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Florida is a warm magnet for Canadians. They flock to the sunshine by the tens of thousands, filling hotels, thronging to restaurants, pumping millions of dollars into local economies from Jacksonville to Miami to Tampa. They are known as Snowbirds because their southerly migratory patterns swell in numbers when winter temperatures plunge in the Great White North.
The influx lies at the soul of a love-hate relationship with Florida residents, who want the Canadian tourists’ economic benefits but would just as soon do without their slow-paced lifestyle.
“It’s the goddamn Canadians, Bob,” moaned one caller to a talk show.
“So what’s new?” responded the host.
“Got behind nineteen of them in traffic, Bob.”
“Yep.”
“All of them were in Hyundais, Bob. Never got out of third gear.”
The Snowbirds are also derided as being so tight with a dollar that a standard joke among waiters is that the main difference between Canadians and canoes is that canoes sometimes will tip. It is also jokingly said that ten thousand Canadian visitors can boost the local economy by a total of $450.
But that is all said with more than a bit of tongue in cheek, for without the Snowbirds the Florida economy would suffer instant, great losses. Therefore, they are welcomed with open arms and cash registers, and everything possible is done to make their stays enjoyable, including attention by the police in various municipalities. For if something bad happens to a Canadian tourist, word quickly filters back to Toronto or Montreal, affecting decisions on vacation destinations. On Mother’s Day in 1989, something very bad indeed happened to one Canadian tourist and the result would hang like a worrisome dark cloud over the Tampa-St. Petersburg area for five long years before it was finally resolved.
Gayle Arquette, a chestnut-haired, strikingly beautiful girl from Ontario, was on vacation, taking a welcome break after graduating from college and before assuming a new job as a social worker. Accompanied by her friend, Linda Lyle, also a vibrant, good-looking young woman in her early twenties, Gayle fled Canada on holiday, lured by the spring sunshine and the mythical draw of Florida as a fun and exciting place for the young. Daytona Beach, made famous by the movie and song Where the Boys Are, is located on the Atlantic Ocean side of the state, but Gayle and Linda had no doubt that a pair of pretty girls could find a social life on Florida’s west coast.
If one views Florida as shaped like the open palm of the right hand, then the thumb hanging slightly apart from the mainland, separated by the vastness of Tampa Bay, is Pinellas County. The urban metropolis of Tampa is on the eastern side of the bay, and St. Petersburg is at the lower western side. Along the coast, stretching north from St. Petersburg, is a long, thin line of beach communities flanked by water on both sides and linked to inland Pinellas County by a series of bridges.
About halfway up the peninsula are the quaintly named beachfront towns of Treasure Island and Madeira Beach, and it was in a “Mad Beach” condominium that Gayle and Linda settled for their Florida stay. The water came almost to their front door, as the Gulf of Mexico stretched open and wide toward the setting sun. Shopping was plentiful, particularly among the quaint shops of the Boardwalk, a collection of specialty shops, restaurants, and boat businesses clustered along weathered piers that hang out over the water along 128th Avenue, facing the watery cut between Mad Beach and Treasure Island known as John’s Pass. And cute guys seemed plentiful, whether riding colorful jet skis, loafing about the beach-side bars, or soaking up tans on the beach.
In fact, Gayle and Linda agreed to go fishing with two young men they had met on one of their strolls along the Boardwalk. First, however, Gayle needed to complete a special task. She spent much of Sunday, May 14, 1989, preparing Mother’s Day dinner for her mother, aunt, uncle, and Linda. The weather was pleasant and they joked about the difference in temperature between May in Ontario and May along the Florida Suncoast.
When the meal was done and the dishes cleaned, the girls waved goodbye to the adults and headed out for their evening, walking over to their first stop, a 7-Eleven convenience store on Gulf Boulevard, the town’s main street, to pick up a six-pack of beer about 9:30 P.M.
In the parking lot of the store sat a large, dark-colored trucklike vehicle that Gayle would recall as something like a Jeep Cherokee, Isuzu Trooper, or Ford Bronco—one of those four-wheel-drive, all-terrain jobs. It wore Florida plates.
The driver struck up a laughing conversation with the girls, whom he had guessed were visitors, and soon determined they were from Canada. He was a big guy in his mid-thirties, standing about five feet, nine inches tall and weighing about two-hundred pounds. He was well tanned and had reddish blond hair cut short and a pale mustache of the same color. He quickly extended his hand and introduced himself as Dave Posner, saying he knew a lot about Canada because he once had lived in upper New York State. The voice was light and personable, the manner polite.
There was a note of seriousness, almost concern, in his voice as he asked them why they were out alone in this area. This particular stretch was considered a high-crime locale, he warned, and they should be very wary about talking to any strangers, including himself. When told they were on their way to meet a couple of guys at Fisherman’s Wharf, Dave offered them a ride in his truck.
The ride up Gulf Boulevard was brief, but the time seemed to pass even faster because of Dave’s steady chatter about the water and the excitement of living in coastal Florida. Arriving at the restaurant, he made a courteous offer, accompanied by a bright smile. Linda got out of the vehicle and walked away, but as Gayle was exiting, she mentioned that she was interested in doing some fishing. Dave replied that he had a 30-foot boat and would be happy to take them out tomorrow for a cruise around the area and to let them try their luck for a deepwater catch.
Gayle quickly accepted for both of them, certain that Linda would want to come along. Dave said that was terrific, and he would meet them tomorrow about 2 P.M., because it took about two hours to get from his house, across Tampa Bay, around the tip of Pinellas County and up to John’s Pass. He pointed in the darkness toward the Boardwalk and a pier at the very end. Be at Don’s Dock at two, he said.
Gayle was excited about the prospect of a ride out on the open water, but Linda was just as adamant that she would not be coming along. There was something about that Posner guy she didn’t like, and Gayle should not meet him either, she warned. Nonsense, argued Gayle, he’s just a nice guy, and anyway, he’s so old, probably almost in his forties. Come on, Linda, she pleaded, come along. Absolutely not, Linda replied, and that was that.
Linda stuck to her decision the next day after lunch and Gayle finally walked to the Boardwalk by herself. She did not see the dark truck parked anywhere, but made her way along the line of shops, examining T-shirts and gifts, looking at the nautical decor of the stores, such as the model shark tangled in a net over a doorway. Large boats were tied up awaiting their scheduled departure with a load of tourists, and people were buying bait. A clutch of sleepy pelicans lay asleep at the edge of the water, their long bills tucked beneath their wings, looking like large balls of feathers.
Shielding her eyes against the bright sun, she finally caught sight of Dave riding near the boat dock, alone in a boat that was faded blue on the outside and white inside. It seemed to her to be an older model, all boxy angles, more of a fishing boat than one of the sleek fiberglass powerboats that sliced through the water in front of some big outboard engine. She also noticed that the boat wasn’t thirty feet long as he had boasted, but a stubby seventeen-to-twenty footer. He saw her about the same time and spun the wheel, bringing the boat to bump against the fenders of the pier, and Gayle stepped quickly aboard. Dave wanted to know where Linda was, and a somewhat embarrassed Gayle explained that her friend had decided not to come for the ride. She thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but he gave her only a bright smile as she settled into one of the two pedestal seats at the front of the boat. With a slight push of the throttle, the boat’s inboard-outboard engine rumbled louder and they moved beneath the John’s Pass bridge, heading for the Gulf.
But as soon as they cleared the protection of the land, the pointed bow of the boat began to slap hard into the waves as rough weather somewhere far away churned the normally placid Gulf waters. So instead of pushing into deep water, Dave turned the boat and gave Gayle a tour of the sandy white Pinellas County beaches.
For more than six hours, they talked as he pointed out things of interest beyond the sandy ribbon of shoreline. He had made three sandwiches, because he had expected Linda to accompany them, and they shared the odd one. There was no beer or any alcohol aboard, but he did have a thermos filled with icy water. The AM-FM radio in front of her did not work, but otherwise Gayle felt totally safe and at peace as she spun around in the swivel seat, sinking comfortably into the worn upholstery as the sun toasted her. When she faced the stern of the boat, there was a completely open area before the engine cover and a pair of flanking squarish, boxlike things stretched from side to side across the back. A dark blue canvas canopy was laid back and lashed down around the stern. Once, looking curiously at the engine, she saw it was painted yellow and the word Volvo was stamped across the top. Dave baited her hook and helped teach her how to fish in deep water. He pulled up a wire cr...
