“The Storm That Set the Bamboo Free”

Long before it became legend, The Big Bamboo sat a few miles outside of Orlando—a divey, tin-roofed oasis soaked in sweat, rum, and stories. It had a jukebox that skipped at all the right times, a pool table that leaned to the left like it was whispering secrets, and a clientele of ex-pats, drifters, Disney workers, and Skippers off-duty from their jungle runs.

But the Big Bamboo wasn’t just a bar. It was alive in the way only certain places are—built from salvaged ship wood, anchored in stories, and painted in a hundred coats of laughter. It was also, unbeknownst to most, perched directly atop a minor ley line. And during Hurricane Wilma in 2005, the ley lines had had just about enough of being ignored.

That night, the storm howled like a banshee in a blender. Locals evacuated. Power lines dropped like jump ropes. But a handful of off-duty Skippers—CB, Thomas, Congo Connie, NCP and a barfly named Janet with a glass eye and a parrot who only spoke French—refused to leave.

“We’ll ride it out!” CB shouted, holding up a mug as the wind shrieked and the jukebox played “Mmmm-Bop” for the fifth time in a row.

“You say that like this place has a rudder,” Thomas grinned, pouring shots of rum as the bar shook.

Then, just as the eye passed overhead, the earth beneath the bar gave a hiccup. A crack of lightning hit the tin roof. The pool balls rolled into a perfect triangle on their own.

And the bar lifted.

Not exploded. Not torn apart. Lifted.

The Skippers screamed, whooped, and held on to whatever they could as The Big Bamboo, in one piece, tumbled through the clouds like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz. Except instead of Kansas, it landed somewhere completely uncharted—a palm-fringed, crescent-shaped island that didn’t appear on any map.

The island was perfect. Surreal. No signs of civilization, just dense jungle, tiki birds that spoke in riddles, and a cove shaped exactly like a bent cocktail umbrella.

The bar thudded down on the highest ridge, miraculously upright. The rum was intact. The parrot was bilingual now.

Janet stood up, brushed off her blouse, and said, “Well hell. I always wanted beachfront property.”

And that’s how The Big Bamboo became the Skippers’ best-kept secret: a bar at the edge of the map, hidden from tourists, protected by trade winds and enchantments, accessible only by those who know how to listen to the laughter in the breeze and follow the scent of overripe limes.

These days, when a Skipper goes missing after clocking out, they’re not lost. They’re just blowing off steam at the Bamboo.

And if you ever find yourself in a storm, hear the clink of glasses in the wind, and swear the thunder sounds like a punchline—hang tight.

You might be closer to the island than you think.