Fla. island residents fight connecting to grid

Endangered key deer scamper about. The islanders are mostly retirees and part-time residents. One woman who refers to No Name Key as “clothing optional” ventures naked to her mailbox.

The island is filled with homes painted coral and blue-green, mailboxes shaped like sea creatures and screened-in porches for riding out buggy, muggy days.

Solar panels cover almost every roof, although many residents supplement them with generators. Those who use them say they can’t live without air-conditioning because bugs make the alternative – open windows – too itchy. Residents who shun the generators say they manage just fine without cooled air.

Grid power won’t necessarily bring development. It’s difficult to build here because 70 percent of the island – about 820 acres – is protected as part of the National Key Deer Refuge. Building is dicey on the remaining land because of zoning and conservation rules.

For years, No Name Key was the only way to Key West. The road stopped at Marathon, where cars were ferried about 12 miles to No Name Key before they could continue south.

The ferry was just a few hundred feet from Eaken’s home.

The 36-year-old marine biologist spends about $700 a month on diesel fuel to run his generator for air conditioning. He worries about the potential danger of storing vast amounts of fossil fuel.

Most months he and others produce more energy than they need. Because they are not connected to the power grid, they can’t sell it back.

If solar residents don’t want to be connected to the grid they can cut the line, but “give us the option,” he argues.

“There is no nobility in selfishly producing energy just for your house and standing back with a smug look on your face for two decades,” Eaken said.

But the island’s solar energy enthusiasts were outraged at the thought of their chunk of paradise getting hooked up to the grid.

Mick and Alicia Putney also moved to No Name Key hoping the lack of electricity would deter development.

Solar energy powers their two computers, printer, televisions, refrigerator and dishwasher. Mick Putney points proudly to a rusty generator in his workshop that hasn’t run in years.

The 78-year-old retired professor built the house in the early 1990s knowing he and his wife would go without air conditioning. The limestone walls of their living and dining rooms open to a large screened-in porch with an ocean view.

The ceiling fan isn’t running on a hot October afternoon, though Putney barely notices. A tiny cupola with eight windows atop the home draws out warm air.

“I don’t like what we’re doing to the planet,” he said. “At least in my own life I can try to do better and apart from that I just don’t like waste.”