"I thought it was the greatest place in the world to fish," says the affable Brown, 67, who has been a back country captain in Florida Bay ever since, guiding fellow fishing enthusiasts, including former President George Bush and actor Paul Newman, through the narrow channels formed by thick groves of mangrove. "I wouldn't trade it for anything else."

Not everyone who visits Islamorada, about halfway between the mainland and Key West, decides to stay. But this narrow strip of land, dwarfed by water -- the Atlantic on one side, Florida Bay on the other -- casts an enduring spell. The abundance of fish hooks fishermen, as does the ease of alternating between the intimate experience of the back country and the open spaces and drama of deep-sea fishing in the Atlantic. But the thrill of doing battle with a bonefish or a sailfish is not the whole story.

The coral reefs that make the Keys a haven for snorkeling and skin diving also dissipate the surf, creating the serene waters, a medley of blues and greens that are the heart of its special beauty. The point where the placid sea meets the endless blue skies must be one of nature's most soothing vistas.

Landlubbers find the setting seductive as well, despite the dearth of sandy beaches. Holiday Isle, a complex of hotels, bars and marina, is the Daytona Beach of the Keys.

But the attraction runs deeper than Islamorada's shimmering waters. The Conch Republic -- as Keys denizens call their home, a reference to native mollusks and also the nickname of early settlers -- is a world unto itself. Although pirates and panthers no longer roam the archipelago, the spirit of being just beyond the norm prevails.

Bootleggers found its coves handy during Prohibition, and drug runners apparently do the same. As a friend commented, "You feel like anything can happen here."

Or, better yet, nothing at all. Warmed by the sun, soothed by the ocean breeze and brightened by magenta bougainvillea blossoms and purple Bahama morning glories, Islamorada is the perfect place to sink into a tropical torpor. After surveying the bed of bromeliads at the posh Cheeca Lodge or perhaps frittering away the day in a hammock slung between two swayback palms, one begins to think of the Keys as the north end of the Caribbean rather than the southern of tip of the United States.

Once you leave the water's edge, the postcard views are replaced by what can only be called conchy-tonk. The Islamorada stretch of the Overseas Highway, the 113-mile-long road that links the mainland and Key West and probably the world's longest Main Street, is flanked by a string of tacky T-shirt and shell emporiums, clunky concrete-block motels, dive shops and just plain dives decorated in typical Keys decor -- Formica tables and mounted fish. But these unprepossessing buildings house a raft of surprisingly sophisticated, multi-star-worthy restaurants. There's nothing like fresh fish -- especially ones you've caught yourself -- grilled, blackened or decked out in exotic sauces.

Islamorada attracts an assortment of free spirits, European tourists and wealthy Americans with second homes. They come together in community rituals, gathering, for instance, at the marinas around 4 p.m. to see the fishing charter captains display their catch. Then, it's off to a thatched-roof, open-air Tiki bar to mark the end of the day.

At the Lorelei, a popular bayside spot, it's Margaritaville incarnate. Here, a long-haired motorcycle type in a muscle shirt proclaiming "Bad breath is better than no breath at all" might rub elbows with a Chicago businessman and a German sun worshiper -- all relishing Islamorada's laid-back atmosphere and the spectacle of the sun, a red ball in a halo of pink clouds, sinking ceremoniously into the water.