According to the Florida state census, there were 411,104 residents in Collier County, until I migrated south from Martha’s Vineyard and made it 411,105.

I’d been to Florida many times before, to escape the New England tundra, play golf and stop shivering for one merciful week. I never dreamed I’d become a Florida resident. But the vertiginous housing costs on the Vineyard and a career opportunity led me to the Sunshine State.

At first, the abundance of golf courses, warm February breezes and low gas prices made the transition a smooth one. But it didn’t take long to realize that I’d moved to one of the most dangerous places on the planet.

In Florida, even the most banal activity puts me in mortal jeopardy. A round of golf is fraught with danger, and not just to people in the vicinity of my tee shot. Four species of poisonous snakes and a massive Burmese python can lurk in the underbrush — where I spend most of my round.

Alligators give a new meaning to “water hazard.” On a golf course mere miles from my home, a 10-foot alligator attacked a passing golf cart, presumably because it hadn’t given them permission to play through. (It’s documented on YouTube.)

Walking my dogs puts all our lives at risk. Poisonous cane toads are biblical in number and, in cold spells, stunned iguanas fall from trees.

Just driving to the store is a daredevil mission. Florida ranks third in the U.S. for fatal car accidents. I’ve lived in Los Angeles and in Boston, and I’ve never seen such mayhem on the motorways. A yellow light means “hurry up,” red means “floor it!” and green means “go...eventually.”

Florida also ranks third in the U.S. in road rage shootings. A “Permitless Carry” bill went into effect on July 1, 2023, which allows Florida residents over 21 to carry a concealed weapon. As of June 30, 2024, 4,663 Collier County residents held a license to carry, which means roughly one out of every 100 drivers in my area is packing a gun.

“Permitless Carry” has also led to a dramatic drop in gun safety courses, which were previously mandatory. What could go wrong?

Then, there’s the lightning. Storms crop up quickly in these parts. I used to enjoy the spectacular light shows and the cooling breezes. But one day, when I checked the National Weather Service website to see the progress of the Category 4 hurricane barreling towards my home, I learned that Florida is the lightning strike capital of the United States. From 2013 to 2023, there were 51 lightning strike deaths; from 1959 to 2016 — 491 fatalities.

Florida is supposed to be hot. I like hot weather. After two years, I’ve almost completely thawed out after 20 years in New England. However, heat-related deaths in Florida increased by 88 per cent from 2019 to 2024, when 1,713 people perished. This past summer, heat index records were shattered all over the state. On July 7, the NWS forecast a record-breaking heat index of 110 degrees. In an unprecedented move, Disney World resorted to providing water to guests for free ($40 for chilled). Due to truth-in-advertising laws, Disney World’s official slogan is now “The humidest place on Earth.”

At least my proximity to the Gulf means I can always cool off with a dip. But that, too is fraught with peril. In 2024, Florida led the nation with 16 confirmed unprovoked shark bites — 44 per cent of the U.S. total and 23 per cent worldwide.

Eventually, I decided my best survival tactic in Florida was never to leave the house. But again, I was wrong.

Cluttered garages are a favorite habitat for black widow spiders and Florida is teeming with four, yes four, different species of widow spiders: the southern black widow, the northern black widow, the brown widow and the red widow.

I dearly miss the Vineyard. I miss my friends, Chef Deon’s jerk wings at the VFW, and even the horizontal rain from November to May. But I had to adapt.

First, I switched to mini-golf. This significantly reduced the odds of snake and alligator encounters, and better yet, my handicap dropped three strokes.

I began wearing a football helmet and water wings at all times. I also started getting all my meals from DoorDash while working remotely from my new underground bunker.

My plan was working beautifully until last week, when the air conditioning broke down. My “safe space” quickly became a lethal, sweltering oven. Fortunately, my helmet and water wings broke my fall when I succumbed to the heat. I was slipping into the Great Beyond when Providence intervened, and the DoorDash driver arrived with my Triple Bacon-ator and fries.

I’m writing this dispatch from my hospital bed, listening to the faint beep of my heart monitor and the low hum of my ventilator, thankful that I survived another day in the Sunshine State.

I hope lightning doesn’t blow out the power.

Barry Stringfellow lives in Naples, Fla.