It never ceases to amaze how the Lord provides. There was barely enough money and time to see Florida on a two-day run from El Chupo (SA TX) down the I-10, so we decided to hit Highway 98 and see whatever we could. We made it as far as Panama City (!) and decided that, indeed, we saw everything we cared to see.

Of course we missed Miami Beach, Disney World at Orlando, Ft. Lauderdale, Tampa, and all that good stuff. People would say we hadn't really seen Florida, although my wife had in a previous life. I myself came back sadder but wiser. It all started out in Pensacola, where we hit the tourist info center and got treated to some real Florida orange juice, free of charge. We headed out and decided to head south to Panama City, then work our way back along the coast to Pensacola. According to the map there were about three beaches along the way. It should've made for a helluva time.

What we didn't know was how the liberal elite had, for decades after WWII, bought up all the swampland they could find and invested heavily in urban development. Buying for a dollar and selling for ten, they paved the shores and lined them with retirement communities as far as the eye could see. They next bracketed these communities with townhouses that not only concealed the bungalows and cottages but the shoreline as well. Eventually they reinforced these townhouses with thick, interlocking walls of condominium units that were sold, not rented or leased, where the elitists could hoard the coastline for time immemorial.

This monument to greed and exclusivity is a Berlin Wall that runs down the entire coastline from Pensacola to Panama City, roughly about 100 miles. Signs denoting 'Beaches' are a mockery to the casual traveler. Driving down these narrow stretches, one is scrutinized by the nouveau riche, wondering if you are a privileged visitor, a new neighbor or merely a lost soul. Absent is the look of the 'beautiful people', the genetically gifted, the beach hunks and goddesses we see in California. Here instead is the blocky, beetle-browed bigfoot types, forsaken by the public eye, who sold their souls for financial success and glory in the knowledge they have, in turn, bought one of the most beautiful areas in America, lock, stock and barrel. They watch from their terraces, from their yards, from beneath their umbrellas, dripping with gold chains and tanning oil, as vultures watching who and what trespasses their streets and beaches. Their scowling bulldog, the town sheriff, is a cartoon parody cruising about, seeking any outsiders who he may devour. None of the people in this community realize that the outside world, in turn, is overly anxious to have anything to do with them either.

There are narrow points of entry along the walls of Panama City, boardwalked pathways as difficult to park near as to traverse. These are for the outsiders, those not so welcome on the beaches. They are readily identifiable by the armfuls of clutter they are forced to haul across the walkways and the sand to find a place in the sun under the balconied surveillance posts of the usurers and corporate raiders in the towers above. There is no chance of mingling, for the beaches outside the towering castles are fenced off by ugly wire barricades and large signs warning: NO TRESPASSING. Families still enjoy themselves, children play and lovers cuddle, but the atmosphere is subdued and listless. The beauty of the beach is scarred by the fences, and the soulless owners of these properties would have it no other way.

Walton County's Grayton Beach is perhaps the epitome of this blight on mankind. The inbred park rangers charge $3.50 at the gate and are quick to warn that alcohol and pets are not tolerated. Our cat, Chopper, goes wherever he wants, but we had to sneak the beer in. This twilight zone of America has signs posted about that warn against walking on the sand dunes in order to protect the flora and fauna. Unfortunately, the entire place is covered with sand dunes. Vehicles and people are crowded onto narrow strips of concrete where one can either wait for a chance at the few picnic tables, or walk the long stretch across the familiar walkways to the beach.

Here we find the true heartbreak of the psoriasis of walled communities covering the beach as a plague. Never before had I seen a more breathtaking sight. Warm, clear water that seemed to reflect the sky in a transparent aquamarine reaching towards the horizon. The sand was as powdered sugar with the texture of snow as it seemed to crunch beneath your weight. We headed for the water, exhiliarated by the sensation, the moment tempered by the realization that we were in the same water as the reptiles that had bought the best of Mother Nature's beauty. It was a time you would always remember, but also a time you would ponder with regret.

Unfortunately we are not into carrying or hauling, and we realized we left our camera with Chopper. Neither of us were about to walk almost two city blocks to retrieve it. Instead we returned to the car and took off, content with our memories of the beauty and secure in the knowledge that we left nothing good behind.

I remember the parable about the rich man and the eye of the needle. I think of the tidal waves that hit from time to time as God sends his reminders that all that glitters is not gold. Maybe the walls are theirs, but the shores are his. I wonder what will go through these peoples' minds as they evacuate their towers one day, carrying the best of what they hoard over those splintered walkways.

Florida. You take it, I left it. If it's your cup of tea, though, its beauty is worth every cent.



Recommended: Yes

Best Suited For: Couples
Best Time to Travel Here: Anytime