Yordy Martinez and six other people left Cuba one summer night on a poorly constructed raft.  Even mild seas regularly capsized their craft.  By the second night they had lost almost all of their provisions and one soul.  Not long after another older woman succumbed to exposure and dehydration.  On the ninth day of the ordeal the remaining refugees reached Summerland Key and a new beginning.  That was 1994.
A sickness exists in the Keys called Keys Disease where the notable laissez-faire attitude of the Keys allows a lazy person to become a sloppy, useless, unproductive member of the community.  It's almost acceptable to drink and do not much else.  I don't know if risking your life to escape social oppression makes one immune to such a sickness, but today, only thirteen years removed, Yordy is living the American Dream better than a lot of Americans I know.  He and his gorgeous Costa Rican wife and their two lively young children have just moved into their brand new three-bedroom house that Yordy is finishing himself on Big Coppitt Key.  He owns a boat and runs a small business, commercial fishing for lobster and stone crab from August through May.  He takes time off in the summer to spend with his family and work on his boat and his gear.  He operates entirely under one general premise: keep things simple and work like a motherf&#%er. 
On this day we leave to the dock before 7AM.  It takes less than twenty minutes to reach the first line of traps.  With the sun still crawling over the horizon, crawfish fill the crate.   Yordy and two other men crew the boat.  The shallow water allows them to haul and set a trawl at the same time.  As one trap reaches the rail, the previous trap is pushed off the stern.  Enough line is tied between the traps to allow it to be emptied, cleaned, and re-baited before the line comes taut and pulls the next trap back over the stern into the ocean.  Meanwhile, the next trap has been pulled to the rail and awaits tending.  All of this means that the crew can pull over 500 pots in about six hours.  On this day we're heading to the dock around 1:30 PM with 600 pounds of crawfish on board.  The price is just over $7/pound right now.  You do the math.
Of course it isn't always like this.  But this is where Yordy's philosophy prevails.  When the industry was really booming several years back, he denied greed and refused to over-leverage himself the way a lot of guys did.  He made less money in the short run, but he kept the pressure off and was able to survive when the fishing dropped off a few seasons later.  He's one of the few operations left with a firm foothold in the industry.  Even the encroaching condominiums and resorts that presumable threaten his existence don't faze the kid.  In fact, a sly little smile crosses his face when I mention it.
"All ah den rich people, they likey eatey the longosta."
Yes.  Yes, they do.
We get back to the dock just after 2PM.  Yordy gives me twelve lobster tails out of sheer kindness and generosity.  I want to talk with Yordy a bit longer, to absorb some more of his vibrant spirit, but he has other plans.  "Brah, I needey go ang workey on my house." 
Of course.
And off he goes to bust his ass and be a hero, just living the American Dream.