(I’m at the beach this week and thought I’d recycle this old saltwater column. – Jay)
We walked into the open-air dining room that sits above the beach at the split on Highway 98. Kathy quickly spotted Mike, the blonde lifeguard who had run the umbrella and beach chair concession on this stretch of sand for as long as we had been coming here. He sat shirtless and shoeless at one of the tables, helping a waitress wrap silverware in napkins for the dinner crowd.
Our hostess showed us to a seat by the window, and I noticed the place was about a quarter full, which was unusual, even in late October. Below us, outside, stood the ever-present volleyball net above the white sand, which gradually disappears into the blue water of the Gulf, a sight I never tire looking at. Large waves reflected the suns brilliance and I put my sunglasses back on.
I looked at the menu, which was a waste of time because like at most of my favorite restaurants, I always order the same thing. At The Back Porch it is the Amberjack sandwich and seafood gumbo. But as I looked at the menu I noticed that not only were Kathy and I coughing, but so was everyone else. Finally our waitress explained that we were coughing because the area had been set upon by the phenomenon known as “Red Tide,” which we learned is an algal bloom, something that is fairly common in the Gulf, causing respiratory irritation in humans and paralysis in fish. In fact there were hundreds of dead fish that had washed up on the beach last week. After finishing our great meal we headed off to Blue Mountain, about a 15-minute drive to the east, and as we drove I was still amazed when looking at the landscape of the area.
I remembered back to the summer of 1976. My fraternity had raised the most money for diabetes, and along with the Pi Phis, who were the top fundraisers between the girls, had won a trip to Destin for five nights at the Hawaikai Hotel. In 1976, the Hawaikai was the only hotel in Destin above two stories. The large round structure had 15 stories of its own with a revolving restaurant at the top. It is still there, and today is the main building of the Holiday Inn.
Some 40 college students descended on the hotel that stood in what back then was a mostly undiscovered fishing village that sat between the more-well known resorts of Ft. Walton and Panama City. We had only been there a full day and a night when the Okaloosa County Sheriff came by and told us we would have to move on down the road.
Some of the older and more responsible members went in to talk to the management and to find out just what the problem was, and perhaps salvage our remaining days. But they were told it would be best if we left. The manager admitted that they had thought when they booked us that we were a group of diabetics, not college kids who had raised money for the disease.
But when you’re 19 and 20 years old, a little glitch like no place to stay wasn’t a crisis, so we loaded up whatever we had packed (ie. Cutoffs, tank tops and ice chests) and headed east towards Panama City, which in those days was where we should have been in the first place. Now, 30 years later, we still return often to the beauty and fun of northwest Florida, and I imagine we will keep going back as long as we’re able.
Some trips are better than others, like when there is no Red Tide, or dead fish on the beach, or thunderstorms that drop a foot of rain on you in a day and a half, or the Louisiana Lagnaippe being closed for remodeling. Even with all that, there are always good memories to cling to. Like Kathy winning the family Texas Hold-Em tournament, or the steamed shrimp from Goatfeathers, or my 50-foot eagle putt on the 18th hole on the last day, and of course, all the laughter. There’s always plenty of that.