I’ve always loved this place. You can apply the usual descriptors. Charming. Quaint. Historic. Definitely historic. St. Augustine was established in 1565, in fact. America’s Oldest City is a fun little town with an impressive share of arts and culture. It can be tacky, though, and a bit of a backwater beyond the main drag. A browser at a record store just off King Street asks the guy behind the counter (and through the plexiglass) what it’s like to live here. “It’s interesting,” he says. “It’s a combination of a tourist town and a beach town, and since we’re kind of in the middle of the woods, you’ll see some rednecks.” I might’ve crossed paths with a few today. Actually I’m starting to worry about my own neck. Pass the sunscreen, it’s a scorcher!
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When I close my eyes and think back, what comes to mind first are the sand spurs. Oooh, ooow, that one hurt. They always surprised me, and still do, even though I've known all along they're there, just waiting, the pointy bastards. Going to the beach as a kid meant sunburns and fried shrimp and go-carts and motel swimming pools. Later it meant getting away with friends and letting loose and making questionable decisions. The beach still has a powerful pull for me, its sense of elsewhere and disconnection worth a million bucks. "Hey, everybody have a good time?" I ask my teenagers as we return home from a day trip to Cocoa Beach. "What? Yeah, it was good," the boy says, momentarily removing an AirPod. I shouldn't ask. I know they enjoyed it. We splished and splashed and boogie boarded. Threw a football. Snacked on PB&Js and pretzels and Rice Krispies Treats. Talked and laughed and picked at each other and eventually tired of it all. The tent came down, the bags were repacked and we sweated our way across the scorching sand to the parking lot. Exactly six hours and 136 miles later, we're home and everyone has dispersed again, the heat and salt and breaking waves just another set of memories. A fine day. Oh, and no sand spurs.
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