Conrad Forler's spot is perfect for selling, and flying, kites. Every weekend, he plops himself down just north of the bridge that marks the entrance to Ft. De Soto park, in a sandy vacant lot otherwise used for loading kayaks into the bay. His rack of kites, a rainbow of high-flying options resting against the back of his blue Dodge Caravan, calls out to passing tourists. Prodded by the kids in the back, or that pesky inner child, people pull over to drop a few bucks on a diamond or a delta and head off to the beach.
"Best job in the world," the 43-year-old Forler says after a sale, one of dozens he'll make in the course of a Sunday. "Where else can you be outside, fly kites and make money?"
Forler's business on the shoulder of the Pinellas Bayway S., which is owned by the Department of Transportation, isn't technically legal. For the most part, the cops let him slide. But he's been busted before; forced to pack his kites back into his blue '93 minivan and take off. It happened just last week, he says. But Forler isn't about to slink away.
"I was back out here at 3:30," he says. "Right after the [cop's] shift ended."
Forler's Sunday uniform redefines "business casual": no shirt, low-hanging cargo shorts. With a 305 constantly in his mouth, he spends his day tending to the three kites he has tethered to the ground around his van and watching NASCAR on the small black and white TV hooked up through the cigarette lighter. It's an easy, lazy life – he's got the tan to prove it.
But life wasn't always this easy.
Forler is a recovering alcoholic. "It was rough. Plain. Period," he says, looking back on his drinking days. He would start early – a bottle for breakfast – and continue until he passed out. He had no job. No life. No friends.
After finding little success in several AA programs, Forler ended up at 2250, a "hardcore" 12-step in St. Petersburg, in 1997. The schedule was grueling – new members are expected to go to five meetings a day. Forler remembers battling the shakes early on, and his own demons. He was doubting himself, doubting that he'd ever be sober.
And then his partner Martin Tremor gave him a "Dancing Salamander" kite, hoping it might ease the process.
"I'd go out before meetings, during meetings – I'd even fly it in the parking lot," he remembers. There's something calming about flying a kite, Forler says. Watching it twist in the wind. Feeling the tug of the string in your hand. "You can just get lost."
He's convinced he wouldn't have been able to get sober without it. "That single kite really changed my life," he says.
Like most alcoholics, Forler treats every day like a new battle. But he's been sober since '97 – the same year he started the kite business.
Forler says he sells 25 to 75 kites a day, for at least double what he pays his distributor in Hong Kong. By cutting out the middleman, and rent, Forler can charge less than retail stores and still make money. Once or twice a month someone will special-order a kite, which can bring in a few thousand bucks.
But, for the most part, Forler makes his cash selling $12 diamonds and $25 deltas to suddenly inspired tourists heading to Ft. De Soto. He's got his shtick down. "Unbreakable fiberglass," he tells customers. "As long as the wind blows, it carries."
If a cop hasn't already kicked him out, Forler's day usually ends around 6. He breaks down the plastic display rack and reels in the three kites he flies above the road to attract customers.
No matter how many he sells, Forler says he usually goes home happy.
"I'd rather be flying kites," he says with a laugh, "than talking to people."
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This article appears in Mar 23-29, 2005.