Sports & Recreation

Let's face it. This year's Miami Marlins have about as many high points as the pancake-flat state of Florida. But the silver lining of the Marlins selling all their best players during the offseason is that they also got to replace the hot-garbage train wreck known as Heath Bell at closer. With Bell shipped off to Arizona, the closer's role opened up for 26-year-old Steve Cishek, who came in with guns blazing. Drafted by the Marlins in 2007, Cishek was a skinny kid whose fastball topped off at just 82 mph. But thanks to a growth spurt and some seasoning through college, Cishek — who uses a baffling, near-submarine delivery — now breaks the radar gun at 95 mph with a nasty fastball that gives opposing hitters the hives. Stepping in as the closer late in 2012, Ci­shek proved that Marlins fans need not worry about at least one position. The six-foot-six, gangly flame-thrower converted 13 of 14 save opportunities over the season's final three months for Miami, allowing opposing batters to hit a paltry .183 average with runners in scoring position during that time. Cishek was also the one lone bright spot for the monumentally disappointing Team USA during this year's World Baseball Classic. So playing with a losing team and having success should be nothing new to him. The Marlins have plenty of problems going forward, but the closer ain't one. That is, of course, until they decide to trade Cishek for another crop of no-names.

Fear the tilde. Consider: Before he moved to Miami to take the reigns of the long-neglected Hurricanes basketball team, the former head coach at George Mason was just plain ol' Jim Larranaga. Then, in his arena a few miles from Little Havana, the coach rediscovered his Cuban roots. His grandad, after all, was born on the island, and back then the family surname was "Larrañaga." So this year, it was Jim Larrañaga stalking the sidelines, and damned if that tilde didn't rock college ball to its core. By the end of the season, the Canes had won their first ACC title and earned a No. 2 seed at the big dance, while Larrañaga was named National Coach of the Year by both the AP and the U.S. Basketball Writers Association. The power of proper punctuation, y'all.

He was supposed to be a choker. A guy who shrank in the big moments. LeBrick. And after roughly a billion articles disparaging him after the Miami Heat lost in the NBA Finals in 2011 to the Dallas Mavericks, it was apparent that the "LeBron James will never be Michael Jordan" argument was settled for good. Then the 2012 NBA playoffs happened. And LeBron showed the world he had the coal-fire balls to carry a team into the finals and obliterate into a fine powder all haters' hopes and dreams of watching him fail again. LeBron was an absolute freight train of devastation with his basketball prowess, littering the court with the decaying corpses of the Knicks, Celtics, and Thunder, and telling any and all who doubted him, mocked him, and otherwise said ridiculous things about him to go fornicate with farm animals. With a primal intensity usually reserved for professional assassins and lions pouncing and gorging on a herd of caribou, LeBron came through with what was quite possibly the single greatest one-man performance anyone has ever witnessed in NBA playoffs history. He has carried his godlike powers into the 2013 season and won a fourth MVP award, which is something Michael Jordan never did. Grace and violence. Beauty and devastation. Poetry and triumph. LeBron James is a walking epic poem.

Little-known fact: Red, the inmate played by Morgan Freeman in The Shawshank Redemption, was a Miami Dolphins fan. Think about it. When Andy Dufresne tells him that no matter how bleak it gets, it can never touch the hope that resides in us all, Red counters that hope "is a dangerous thing." As a Dolphins fan, Red would know that lesson all too well. Like all Fins fans, he's been primed full of hope that every new hotshot quarterback coming into Sun Life Stadium is the heir apparent to Dan Marino. But ever since No. 13 retired, the Fins have plowed through no less than a dozen signal-callers, all of whom fizzled out and were thrown back into the hot, fetid garbage heap of failure. But now there's Ryan Tannehill, Miami's 2012 first-round draft pick, who has taken up the hope mantle and will try to bring that elusive thing called "winning." In his rookie season, Tannehill threw for 3,294 yards — more than Marino threw in his rookie year. Tannehill also chucked 12 TDs and finished the season with a respectable 58.3 completion percentage. More important, he's shown he possesses the moxie and badassitude we haven't seen since Marino roamed the field and annihilated NFL defenses. Going into the next season, the Dolphins re-armed with weapons such as receiver Mike Wallace and tight end Dustin Keller. So Red, and all other Dolphins fans out there, can stop worrying. Ryan Tannehill is the hope that Andy Dufresne was talking about.

The Florida Panthers have been an absolute mess. Injuries, bad breaks, and poor play have made the most irrelevant of all local pro teams fade even deeper into the ether. However, if there was ever a reason to pay attention to the Cats and ready that bandwagon, it's their goal-scoring, point-amassing, defense-obliterating rookie sensation, Jonathan Huberdeau. The Panthers selected Huberdeau third overall in the 2011 NHL draft (one of the benefits of being consistently stinky), and the results have been consistently kick-ass from the word "go." In his first year with the minor-league Sea Dogs, Huberdeau scored 15 goals, and added 20 assists for 35 points in 61 games. In 2011, he led all scorers at the Memorial Cup (the Canadian junior-league championship), signaling he was more than ready to throw down with the big boys. Huberdeau is a virtuoso with a hockey stick in his hands. He can finesse a pinpoint-accurate pass one minute and turn a puck into a lethal heat-seeking missile that annihilates nets the next. In his first pro season with a depleted Panthers team, Huberdeau was a star. He tied for the NHL lead among rookies with 31 points on the year and was top five in goals and assists. The Panthers are stuck in the muck of mediocrity. But their future is bright with Jonathan Huberdeau igniting the NHL ice with his awesomeness.

When you're creating your montage of Duke Johnson season highlights to upload to YouTube, you should probably soundtrack it to something like the Foo Fighters' "My Hero" or Bonnie Tyler's "Holding Out for a Hero" or, if you have questionable taste, that "Hero" song that the lead singer of Nickelback did. Whatever the case, Johnson was certainly the hero of an uncertain Miami Hurricanes season. With a team relying so heavily on freshman and sophomore talent, along with the soap opera that has become the NCAA's investigation into Nevin Shapiro's claims still ongoing, the Hurricanes seemed as if they were entering this season with a black cloud looming above. In its first game, the team looked like it would fall to Boston College. Then, in the second quarter, Johnson, a true freshman, stunned fans with a 54-yard touchdown. A quarter later, Johnson topped that with a 56-yard score, and No. 8 didn't stop running all season. He led the team with 947 rushing yards and became the team's first ACC Rookie of the Year. The best part is he'll be back next year.

The Miami Hurricanes men's basketball squad's near-magical season was such a team effort that it's difficult to single out one Cane to honor. Sure, we could make a strong case for explosive point guard Shane Larkin, but we're hoping that withholding this very prestigious alt-weekly Best Of award will motivate the sophomore to forgo the NBA, return to Coral Gables, and win it next year. That's not to say Kenny Kadji doesn't deserve it, though. The senior forward, who transferred to the University of Miami from the Gators after sustaining a back injury, dropped 25 pounds and blossomed under head coach Jim Larrañaga. He put up 12.9 points a game this year and averaged 6.8 rebounds, proving he was one of the team's biggest offensive and defensive threats. We just wish that, like Larkin, he was eligible to return next year.

In the wild, the gulo gulo (commonly called the wolverine) is a ferocious little beast capable of killing prey (and even predators) almost twice his size. And when trapped in a cage, he becomes even nastier — just like five-foot-ten lightweight dervish Mike "the Wolverine" Rio. After proving his relentlessness and grit as a two-time Florida state wrestling champ out of Miami Southridge High School, Rio tore into a pro career with a furious six-fight win streak, ripping through a mess of regional opponents by TKO and rear-naked choke. In 2011, though, he suffered his first career defeat in a Championship Fighting Alliance decision loss to Mexican grappler Efraín Escudero, the Ultimate Fighting Championship's Ultimate Fighter 8 winner. Still, the Wolverine had not been tamed. And over the past two years, he has clawed his way through a stint on the Ultimate Fighter 15 (failing to qualify for the finale only because of two broken ribs), inked a UFC contract, and notched another three wins. In December 2012, Rio made his debut in the octagon against John Cofer and snatched up the victory by cranking his victim's arm till he cried out, tapped, and quit. Yet even as a submission specialist, this 155-pound beast has won four of his nine career wins by KO. And that's what makes Rio so dangerous. He's equally vicious rolling on the floor and throwing punches. Maybe he'll snap his prey's limbs. Or maybe he'll just knock him the hell out. Either way, the Wolverine almost always wins.

His fists are worth $750,000. And his smile is gold — literally. After winning two medallas de oro fighting for the Cuban boxing team at the 2000 and 2004 Olympics, Guillermo "El Chacal" Rigondeaux returned to the island, resumed his ascetic training schedule, and lived like a common campesino. He was a national hero. He was even — according to another Cuban boxing legend and two-time Olympic champ, Héctor Vinent — "the greatest boxer who ever lived." But he was still broke. And his prize medallions were worth only a couple hundred pesos. So Guillermo settled on fixing his teeth. "I melted my Olympic medals," he once explained, "into my mouth." A few years later, though, finally fed up with a life of poverty and the lack of opportunity in Cuba, Rigondeaux decided to defect. And just like so many of the island's fighters over the past six decades (not to mention several world-class Cuban contemporaries, including Yuriorkis Gamboa and Erislandy Lara), he moved to Miami. But already 29, Guillermo was turning pro at an advanced age. And unlike Gamboa's and Lara's careers, Rigondeaux's was starting slow. Despite being widely recognized as one of the best amateur fighters of the past half-century, Rigondeaux stands only five feet five inches tall. He weighs 122 pounds. And he isn't a headhunter. He is, however, a preternaturally skilled boxer with serious punching power. So over the past couple of years, he quietly compiled a perfect 12-0 record. He won the WBA Super Bantamweight belt. And then he broke out, methodically maiming Filipino-American champ Nonito Donaire (a WBO titleholder who's been almost universally heralded as a top-five pound-for-pound fighter) over the course of a 12-round bout in April. He won the unanimous decision. He cashed a $750,000 check. He flashed that gold smile. And even the naysayers were forced to admit that "El Chacal" is most definitely the real deal.

Brickell real estate is back, baby! Shoot yourself in the foot if you didn't grab a cut-rate condo when prices hit rock bottom. The endless traffic jams on this short span should be a constant reminder that you missed the boat. Gray monoliths have begun rising all along Eighth Street as developers have found money to build again. At any time of day, construction can squeeze the three-lane road down to only one. Work on Hong Kong-based Swire's billion-dollar Brickell CitiCentre has closed South Miami Avenue for weeks at a time. You're as likely to run into a mind-numbing traffic jam in the middle of the night or day as at rush hour.

When Dante wrote about the Ninth Circle of Hell, he could well have been describing weekend parking on South Beach. Midafternoon on a Saturday or Sunday is like a visit with Satan himself. Honking, profanity-spewing, and middle-finger-flying are all par for the gridlocked course. But the Seventh Street Garage is a gift from above. For $1 per hour (cheaper than parking on the street), you can leave your ride a stone's throw from everything you need for a successful Saturday afternoon — Wet Willie's, the News Café, volleyball courts, and the brilliant-blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean. There are 646 spots available, but unsurprisingly, Jersey Shore wannabes and fanny-pack-wearing tourists sometimes catch on as the day progresses, so it's key to arrive early; i.e., before 1 p.m.. OK, that's early, but dragging yourself out of bed is so worth it. Hell, you can always catch a little snooze in the sunshine.

Let's face it. Downtown Miami isn't that much fun. Despite lots of new businesses and condos, it's mostly quiet at night unless you're visiting one of the clubs on NE 11th Street. But wait! What's that on the waterfront? A 19-story-high dancing girl? Yeah, the InterContinental Hotel, which stands at the corner of the Miami River and Biscayne Bay, just completed a $30 million upgrade. It not only improved suites and added a first-class restaurant in the lobby but it also installed hundreds of computer-controlled lights in the exterior windows. Now, it can display a dancing girl with long, flowing hair. Or it can switch it to an erupting volcano. Or it can say "Welcome to Miami" in big block letters. And you can enjoy it for free.

It is said that there's nothing like going on safari in Africa and watching the sun rise on the Serengeti as wild animals roam the African plains. Here's the problem — it takes two whole days and lots of green to get to Kenya. But what most Miamians don't realize is that they can take a wildlife safari just as exotic without ever hopping on an airplane. Everglades National Park comprises about 1.5 million acres of land and is home to more than 350 species of birds, 27 species of snakes, 40 species of mammals, and hundreds of other reptiles and amphibians. The "River of Grass" has been called one of the great biological wonders of the world. Unlike many other wildlife areas, much of the Everglades cannot be accessed by foot or car — only by airboat. Fortunately, an airboat is one of the coolest modes of transportation ever. A flat-bottomed boat, powered by a gasoline engine with a big propeller, is fast, fun, and a little deafening. A two-hour private airboat safari for two starts at $375 and traverses about 17 miles of a secluded section called the Everglades and Francis S. Taylor Wildlife Management Area, which is abundant with wildlife. Are you a birder? Do you want to be surrounded by alligators? Or do you simply want to go fast? Tell your captain what you want to see and he'll tailor the safari to suit. Although no animal sightings are guaranteed, you are sure to have a wild time without ever getting your passport stamped.

Parents, rejoice! Entertaining your children no longer has to be at the expense of your sanity. Play Au Lait is among South Florida's largest active play gyms. It'll make Junior happy and active in a safe, clean, environment while you enjoy delicacies from the gourmet café or get some work done on the free Wi-Fi. Three play areas separated by age are designed for having fun, releasing stress, and building healthy bodies. Parents can host catered parties or join events like Kindermusik, an educational music and movement program, or LOTUS Parent Series, a support discussion group on raising kids. You can read in peace here and sip on champagne. Yes, it has that too. Admission rates vary per age, and the price includes two adults: up to 24 months old, $9.95; 2 to 5 years old, $11.95; and 6 to 12 years, $18.95. It's open Monday to Thursday from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., Friday and Saturday from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., and Sunday from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. And hey, with summer here, there's also camp for age groups 4 to 6 and 7 to 9, and a preschool prep camp for 2- and 3-year-olds.

OK, so you've been to the Second Saturday Art Walk, and all you can think is, I would never bring my little ones here! It's full of drinking and debauchery. Well, hold on a minute! The arts district that's south of NW 28th Street and Second Avenue is the most interesting slice of Miami. The reason isn't the galleries, it's the street art. Park near the Wynwood Walls at NW Second Avenue and 25th Street, enjoy dozens of paintings and the Wynwood Doors exhibit, then head over to NW Third Avenue and 26th Street, where you can see Eye and Fly by Scott Debus. Continue south and check out Dal East's Wireman at 31 NW 23rd St. and Ballerinas by Anthony Lister at 2300 NW Second Ave. The kids should be worn out by then, so shove 'em in the car and head for lunch and ice cream at Bayside Marketplace.

This place Trumps the Blue Monster! The Biltmore and Crandon Park? They command princely greens fees. So our choice is Miami Springs Golf & Country Club. Miami's oldest muni course and site of the Miami Open, the Springs has hosted Sarazen, Snead, Nelson, and all the greats from the game's golden era . These days, it welcomes scratchers and duffers alike. Fees are reasonable — weekday rates are $25, and weekend rates are $35 (plus cart and tax) — and there's plenty of yardage to challenge Bubba. Miami pioneer Glenn Curtiss and a group of fancy golfers who called themselves the Miami Coconuts built the course and clubhouse in 1923 for $101,000. Four years later, Curtiss sold it to the City of Miami after the Coconuts could not afford the maintenance. For 30 years, the Miami Springs Golf Course hosted the Miami Open. The last one was played in 1955. Later that year, the city burnt the clubhouse to the ground after deeming it an unsafe structure. In 1997, Miami sold the golf course to the City of Miami Springs for $3 million. Today, the course is the forgotten jewel among its more popular cousins in Doral and Coral Gables.

The best place to practice your golf swing in Miami is off the back of your megayacht, placing your perfect golf ball atop a gold-plated tee and swinging your custom titanium driver across the square of real, live Bermuda grass that you had imported from Bermuda (where else?), which was expertly manicured just hours earlier by Ernesto, your attractive (but not threateningly so) yacht gardener. But it turns out that sending golf balls into the ocean like tiny, pockmarked missiles is bad for the environment. Miami manatees have enough problems without having to dodge your shanks. Besides, you're broke. Luckily, the driving range at the Country Club of Miami is the next best place to improve your golf skills. Its grass is well-maintained, and it's open from dawn until dusk. And when you've tired of working on your big swing, there are nearby chipping and putting greens. Head over during Friday-night driving-range happy hour, when buckets of balls sell for $1 from 4 to 7 p.m. (the range is open 4 to 7 p.m. weekdays). Hey, until you and Ernesto sail off into the sunset, it'll have to do.

It's your one-stop park for every outdoor activity. Visitors to Tropical Park can find everything from tennis courts to soccer fields to a football field that regularly hosts high school games. Then there's the equestrian center, where horse enthusiasts can rent stables and participate in regular competitions. Among the courts for basketball and racquetball, you'll find a boxing center offering an amateur program. There's also a two-acre dog park with an obstacle course and lots of shady trees. There are paddle-boat rentals on a lake and another body of water with large-mouthed bass, bluegill, catfish, and more. For those looking to picnic, there is an array of options, from idyllic, hidden-away lakeside spots to rows of shelters for parties. There's even a grassy hill that is among the, ahem, highest pieces of earth in South Florida. It can make for a heck of a ride for daredevil dirt bikers, not to mention one precarious King of the Hill game.

Your dog has simple needs: Food, water, a little exercise, and something — be it rawhide or the remote control — to chew on. So when it comes to dog-park amenities, it's all about catering to dog owners. And East Greynolds does a great job of exactly that. Some of the place's amenities are solely for the dogs, of course. There are separate sections for large and small breeds, ensuring Princess the Chihuahua won't get trampled by any rough-housing direwolves. Fountains are on hand to make sure pups don't get dehydrated while they're prancing around in the hot Miami sun. But you'll find all those things just about anywhere. Greynolds stands out because of its human touches: shaded pavilions in both large and small dog areas, for example, so dog owners can stay comfortable and sunburn-free while their pups play. Parking ($2 per hour) is plentiful, and the location is picturesque, with a thin forest to the north and a dock overlooking Maule Lake to the south. There's even a public and clean (by park standards, anyway) restroom right outside the dogs' play area, ensuring you won't have to pop a squat, Fido-style, when you've gotta go.

It's hard to preserve waterfront property in Miami. If high-rise developers aren't locked in a bloody battle over a parcel, it's destined to become a gaudy mansion. Every now and again, a municipality gets a sliver of land to maintain for the masses. Alice C. Wainwright Park is a gem hidden among multimillion-dollar mansions on a hard-to-find spot south of downtown. To the north are Brickell's glittering office and condo towers. To the south is still-Bohemian Coconut Grove. The park is a narrow strip of green space that ends at Biscayne Bay and offers sweeping views of Key Biscayne and the edge of downtown Miami. The best place to roll out the blanket, before depositing the cheese and wine, is next to the water, which is separated from the rest of the park by a short, rocky drop-off. If you want to take things to the next level, fire up the built-in charcoal grills.

There's no disputing that downtown Miami provides one of the most gorgeous vistas in this town. From the JFK Causeway to the arch of the Rickenbacker, the arresting sight of Downtown dominates Biscayne Bay. And no matter what the weather or time of day, from flaming sunset to cool-blue midnight, it provides a special patch of sky-high glass and colorful noise that's unnervingly pretty. And nowhere gives you a more complete and undisturbed view than the dock along the west side of Watson Island. Park your car in the empty lot in the shadow of the Miami Children's Museum — there's rarely more than one or two other cars there — and wander over to the edge of the seawall, where huge rusted moorings hark back to a time when the skyline across the bay was a simpler, smaller thing. Bask in the glory of the city's majesty. From the Omni to the Port of Miami, the view from Watson Island captures a panorama teeming with madness and neon and beauty. It's a paradise lost and reclaimed, home to an international array of raving lunatics and geniuses, murderers and poets and princes. It's damned near perfect.

Whether you're driving a shitty car that requires a double-pump of the clutch to work properly, riding a bike that's rusted into eternal sixth gear with a half-flat tire, or walking back to your Mid-Beach hotel at 6 a.m. with blisters after dancing the night away with foreign strangers at LIV, this stretch along the water is unbeatable. It starts right around Brittany Park on Indian Creek Drive. Then, going south, it fluidly becomes less about the shitty day you had at work or the fight you had with your BFF and more about the surroundings. Close your eyes and feel the breeze. Look at the sunset peeking through every building. Study the stellar mansions of Millionaire's Row. Palm trees are perfectly placed along the water, so photo ops are unavoidable. Fancy yachts from Italy and the French Riviera line the docks for weeks at a time. At night, the 41st Street Bridge lights up like a deep-sea creature with bioluminescent capabilities. Lampposts lining the bridge show bright, interchangeable colors. This is the Magic City at its greatest.

It's hard to believe, but there is quite a landscape to explore in the western part of Miami-Dade known as Little Venezuela, AKA Doral. Home to industrial complexes and modern housing developments, it's a trip inside the mind of an urban planner on blotter acid. The city is a great place for a day trip on two wheels. So do yourself a favor. Link up with the Doral Cycling Club, a group of hard-core cyclists who keep safety in mind. The club always provides a warm welcome to new cyclists, sponsoring weekly morning rides and a 55- to 65-mile adventure that takes you from Doral to Key Biscayne on Sundays. However, we suggest bike riders stick to the Saturday ride that covers a distance of 45 to 55 miles within the city limits. The journey begins at 7:30 a.m. from Eugenia B. Thomas Elementary School. From there, you'll trek across Doral's urban terrain, hitting the Dolphin Mall and the International Mall while twice crossing the bridge on NW 97th Avenue that goes over the Dolphin Expressway. The average speed is 20 to 22 miles per hour, although there are three "speed zones" in which speed is increased substantially to 26 to 32 miles per hour. Each speed zone has a sprint where riders can top 35 miles per hour. The average size of the peloton on Saturdays is 50 to 60 riders.

Pull into the gravelly parking lot at Crandon Park Marina. Park as close as you can to the road, in the free spaces. Turn off your engine, step into the humid morning air, and feel the breeze on your soon-to-be sweaty skin. Stretch your legs against the bumper of your car — really stretch them. Now run west on the paved path that parallels the road. Notice the fishermen prepping their boats for a day at sea. Stride onto the first bridge, an easy one with a barely noticeable incline, stretching from Crandon Park to Virginia Key almost at sea level. Feel that first energizing blast of bay wind right off the water. Look across the horizon to the few sailboats in the distance and the pinks and peaches of sunrise beyond. Keep running. Set foot back on land at the University of Miami's Rosenstiel School of Marine and Atmospheric Science. How long has that building been under construction now? No matter. Take note of its beautiful beaches. Keep running. Pass Miami Seaquarium and Mast Academy, then the road that used to lead to Jimbo's. Reminisce. Keep running. Smile at the other runners, speedwalkers, and families. The path is wide enough for you all. Keep running past the kayak tours and snack vendors until you're past the Rusty Pelican and the Rickenbacker bridge looms. It's not as far or as steep as it looks, and the skyline view from its peak is worth the effort. Coast back down to land with the breeze cooling your skin and slowing your heart. Know that the hardest part is over. Or maybe not. Your car's at the marina, dummy.

Soccer enthusiasts in Miami-Dade don't have to wait for World Cup fever to enjoy a competitive game. The rooftop at 444 Brickell offers no vuvuzelas or waving banners, just straight foot-to-ball contact in a place that feels as if it were on top of the world. The view from the field offers skyscrapers and breathtaking cityscapes. A concession stand, a lounge, and an outdoor patio separate two turf fields on top of the converted parking garage. They are equipped with netted courts and padded walls for safety. It's a clean, relaxed environment, and the staff is on a first-name basis with most players. The Brickell location makes it an ideal stop for a quick game during a lunch break or after work. The Roof Top is also putting together a soccer academy, leagues, and tournaments. Rates are competitive with other Miami canchas (from $100 to $120 for a field per hour), but what makes rooftop soccer unique is the atmosphere. Round up ten close buddies and pay less than you would for dinner to get your blood circulating, oxygen flowing, and heart racing. It's open Monday through Friday from 4 p.m. to 2 a.m., weekends 9 a.m. to midnight. There's both garage or street parking, giving you no excuse to be lazy.

Pop... hiss goes your racket as you return the ball to your opponent. Congrats. You brought the racket all the way back over your shoulder and finished the stroke — finally. Your tennis coach has been trying to get you to do that for months. You're no Sharapova, but you still play like hell. This isn't a court on Roland Garros French Open, but you'll be damned if Fairway Tennis Courts in Miami Beach won't be your point of starting to get there. These are clean, hard courts, newly paved and painted, and almost always available. Why? Because they're tucked away in Normandy Shores where no one seems to really know they exist. There's no cost to play either. Think of Fairway as a pristine, cost-free, hidden gem that may very well deliver you to a game at the ATP World Tour if you visit frequently enough.

The comfortable color ratio of white to blue here was awesome. Remember the day we were there in that banana-yellow kayak? We named her Leila? The temperature may have reached the high 80s, but who's counting? Our skin was sizzling. We splashed ourselves with saltwater. There was that part after the Kane Concourse bridge on 96th Street where the water's sheen blinded us through our sunglasses. We could've paddled Leila out into the sandbar in front of the kite park in Haulover. But it's so much more peaceful farther south. And it was easy to get there too. We followed Indian Creek all the way north and, when we reached 91st Street, hitched a left toward Indian Creek Lake. Ah, we were in love... So now that we've remembered all that, can you give me my damned kayak back? I know we've broken up, but that doesn't mean you have to hold onto my stuff, you bastard!

You'll really need your GPS for this one. There are no street numbers, and unless you've been introduced to this oasis of airboating, gator-watching, camping, and fishing somewhere in between the muddy outskirts of Miramar and Pembroke Pines by an avid nature lover or have driven down Krome Avenue, chances are you've never heard of this place. Once you've found the road, you'll still need to trek deeper through rocky roads and high grass to get to the actual camp. You'll know you've reached it when you find a wooden "Mack's Fish Camp" welcome sign and cabins, airboats, a stilt pavilion, fishing gear, and peeking gator heads. At this point, you'll start to wonder, "Where am I?" But when the sky starts turning shades of purple, orange, and blue and the sun fades onto the horizon, you'll realize there's no other place you'd rather be, even if you have no clue where the hell you are.

The paradise most tourists seek in Key West is actually on the way there. At the late Laura Quinn's Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center, native and migratory birds that have lost their way or gotten snagged on fish hooks are repaired and released. On a boardwalk and trail, you can walk among more than 400 species of avians, including pelicans, herons, hawks, ibises, owls, laughing gulls, and turkey vultures. For nearly 40 years, this nonprofit animal rescue has operated on monies donated by the kindest of strangers. And if you want, you can even become a volunteer. Think about it over a frosty pint of Sunset Ale at Mrs. Mac's Kitchen while you wait for a fresh order of Bahamian-style conch salad ($7.95) and a blackened dolphin sandwich ($9.95). Follow it up with a slice of homemade key lime pie ($4.95).