, the four of us saw a bright, orange flame above the treetops. It didn’t take long, however, before the rocket disappeared into the clouds; and only after that could we hear the muffled roar of the engines. The Space X Falcon 9 was used to launch the European Commission’s Galileo L12, which is Europe’s version of our GPS satellite.
Vicki went to bed a few minutes after the launch, while the two Tom’s and I stayed up for another half hour as they laughed and talked the evening away. Exhausted from a full day of adventure, my photographer set me on McGrew’s kitchen countertop while he vanished into the bedroom at 9:30pm. When Tom McGrew disappeared into another bedroom, I was left alone for the rest of the night with my vivid imagination.
At first, my thoughts were centered on the Mar-a-Lago cop who had violated our rights, but it turned out I had a bigger creature to roast than a pig. In roughly twenty-four hours, Tom was scheduled to take me on a ghost tour of the haunted lighthouse in St. Augustine. My resin mind was filled with wonder – would we encounter any paranormal activity in or around that lighthouse? Would I feel the presence of the old lighthouse keeper, or maybe hear the giggles of one of the keeper’s deceased daughters? I was definitely worried because over the years, I’ve had numerous experiences with the paranormal – it seems as though I’m a ghost magnet. Stay tuned for the next post as it’s likely one you won’t want to miss – our Dark of the Moon tour just might turn you into a believer!
** This post is dedicated to Tom McGrew for his hospitality, friendship, and for whooping my photographer’s butt in disc golf **
