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Trying To Reason With A Hurricane
Jimmy Buffett
1974 — A1A
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To be on the road anywhere is good medicine, but traveling State Road AlA on Florida’s east coast can give the transient a unique dose of diversity.
There are sand dunes on Anastasia Island and crumbling concrete jungles in Daytona. There are cowboys in Oak Hill and mullet fishermen in Jupiter.
AlA passes through it all and gives an aware traveler the chance to see how really different Florida’s land and people can be.
To obtain the full benefit of this experience I recommend taking your time and hitchike, camp whenever possible, and keep your eyes and ears open to absorb the people and places. You will discover some pretty interesting personalities.
My breakin’ away last weekend got off to a good start when a wrinkled old man named Archie Neck stopped to give a lift from Gainesville to Palatka. With a spit and a cough, his ancient Rambler rumbled off as he asked me where I was heading.
I told him I was going to the beach and most anywhere my thumb would take me. That must have hit a retrospective nerve in old Mr. Neck because he smiled and seemed to pass into a dreamy-like daze memories so often bring.
“Yeah Yeah, when I was younger,” he said, I use to travel abouts. My brother was ten and I was seven when we first decided to go a huntin’ ad-venture. We was always fascinated with trains so one day we jumped into a box car on a freight passin’ through Palatka. We didn’t know where the train was goin’ and we didn’t much care. Mostly it gave us a break from the school — I guess like you’re doin’ right now.”.
“Well anyways,” he continued, ‘The first railroad yard we came to, we saw one of the yard men a’comin’ toward our car. My brother and I hid in the corner as he slammed the door shut and we figured we was safe. Well, ’bout eight days later they opened the box car and we was in Seattle, Washington.” With raised eyebrows I interrupted and said, “Aw come on Mr. Neck, how did you live in a box car for eight days with no food or water?”
“Bananas, son. Why that box car was just packed full of bananas. We was eatin’ bananas all the way to Seattle. Yeah, I’ll never forget the look on them yard mens’ faces when they saw us two road monkies sittin’ in the middle of all them banana peels and all that stinkin’ yeller banana dung.”
“Yes sir,” he said grinning from ear to ear, ‘Them were good times.”
For the remainder of the ride with Archie Neck, the smile and dreamy glaze never left his face.
I intersected AlA at St. Augustine and my first impressions of the town were negative. Everywhere I looked were tourists and tourist traps: Zorayda’s Castle — the enchanted palace of Spain; Ripley’s Believe It or Not, (I couldn’t believe it, especially opening display – a life-size stuffed Chinaman with four eyes); and Potter’s Wax Museum where Joan of Arc points a sword at you as you walk down the street.
When I got away from the tourists, however, I discovered they were all missing the real class of St. Augustine. Like Flagler College, an absolute monument in brick architecture; the restored Spanish structures, built on cobblestone streets in the center of the city; and of course, the beach. These are all places that should not be overlooked when passing through St. Augustine.
Anastasia Beach, just east of the city is an unspoiled strip of sugar sand, sea oats and rolling dunes. The stark beauty of this beach is a great spot to picnic or spend the night. You can almost experience a hallucinagenic feeling after waking from a night on the dunes and seeing the sun rise out of the ocean, flashing its colors across the sky.
My next ride heading south on AlA was unusual. It was with a man about 25 in a souped up Mustang with a little engraved plaque on his dashboard reading “EAT MO POSSUM.”
I hopped in, thanked him for stopping, looked at the plaque, gulped, and asked how far down the road he was going. He opened his mouth and I thought he was going to answer, but instead he tossed some multicolored capsules down his throat and stepped on the acclerator.
Now I was kind of startled, but I didn’t really grow concerned until he pulled within four feet of this station wagon driving in front of us. The wagon had a bumper sticker on its fender that read “SHOWDOGS DONT TAILGATE,” (I could read it pretty clearly) and in the back of the wagon were some cages with little black poodles in them looking at us.
Suddenly, this guy I am riding with freaks out and starts flashing his headlights and honking his horn, then turns to me and literally screams, “That’s true, I ain’t never seen no showdogs tailgate.”
Deciding this guy was definitely a psychopath, I looked at my road map and calmly said, “So this is Painter’s Hill. Say I’ve got a buddy who lives in this town, could you drop me off here?” Silence.
“Ah sir, thanks… for the lift?”
With his eyes just staring at those poodles and his foot glued to the gas pedal, he said nothing.
“You see sir,” my voice cracking and growing rather meek, “I’ve got this buddy…”
Then like somebody just kicked him in the fun-nybone, he bellowed out in deep laughter, “You should a seen their eyes, boy, them little poodles was really shook.” Then he stopped the car.
I bolted out the door and watched him drive away thinking how much he would have enjoyed seeing my eyes.
One thing to keep in mind about hitching down AlA is that you have got to take it all in stride, because actually it’s you traveling on their turf.
Another thing to remember is not to stop in Painter’s Hill – under any circumstances. I waited for about three hours in that town and then, as if I was jinxed, my next ride took me to Daytona.
It was near dark and it was becoming evident that I was going to have to (gasp) spend the night in the Wrinkle City.
Daytona Beach must rank as one of the top cities in the nation for pure fascist harassment and just all around unpleasantness. It is definitely one of the places you’ll want to detour when you’re breakin’ away down AlA.
Sail Away
After hitchhiking his way (on A1A) from St. Augustine to Daytona Beach, Jeff Cardenas takes you the rest of the way south (Fort Lauderdale to Key West) on a 37-foot sailing yacht, in a race with one hundred others. [STORY]
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