The Spanish used to call Lignumvitae Key ‘Cayo De Leńa’ - firewood key. I was a sea pilgrim, enchanted by its name and the fact it was home to these mythical hardwoods. We never quite made it there. The day was grey and flat when we set sail and I could smell the island from a distance over the usual sea smell. It didn’t smell of America. It smelled of old magic, like turkish delight, cedar furniture and the tobacconists on Terrace Road - with an arid pepperiness that now reminds me of hot pavements in Santa Marta. It lies at the north end of the Conch Republic, with its skeleton railroad, languishing African Queen and sudden squalls that could blow you off this end of the earth. A squall blew up, and the bluegreen promise of the island and our planned mooring ball disappeared in a fierce white-out of sea spray, horizontal rain and our spat shouting as we bumped and scraped along slippery decks to douse sails. We were swept away and had to continue on - not to set foot. I feel banished like an apple eater.