Fort Meyers Beach, James M.S. Johnson

I was introduced to Fort Myers Beach, Florida, by the Redpaths, who had a family house, guesthouse and garage there, on a property that was right on the beach.

I have visited them many times there during their wintertime visits (aka “snowbirds” heading south for the winter), my first visit being in March of 1970, between leaving the Navy and starting as a Patrolman with the New Haven Police.  During that visit, I met an interesting man my own age, Jim Johnson, a.k.a James M.S. Johnson.

Jim was remodeling major portions of the Redpath’s house, “Palm Shadows”, which had roof problems and some dry rot he was fixing.  ( I always thought naming a house was a bit pretentious — but it turns out to be a sort of old Yankee / WASP thing to do, and the Redpaths didn’t put on any special airs about this winter vacation spot they had bought from an elderly cousin.)

Jim was an “angry young man” — very bright, strong as hell, deeply opinionated and very talented.   He grew up in WASPy Connecticut (Norwalk, Wilton) as part of a family that claimed Andrew Wyeth as a cousin and Jim’s great, great grandfather, James Marion Sims, a controversial Civil War era doctor considered the father of gynecology.

Jim’s older brother graduated from Harvard when Jim was in high school and entered the military during the Vietnam War.  He was killed, and Jim was (and still is) very angry about that.  Always a bit of rebel, Jim jumped in his van with his wife Susie and infant daughter and took off, finally arriving in Ft. Myers and developing a contracting business, doing marine construction and building/remodeling houses.

Here are some representative stories about Jim:

Once, some of the “good old boys” along the docks thought they have some fun with Jim by scuffing up some varnishing work he had meticulously finished on a mast he was refinishing for a local sailboat.  The 300-pound mast had been delicately placed on sawhorses so the varnish could set, and the men had pushed it off, thereby ruining the varnish job.

Knowing that he was being watched when he discovered the vandalism, Jim decided to send a message.   So, picked up the mast, put it on his shoulder and walked it up to his shop, which was nearby.

The fellas down at the dock left him alone after that.

Jim had a black Lab named Harley [Davidson] and a VW Beetle car with a platform bolted on top.  When the car was full, Harley would ride on the platform on the roof, causing quite a consternation as they drove down Estero Blvd.

Harley was an incredible dog: Jim could throw a wooden handled hammer out into the Gulf, where it would sink in 6 or 8 feet of water.  (The gradient of the beach off Ft. Myers is very shallow.)   Harley would swim out to where he saw the splash, dive down and fetch the hammer!   He would do this over and over again, never tiring.

I liked Jim and even admired his independence, story-telling ability, good humor and young family — wife Susie and young daughters Elly, Peggy and Jenny.  He initially viewed me as yet another smart-assed Yalie, part of the world he left a few years before, but he mellowed over time.

Our lives intersected twice again later in our lives — the first about 18 months later, when I returned for a couple months with my new bride.  And the second in 2008-9, when I helped Jim develop a charity he liked, The Right To Learn, and met his youngest daughter Jenny, who was a new baby in ’71.

Jim has continued, how shall I say? — the “adventurous life”:

• developing “Poleworld,” a very unique house that he designed, engineered and built himself, including a heavy water tank perched 35 feet in the air;
• divorcing twice before finding soulmate Eva (aka “Woodrose” his hiking companion on the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Coast Trail, both of which they’ve traversed);
• climbing up the 45-degree sides of a dormant volcano in Nicaragua;
• learning Spanish at age 60 and singing songs in Spanish; and
• maintaining his fury against big business and the imperialism embedded in US government policies.