Winter beach days

I almost wish I had not seen the dolphins. Minutes after Nancy and I reached Orange Beach, Ala., two muted gray fins and blubbery backs rose from the waves coursing in from the Gulf of Mexico. Dolphins so soon? We were in for a bonanza of wildlife, negating any need to take a dolphin or water sightseeing tour. We never spied another fine, despite repeatedly disappointment from whitecaps posing at dolphins and pelicans splashing hard into the water. The binoculars scanned the waves in every daylight hour, finding nothing.

So passed the hours on the Florida Panhandle, the closest stretch of ocean to Nashville. Nancy and I had a double dose of the coast this winter - Christmas at Orange Beach (Alabama) and a mid-January weekend camping at Henderson Beach State Park (Destin, Florida).

There’s no good direct route to the coast – sticking to the interstate would add 100 miles to the drive. A series of state and federal routes ferry us across this sparsely populated region. The barely-there towns tacked to the pine forests, the logging trucks and their harvest, foothills rippling across the coastal plain. Border towns in Florida tout the lottery.

This time we only passed through Pensacola. Downtown bustled and Joe Patti’s fish market hummed with people buying seafood for the holidays. Crossing a pair of easy bridges, we arrived at Perdido Key, split between Florida and Alabama. The island’s eastern expanse is protected in a series of state parks and national seashore. My parents rented a condo in Orange Beach, Ala., a rare respite from holidays at their house in north Georgia.

We stopped at the infamous Florabama bar that crosses the state line. If I were a 20-year-old on spring break, it would have been great. We couldn’t escape the tourist trap and its array of smells too quickly and settled on an oyster house for dinner. Later we had lunch across the street at the Ole River Bar, which as a bar overlooking the sound and a solid bar and food menu (grouper tacos with Cigar City Jai Alai IPA.

Only a few hundred yards wide, Perdido Key hosted a fair amount of mid-rise towers ubiquitous along the Gulf Coast. In December and January, the summer legions that congest the narrow roads are hard to picture. The pace slackened, ambitions cooled off.

Simply walking the beach and standing in the surf provided ample enjoyment. On the second morning, a purple flag joined the orange flag. Dangerous sea creatures joined the moderate surf.

Shells sparkled on the tide line during a morning walk. I found what appeared to be a turtle eggshell. What else would have laid an egg at this time of year? Female sea turtles land on the beaches of their births throughout from late fall to early spring, lay dozens of eggs and return to the sea.

Winter or not, even with purple flags flying we could not stay out of the water. The first wave of Gulf seawater crashed coldly. Subsequent waves warmed as our bodies acclimated. Waves that appeared to submerge us died at our ankles. Waves that never crested smacked us at the armpits. When an unavoidably large wave loomed, I tried feebly to jump into it. Only a few actually pushed me toward shore.
As we tested the waves into sunset, a family gathered around an object at peak of the tideline. Just 20 feet from where we stood in the surf and let the waves carry us, a Portuguese man-o-war rested on the sand. Not a jellyfish, the creature possesses long tentacles and a painful sting that still works after the organism is dead. It's also quite beautiful, with turquoise arms and a translucent domed body riddled with luminescent veins. I had no camera but will not forget it. The surf pushed it around on the beach. By the time we walked off the beach, it disappeared into the waves.

The next day we packed up and left. It’s tough to feel deep disappointment at leaving the Gulf Coast when another trip falls so close. To celebrate the 40th birthday of the husband of Nancy’s best friend, we had a second visit with the Gulf, albeit further east from Orange Beach.

It's a shame about rays (none pictured here)

 We traversed the familiar geography of Alabama, from its Appalachian north to the coastal plain, cutting through Conecuh National Forest and the edge of Florida’s Blackwater River State Forest, a ecosystem with rare coastal plants (including carnivorous pitcher plants) that crosses state lines and protects one of the last intact sandy bottom rivers anywhere. The longleaf pines growing in these forests, trees that can take 150 years to mature, have been reduced to five percent of their historic range across the southeast, making this cross-border forest an important sanctuary.

By reputation, I know Destin, its high rises, strip malls and golf resorts. We both prefer Pensacola, with the greater protections provided by Gulf Islands National Seashore – those islands still have high-rises, but the national seashore prevents a sprawl of towers.

What surprised most was the relief that Henderson Beach State Park provided from the staggering development at its doorstep. All the suburban trappings lie across the street and the throb of traffic beats into the evening. Condo towers border the park. During the day, helicopters ferry tourists on sightseeing loops above the gulf.

Yet the campsite retains a veil of serenity. A quick setup and we have a home for two nights. Only campers visited the campground; the park closed to everyone else at sunset, so we had full run of the beaches and nature trails. We walked the park road to the day-use beach, where some friends sat in the sand as their kids built castles with shovels and buckets. After a few minutes of wave time in the crystal clear waters, we joined the boys in building castles.

Someone pointed out fish jumping from the water. With awkward yet aerodynamic bodies hurtling from the surf, we realized a school of rays jumped several dozen yards offshore. These weren’t the huge specimens gliding in warmer waters, but likely cow nose rays, frolicking in the waves. Watching and waiting for the next group to leap became a game.

As we parted with our friends and the rays moved on, Nancy and I walked the beach down to an area accessible only to campers. Clouds passed sparingly on our first night. Humidity was unavoidable, as our fire took several hours to settle into a nice bed of coals. We cooked on the propane grill, chicken sausages and a few picnic items.

Soon sleep dragged us away. The cold air easily penetrated the thin tent walls, which were drenched with condensation.

I promised myself a sunrise. Roused around 6 a.m., I left the tent, stepping under a lightening sky with a still-brilliant moon. Red and yellow streaks across the clouds order me to the beach. Only a couple walking a dog and a brigade of sand pipers occupy the campers’ beach. In the early light the thin waves glowed crimson, imitating lava fields. The shore birds disrupted that image as they darted across water that reached their knobby knees. Other birds flitted in the dense brush of coastal pines and lives oaks.

On the wooded trail, an opossum crawled into its protective grasp 20 feet in front of me. All I could think when seeing its rear end and fleshy tail vanish was than an opossum living in a state park near the beach was one wise marsupial. After a few more hours of sleep we returned to the beach.

Crossing protected dunes on a boardwalk, a plaque reveals the young age of the gnarled coasted greenery. Until the early 1990s, U.S. 98 crossed Destin here, just a few hundred yards shy of Henderson Beach. Only a basic imprint of road bed hints at its former use. Live oaks, sea pines and seat oats populate the dunes. In enjoying the beach, I have trouble avoiding its contrasts and its uncertain future.

How long can these barriers islands sustain the development towering above their sandy attractions? The narrow Perdido Key seems especially susceptible to overdevelopment.

Yet I envisioned the old Route 98, just a flat spot among the dunes, and remember how quickly unfettered vegetation can overtake human handiwork. If abandoned, this mighty towers would crumble in no time.

We spent a few hours on the state park's sparsely populated beaches. A series of gulls and terns approached us, skimming Nancy’s head as I waded in the receding tide. They ringed us as we rested on the beach, waiting for food we didn’t have. A flock of pelicans coasted in, their wingtips barely missing the waves, poised to dunk for prey at any moment.

 After buying headlamps, we journeyed back to the beach. Hours after sunset, nothing living appeared. Our dim hopes for a turtle sighting went unrealized. To the east, the moon rose as a burnt copper oval discolored by the cloudy night.