09/29/2026
Gilbert's is venturing into underwater adventures as of late. Check out Rico's latest news report for more details 🤣🤣
TIDE HAPPENS — RICO REPORT
Tide happens, and here are other insignificant but apparently important developments from the sovereign tropical republic of Key Largo. Apparently we are experiencing a King Tide, which means the moon has once again decided to repossess portions of South Florida. Key Largo is underwater, social media has declared the apocalypse, and somewhere a weather reporter is standing ankle-deep in water looking extremely concerned. The good news is that, from what we can tell, Brickell and Broward are doing considerably worse, so Key Largo has somehow managed to lose even the flooding competition.
The water started creeping in yesterday while Vern Daysel & The Burning Breeze were playing, but nobody seemed particularly interested in the developing maritime situation. Rico was preparing to put on a scuba helmet while the crowd behaved as though rising seawater was simply another special effect provided by the band. The ladies were dancing, locking eyes with the singer and guitarists with the concentration of women who had completely forgotten that the Atlantic Ocean was slowly entering the property. The gentlemen, meanwhile, appeared equally mesmerized by the lady behind the drums. Honestly, nobody can blame them. What a band. Somewhere between the guitar solos and the incoming tide, Rico fell hopelessly in love with the drummer. Sorry, ladies. Sometimes love arrives like lightning; sometimes it arrives behind a drum kit while your beach is disappearing.
Of course, no natural phenomenon at Gilbert’s is complete without at least one customer becoming furious with management. One table had enjoyed lunch, spent roughly $500, closed their tab and then settled comfortably at a beach table. At 5:30, as the tide began rolling in with the confidence of someone who had a reservation, management asked them to move under the main tiki. This was not an attempt to destroy anyone’s vacation. We were simply trying to rescue the furniture before tomorrow’s Coast Guard bulletin included, “If anyone finds six Gilbert’s chairs drifting toward Cuba, please return them.” Unfortunately, our request was not well received. Then the mystery solved itself: underneath the table were the guests’ own b**r cans, tucked away like tiny aluminum fugitives. Apparently after a $500 lunch, buying another bucket of b**r at Gilbert’s represented the final frontier of financial irresponsibility. Our b**r prices are fairly close to what you might pay at Publix, except Publix generally does not provide a waterfront table, live band, bartender and employees willing to chase your chair into Blackwater Sound. Still, rules are rules: no outside alcohol. Not during King Tide, not after a $500 lunch, and not even if Rico is floating past your table wearing a snorkel.
And because the ocean attempting to swallow the beach wasn’t enough excitement for one evening, we soon found ourselves involved in an international hotel emergency. A guest reportedly heard arguing in the room next door and called Expedia. Expedia, somewhere in Gurugram, India, called the owner of Gilbert’s at 1 AM. The owner called security. Security went to investigate. In less time than it takes to order a piña colada, a noise complaint had crossed oceans, time zones and corporate telecommunications systems before returning almost precisely to where it started. The source of this multinational crisis turned out to be Grandma, who had stepped onto her balcony and accidentally left the room key inside while her toddler remained safely on the other side of the locked door. For approximately three and a half minutes, Grandma stood beneath the full moon sending a distress call into the Key Largo night with enough passion to apparently be heard all the way in India. Security arrived, Grandma was reunited with the room, the toddler was fine, Expedia could stand down, and diplomatic relations between Gurugram and Gilbert’s Resort remained intact.
So ends another perfectly ordinary evening in Key Largo: the moon pulled the ocean onto our property, a band played through it like musicians aboard the Titanic, contraband b**r was discovered beneath a beach table, Grandma accidentally launched an international rescue operation, and Rico fell in love with a drummer while preparing for underwater operations.
The tide will eventually go back where it belongs. The furniture, hopefully, will remain in the United States.
This has been the Rico Report. Tide happens.
