I moved to Florida back in the early 80’s to a small town touting itself as Florida’s “Luckiest Fishing Village in the World.” At that time, Destin, Florida had one plumber, a newspaper that might not meet its once-a-week deadline, and endless dunes. During the summer months 20,000 people poured in, and charter boats kept the tourists happy with loads of fresh grouper and amberjack. By the time school started up again and tourists tired of the tropical heat, locals began to turn right on red again. The boon season faded, beers went back to seventy-five cents apiece and I played grass court tennis for free just to keep the mole crickets from tearing up the surface.
While Destin has always had a touch of the seasons, I was raised with yearly winters whose snow came down quietly for one or two days, maybe a week, and the Indiana landscape got a good cleaning, like a bleached t-shirt coming out of the wash. The world briefly turned flawless, perfect and timeless. It got quiet during the four months of Winter, but one’s spirit was tested and renewed. You had to be creative to get through it. In contrast, my beach life was invigorating and active, but it always felt like I could break out in a sweat any minute as I circled parking lots looking for a palmetto leaf of shade.
It was one Florida in the summer, another one in the winter. Native or transient, Florida was a place that was difficult to put down roots. Snowbirds, spring breakers, and fish heads rotated in and out of neighborhoods where I lived like spare tires. My job at the newspaper was steady but news wasn’t. I took notes on local bridge and clabber clubs, and there was an occasional new cobia boat that needed christening, but I found myself feeling listless and not having purpose. As much as I tried to immerse myself in the gulf coast culture, making friends in Destin was like hitting a moving target.
With real estate skyrocketing, developers were having a heyday. Multi-million-dollar yachters rolled in, partied, and cut deals for a slice of the real estate explosion. With rapid expansion new businesses were popping up at every corner, giving the illusion that anyone could turn over a piece of property for a buck and then live it up on the beach. Despite a buzz of activity, however, Florida never quite felt like home.
Several of my friends now have time-shares or condos in Florida and take off during the frigid months when grey is the dominant Midwest color. Some fly back and forth to keep dual residences in tow. My Midwest house seems small next to the magnificent sandcastles I witness being made by a beach child. I sometimes wish I could build a deep moat to ward off the bandits of insecurity and indecision, the ones that attack without warning and undercut the foundation of my own castle.
I sit working on my gratefulness, but I also gather images in my head of pelicans flying just inches over breaking waves, harnessing small air pockets that allow them to glide for miles at a time. Sandpipers, like wind-up toys, bump off each other and poke around, and I can see a maintenance man hoist up a yellow flag cautioning the open water swimmers. Those details are in sharp contrast to the relentlessly advancing ocean whose waves are uncountable, yet still come forth, crest, then force power walkers to quicken their pace.
One midnight long ago I awoke to chase down a photo at a biology reserve. I visited a giant turtle nesting area cordoned off for protection, then saw the sand literally turn to foam as turtle hatchlings bubbled up and made their dash to the sea. There, they hid in the safety of the kelp until embarking on a journey that would return them to the same beach over and over again.
That journey is flawless, perfect, and timeless.