Sports & Recreation

Working 14-hour days and eating meals in your car isn't really conducive to making a love connection. Emerge Broward is the answer. The Fort Lauderdale-based networking organization boasts 500-plus members and frequent events, which feature anything from a happy hour on Las Olas to community service projects elsewhere in the county. A meetup at Tundra earlier this year was just drinks, handshakes, and all the fried goat cheese you could fit in your face — though if you're trying to land a hottie, maybe keep the cheese-pile servings to under a dozen. Membership is $25 a year, and getting acclimated is as easy as showing up and slapping on a nametag. The friendly faces will do the rest.

Shondelle Solomon-Miles, AKA "Coach," has a body as impossibly skinny and taut as Iggy Pop's, a look as fierce as Nicki Minaj's, and a way of making you obey that's like Mom when she means business. Coach's B.A. from Columbia University and master's degree from the University of Miami don't hurt either. At her gym, Synergize, she follows the standard Crossfit methods of team workouts consisting of hard-core, old-school moves like jumping jacks, dead lifts, burpees, sprints, and the terrifying-sounding Turkish get-ups. Whereas other Crossfit gyms can feel too aggro, Solomon-Miles has a winning supply of motherly warmth: Eat foods that are "supportive," she says; push through your fears, she guides. There's also her no-bullshit, get-it-done, drill-sergeant toughness. Men and women alike, she will work you — and then make it all better with a smoothie from the juice bar at the end of class. True, the price ($159 to $199 per month) is steep, but the results are undeniable.

The big, beat-up building just off of Wilton Drive is exactly as vintage as it's supposed to be — the door handles are sticky, and the carpet showcases the standard "bowling pin and explosions" theme, but the lanes are clean, the balls are heavy, and — most important — the games and drinks are cheap. Ten bucks will get you unlimited bowling on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9 p.m. until 2 a.m., and their ordinarily cheap drinks get even cheaper during happy hour, from 4 to 7: Domestic pitchers cost $6.50 to $9, and 16-ounce beers are two bucks a pop. A good place to bowl; a great place to drink. What else do you need?

The vibe in the Retro Arcade isn't exactly a dimly lit cafe where patrons debate Kant or Joyce over glasses of malbec. But there is a special sort of intelligence to be found at the Retro Arcade Night. The monthly gathering brings together the humble stoners; future, present, and former rocket scientists; and perhaps even a retired English professor. And while any female met at this event is likely to be of the superbrained variety as well, she is a bit harder to come by than the dude-nerds. Let's just say the girl/guy ratio at this party is slightly more slanted than a pinball machine.

"Right now, it's time to win in court and then tell the people what the real deal is." That's how Dan Borislow responded to New Times' emailed request for an interview. The media, particularly sports website Deadspin, hasn't been kind to the three-wheeled-motorcycle-riding, West Palm Beach millionaire who made his fortune in the late 1990s in the telecom industry and a decade later invented the magicJack. In December 2010, Borislow spent big to acquire a women's soccer team, move it to Boca Raton, and name it after the magicJack — only to be accused of single-handedly destroying the Women's Professional Soccer league in the ensuing months. The litany of weirdness includes a former player who alleges that Borislow made her call him "daddy;" the firing of a well-respected coach who got the team off to a 3-0 start; emails Borislow sent to league brass calling them a "bunch of blithering idiots"; and rumors that he benched players and threatened their careers if they raised concerns about these antics. In the wake of all the bad publicity, the magicJack team was suspended and the league canceled its 2012 season. It's a tragedy, especially since the magicJack was stacked with talent; the roster included several players from the women's World Cup Soccer team that made a run in 2011 and would have given the league a fighting chance. We're eagerly waiting for litigators to wrap up the show so Borislow can finally tell us the real deal.

In South Florida, it's easy to live under the assumption that the western edge of civilization lies somewhere around your Aunt Debbie's condo in Tamarac, but that would be a shame. Broward County stretches far beyond the houses and strip malls, into the python-filled plumbing works of the Everglades. Between those two worlds, there is a dividing line: a set of levees that runs from Lake Okeechobee all the way south to Homestead, maintained by the South Florida Water Management District. There's a two-lane packed-dirt path on top that's perfect for mountain biking or a jog. Time it right and catch the sun setting over the sawgrass in the cooler part of the day, but be sure to bring ample water and about-face toward home before dark. For easy access to the trail north of Alligator Alley, park near the dog park at Markham Park and cut down to the access trail at the park's southwestern corner.

Two minutes in West Lake Park is all it takes to get away from the asphalt hell of South Florida sprawl. The trip starts with a light paddle down a serene mangrove tunnel — keep your eyes peeled for the always-awesome manatee and some nice birds. When the trail empties out on the lake, it's your choice. Let the boat float and kick back to relax while soaking in the rays, or cut across the lake — a workout in itself on a windy day — and explore the mangrove-lined, color-coded trails. If it weren't for the not-so-distant skylines peeking up over the trees, you might forget that you're smack in between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. Prices aren't bad either: Drop 15 bucks to rent a canoe for an hour, $20 for two hours, or $50 for the whole day.

In the 1920 novel The Skylark of Space, the hero, Dick Seaton, accidentally spills a solution containing "element X" onto a copper tub that is surrounded by an energy field from a nearby "whatssittron" particle accelerator. The copper tub goes shooting through the wall and into the sky, and Seaton uses the technology to develop the first jet pack. The Rocketman jet pack that debuted in Fort Lauderdale on April 1 is almost as cool. The Jet-Lev Flyer JF 250 has "a powerful four-stroke engine, an astonishing 250 horsepower, and water nozzle reaction force to achieve stable, controlled flight," according to its makers. In other words, everyday people can now fly 30 feet in the air via a jet pack that is worn like a backpack, powered by two streams of water, and connected by a hose to an engine floating on the water. It's basically the same technology as a Jet-Ski. A "unicycle-style saddle and leg trapeze" assure safety and comfort. Shell out $250 for a "flight experience" or $4,000 for a full day of jetting.

Certainly, more glamorous destinations are within jetting distance, but a perfect escape excludes any trip that involves traffic on I-95 or getting felt up by a TSA agent. So, yay for us, a high-speed ferry to Grand Bahama Island debuted late last year. It's not exactly the Queen Mary, but it does have hardwood floors, a gift shop, and comfy lounge chairs. Regular tickets cost $75 each way, $50 each if you go there and back the same day, and kids under 6 travel free. Through a link from the Bahamas Express website, you can book a hotel stay. Once on the island, play golf, go snorkeling or fishing, shop for a nice straw hat, or swim with dolphins. Or call the tourist board at 242-352-8044 to get hooked up with a native Bahamian who shares your interests and will pal around with you for the day. That's a solid weekend trip for simple people. Sometimes all we need in life is a conch sandwich, a rum runner, and a new stamp in our passports.

There comes a time every so often when the air-conditioned confines of the office, car, and home begin to feel, well, confining. You don't need to be a nature buff to get a recharge from wandering the two-and-a-half miles of trail in the suburban wilderness of West Palm Beach. Given Florida's topography, it's an easy hike, most of which is shaded by creaky pines. On your walkabout, you might get a peek at a white-tailed deer or a great horned owl. More often than not, you'll come across a gopher tortoise, a threatened species frequently seen waddling at a surprisingly fast clip about the trails. Ever see a turtle running in the woods? It's a trip, man.

You feel like a pro when the lights at Jefferson Park in Hollywood flick on and bathe the soft dirt of the bocce courts in a yellow glow. The crack of one ball crashing off another, the last glimmer of sunset — it's all simply exhilarating. Then your dreams of bocce glory are quickly shattered by the hardened glare of a dozen Italian senior citizens who have been throwing jacks and rolling balls on these courts since the days of yore. They'll critique your technique under their breath, scold you for letting a dog on the dirt, and roll their eyes at the cooler full of empty beer bottles you stashed under the bleachers. The mere presence of this ancient-looking horde rocking tracksuits and loafers is indisputable anthropological proof that these courts are among South Florida's finest.

Living in South Florida means a steady influx of out-of-state visitors — some invited, most not. They want to do all the crap that has never even crossed your mind, and it all of a sudden becomes your responsibility to entertain these vacationing pests. Kill a day by driving west to Everglades Holiday Park and jumping on one of the futuristic-looking covered fan boats that can go out in rain and protect the pale from the sun's scorch. Yup, it's gimmicky. But you can send visitors home with tales of gator sightings and firsthand knowledge of just how badass the Everglades is. Don't forget the biggest upside: The whirring fans quickly drown out nagging in-laws and the endless banter from those guests who took you up on your drunken Facebook post inviting everyone to come visit.

A well-placed snorkel source suggested hitting the waters off Soldier Key, the 1.66-acre island in Biscayne National Park. But park ranger Gary Bremen warns that "snorkeling off Soldier Key is absolutely not allowed. Soldier Key itself is closed to the public for a variety of reasons," including turtle nesting. That doesn't mean there's not great snorkeling in nearby waters. "Snorkeling in Biscayne National Park, well, it's one of those places nobody thinks of because everyone thinks they have to go to Key Largo or south, and they ignore the 50 smaller islands," Bremen says. Because the reefs are about three miles off the islands, a boat is a must. Don't have one? Take a three-hour, ranger-guided tour — you're in the water for an hour, transportation for two hours — for $45. Two boats leave daily, one at 10 a.m. the other at 1 p.m.

Imagine a pristine shoreline, untouched by bulldozers or condos. The wind rustles sea-grape leaves and palm trees; the surf is thick and wild. This is a place with rough rocks underfoot and glittering seashells dotting the sand. You can snorkel with tropical fish or take a nap in the sand — you'll have plenty of room, considering tourists rarely discover this spot. As the sun sets, walk back along the wooden boardwalk that stretches over the sun-dappled waters of Lake Worth Cove. Wander down a nature trail, rent a kayak, or listen to bluegrass music in the park's amphitheater. Come late on summer nights to find prehistoric sea turtles digging nests; early mornings, hatchlings crawl their way to the shoreline. This place is a rare reminder of the way Florida used to be — quiet and full of wonder.

Pack up the bikes and head west to Shark Valley, where there are no sharks but plenty of sunbathing gators lounging around the 15-mile looping path. It's a nature-filled workout with ample views of pristine sawgrass and loads of migratory birds between January and March. What's that, you say? Pedal-pushing your way past gators and birds is sooooo touristy? Well, there's also a decent chance of spotting one of the much-hyped Burmese pythons that are grabbing national headlines. Park ranger Eric Riordan says five of the suckers were removed from the park in December, including one that was 16 feet long. If that's not motivation to keep pedaling, what is?

To the nongrizzled newbie, bait shops can be a bit intimidating. They're beacons of seafaring manliness where tales and tips are swapped in a vernacular impossible to fake. Rather than wimping out and heading for one of the watered-down Walmarts of fishing (Outdoor World — where you can buy a boat, a snazzy flannel to look the part, and loads of other stuff you'll never need), show some love for local retailers and drop into Angler's Bait & Tackle. The staff is as knowledgeable about the local scene as anyone and willing to share its insider info on nearby hot spots with customers. During a recent visit, one of the managers, Juanito, walked an FOB Midwesterner through all the twists and turns, from how to get a license to what baits work where to the best internet boards. He even recommended that the newcomer test out some gear at Outdoor World, then come back and order it through the shop for a better deal. It's tough not to give preference to the shop after that suggestion.

Though it's more a stunning example of the avian diversity residing in our great state, Wakodahatchee also is proof that once in a great while, humans do get it right. What previously sat vacant as 50 acres of "unused utilities land" has been transformed into a manufactured wetlands where the Palm Beach County Water Utilities Department naturally filters a few million gallons of water daily. We know, we know: Florida governmental body engaged in a successful eco-innovation? It's a little hard to believe. But this shit is real, and it's something to behold. More than 140 species of birds have been spotted from the boardwalks throughout the facility, from hard-to-mistake regulars like the great blue heron to rarefied hermits like the least bittern. You don't have to be the progeny of John James Audubon to get a thrill out of the view. Hell, you don't even need to own a set of binoculars. Simply walk in (there's no cost) and you'll immediately be assaulted with a landscape littered with flying, wading, and swimming feathered creatures who are delighting in the fact that, for once, humans didn't mess it up.

They really need to make a movie about Vincent Nostokovich, AKA Trapper Nelson. According to legend, he grew up trapping muskrats in New Jersey during the industrial revolution. He ran away from home to Mexico but was arrested by Federales for gunrunning. So he headed back East with ten cents to his name, grew that into a living wage by gambling, and landed in South Florida. With a loan, he bought vast swaths of land — 800 acres eventually — where he trapped animals and sold their fur and meat. Weird rumors about him abounded — he could eat 18 eggs for breakfast, he dined on raw 'possum — but his reputation soared when he turned his land into a tourist stop and zoo and began wrestling alligators. Next thing, the six-foot-four beefcake was nicknamed "Tarzan of the Loxahatchee River" and started dating beautiful heiresses. He married but was drafted for World War II. Upon his return, he found his wife cheating and his tax bills piling up. He went cuckoo, chasing visitors from his land and becoming a recluse. Nelson was found dead in 1968 with a gunshot wound to his stomach. Was it suicide, as authorities ruled, or was he murdered? Conspiracy theorists have noted that men wanted his girlfriends, thieves wanted his treasure (rangers in 1984 found coins stashed in his chimney), and the government wanted his land — which it eventually got and made part of Jonathan Dickinson State Park. You're not supposed to camp here, but tour boats and canoes make pit stops. If you visit, see if the trapper's ghost will tell you the truth — locals have reported multiple sightings.

Before drone strikes and cyberattacks, long-range missiles and nuclear annihilation, wars were fought with cannonballs and other solid orbs of destruction. That mode of attack might help explain why more than 16 million bricks were used to build Fort Jefferson and it has still never been completed. Construction of the "Guardian of the Gulf of Mexico" began in 1846; officials called it off in 1875 due to concerns that the sheer weight of all those bricks was too stressful for the tiny island and its water system, according to the National Park Service. Located about 70 miles west of Key West in Dry Tortugas National Park, the imposing structure is little more than a subtropical ghost town these days. More than 160 years of storms and salty sea winds have taken their toll, but if you can get out to the small remote islands, you'll stroll around a one-of-a-kind artifact that would never be deemed feasible in these modern times.

Once in a blue moon, our elected officials decide to restore a natural habitat instead of bulldozing it for development. In 2005, Palm Beach County created the Snook Islands by filling holes in the Lake Worth Lagoon with dredged sand imported from Peanut Island. Volunteers planted red mangroves on the barren landscape, and today the islands are full of scampering crabs and leggy birds. In February, the county created a new way to enjoy the islands near the western end of the Lake Worth Bridge. There's a small, grassy park overlooking the water, along with a fishing pier, dock, and boat launch area. The highlight is a 545-foot-long wooden-plank boardwalk winding past the mangrove trees into the lagoon. Visitors can walk over the water, listening to the gentle lapping of waves, as birds skim the water and soar above the trees. It's a true oasis in the city.

Despite being tasked specifically with dealing with the public, many spokespeople seem to pretty much hate dealing with pesky reporters. Unlike other public relations professionals who are either unbearable cranks or dissembling sugarcoaters, Mandell tells it like it is in reference to investigations and public records. He sometimes even — gasp — engages in friendly chit-chat. He's a straight shooter of the metaphorical kind.

It's easy to see why David Garrard is the best Dolphin — he's been practicing way longer than everyone else. When Garrard played his first game for the Jaguars in 2002, Dolphins center Mike Pouncey was 13 — that's what we in the biz call "a big head start." He's thrown for 89 touchdowns in ten seasons, which means, if he keeps it up, he's on pace to pass Dan Marino for career touchdowns in the 2048 season. He'll only be 70 years old!

Even the Outfielder Formerly Known as Mike Stanton is getting in on the rebranding craze — though his dad calls him "Mike" and his mom calls him "Cruz," Stanton said during spring training that he was more comfortable going by his real first name, "Giancarlo." With 34 home runs last year and a .893 OPS, one can't help but agree with catcher John Buck: "When I think of 'Giancarlo,' I think of someone with long, flowing hair like Fabio. But if he keeps hitting homers, I'll call him whatever he wants me to call him."

The Panthers picked up this 32-year-old Canadian last year, and it's paid off big time — in addition to four three-assist games, he had a four-assist game last October and now sits comfortably near the top in the league for feeding goals up to the offense. Plus, who can resist those glimmering white teeth?

Broadcasters love when Udonis Haslem comes off the bench because it gives them an excuse to use terms like "hustle," "heart," and "power player." The real upside of Haslem checking in is the chance of catching a glimpse of the tremendous, retina-scorching tattoo of Florida carved across the big man's back. Yes, he has an outline of the entire state tattooed on him, and it's not what one might call geographically proportionate. From a purely statistical view, Haslem's six points and seven rebounds per game halfway through the season don't even get him close to being the best at anything on the floor. And that's why we love him. The Miami native reps Florida hard, and you have to root for a hometown hero whose résumé includes balling in Gainesville. Anyway, LeBron and D-Wade have already won this thing, and did you really think this coveted accolade would go to that Harry Potter-loving Texan, Bosh?

"OLLAAAAAAATTEEEEEEE!" That's what you should scream when you're sitting in the nearly deserted spectator area at Dania Jai Alai, watching players in brightly colored suits scoop up a goatskin ball and hurl it against the wall at breakneck speed. At least, that's what we screamed every time we saw this unassuming 38-year-old from Basque country — the birthplace of this perplexing sport — scuttle to the front of the court and deliver a devastating serve return that sent the ball bouncing low against the wall, falling out of play before an opposing team member could catch it. If you have no idea what we're talking about, that's OK. We don't really either. Just go watch a game — it's free, you can drink cheap beer, and thanks to us, you'll be one of the few people in the seats hurling praise instead of insults.

If this place has fallen so far and is still so much fun, it must have been unbearably awesome in its heyday. Once you pick up the rules of the game (if you've ever played wall ball, you'll get it in no time), the jai-alai palace will give you hours of (frustrating) enjoyment in a low-pressure environment with cheap beers, cheap bets, and none of the ridiculous crowds of some of the more popular South Florida gambling halls. Be prepared, though — you're never madder about losing a dollar than when some schmuck named Manex loafs an easy catch at the end of the night.

There are a few options for planespotting at Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport: You can sit on benches at the top level of the Hibiscus Garage or sit on the grass berms in the 30-acre park south of the tarmac. But for true aviation geekery, you can't beat this parking lot by the western end of the north runway. Airplane buffs and families with kids slurp sodas and watch airplanes as a set of speakers broadcasts a live audio signal from the control tower. Follow along with a flight-tracking smartphone app and you can see where each plane is going and hear the controller wish the pilots "good day" as they disappear into the sky. If you're waiting for a friend's plane to land, it's also a more interesting alternative to the cell-phone lot.

Depressed because everything buried in South Florida eventually rises? Just venture west on Alligator Alley and soon enough, getting rid of your dirty laundry becomes a numbers game. Big Cypress National Preserve contains 729,000 acres, few visitors willing to get off their off-road vehicles, only a handful of access points, and many lightly trampled trails, perfect for throwing law enforcement off your scent. Around the Bear Island area at mile marker 70, hike north across the plains until you can't hear the highway anymore and wade through some chest-high water into a palm-tree hammock, where the ruins of old hunting camps sit undisturbed and out of view. Remember, leave only the body, take only photographs. A bonus: The 150 or so panthers left struggling to survive in this area are competing with hunters for a scarce deer supply, so you'll be donating some much-needed sustenance to an ecosystem on the brink.

Not so long ago, Gulfstream Park was a desolate place, inhabited only by grandpas and other Sansabelt-wearing creatures. It came alive only when crowds filled the rickety bleachers for the occasional Blondie reunion show or Tiffany concert. So we had our doubts in 2006 when it underwent a multimillion-dollar renovation. Who goes to horseraces anymore? we questioned. Fast-forward and, well, these are some bitter words we're eating. Never again will we underestimate the power of a Crate & Barrel, some slot machines, and a Container Store. Today, Gulfstream is a palatial shopping, dining, and gambling complex that is, during season, slammed — thanks in part to the fact that admission and parking are free. We admit: It's a little titillating to order a mint julep from one of the many bars, watch the breathtaking horses trotted around the paddock before a race by dapper jockeys, and march up to place a bet. Warning: This is only a "cheap" thrill if, and we repeat, if you stick near the minimum-dollar bets.