Beyond the sand, to the west, was a north-south road named A1A that hugged the coast from Florida to Maine. Key West at one tip and its reciprocating bookend, some other city in the far away north where neither Jim nor Woody had ever been. Actually, depending on the crowd and what was potentially at stake, Jim would most certainly claim he had been to every town in the Pine Tree State. That was Maine’s official nickname. Jim had come across this little tidbit when he was looking for innocuous names for future, urban developments. An element of chance, quelling Jim’s feelings of insecurity, enough for him to feel clever, and now Pine Tree Estates was in for permitting and eventually, more cash. In Boca Raton, A1A was lined with Australian Pines on the west side of the road and Sea Grapes to the east. In years past, Woody often told tourists that the pines were trees and the grapes were bushes. It could be argued that the Sea Grapes were just tall enough to make their classification less obvious and mildly entertaining. And it would be confirmed that Woody believed this made his classification mildly essential and without a partnering superlative. He was an emissary lacking the support of his supervisors, at least until the visitors made it to the water’s edge. Today, the road was home to a loud noise that was not attributed to traffic or construction. Both Jim and Woody heard it, and for different reasons, they flinched initially, but did not seem interested in welcoming the visual that was lagging just behind. Jim acknowledged the noise as procedural, ceremonial if there had been cameras and he was the one cutting the red tape. Woody realized he was one step closer to becoming obsolete, which was borderline already. Chainsaws were everywhere, too many for the eyes to ignore, along with workers dodging falling limbs. Jim and Woody had at least one thing in common, secretly, they hoped that the snapped wood from high above, would eventually outwit a two legged miscreant down below and register a direct hit. It was always easier to accept a calamity by viewing the recipient as deserving. Besides, Woody knew first aid. But no amount of CPR would save the Australian Pines. They were non native, and all out war was not only justified, but required against invaders, especially those with foliage so thin that they were referred to as needles. Looking skyward, their canopy resembled nothing more than a set of cheap blinds. Woody likened it to setting the air conditioning at 68 and then waking up hot and stuck to the bed. That was always good for at least one nervous laugh. However, Woody also knew that nothing would ever take the tall tree’s place, figuratively, for these pines could reach majestic, supernatural heights, north of 120 feet. Literally, he knew that new development always came with unobstructed views-more eyes meant more exposure. More exposure meant more judgement, more judgement meant soft hints would give way to harsh requirements, especially when it came to retirement, and the debate of whether it should be voluntary or forced. Jim was elated, his latest project must have been approved. But he was concerned, for Jim did not recall any concept that had called for removing pine trees. Right or wrong, these landmarks had dotted the coast for generations. Despite another victory for his way of life, Jim fretted over this development’s cost to his already frayed public perception. More specifically, what would he talk about the next time A1A was brought up? Even Woody, had been to Key West.