Ying and Yang: The Florida Panhandle

Back in ’82 I was given the gift of a visit to Destin Florida with some of my all-time besties: John, Marshall, and Robert Crenshaw, along with Chris Donato, and if I remember right, two guys named Hammy and Haggus.

The reason for our visit was a tour stop for Marshall Crenshaw and his band, and it was quite a stop, with plenty of shenanigans and the band absolutely killing it. Robert Crenshaw described the visit better than I ever could on Facebook, and I believe, also in his book “My Mythological Narrative A Rock Odyssey,” but I will say that there was an all-night tour bus ride, a beverage or two but no more than three, I promise,  much laughter, loud music, and some (way an excessive amount of) G-rated snacks.

When we arrived, we were relieved to get off the bus in the condition many of us were in, but we were surprised to see The Crenshaw Mom and Pop, Jean and Howard, as we stumbled down the bus stairs. For the Crenshaws, I’m not sure what happened next, although I think there was some sea-going parasailing involved which, I’m sure, is a load of fun kind of thing to do with your mom while cranked up to the max and at the same time drunk out of your mind.

Chris and I were able to escape the family reunion with plenty of I love you’s and happily gushed, see you’s at the gig! — and were able to make it to our rooms to sleep it off. Being still young, it only took us a few hours to sleep it off, which left the rest of that day and the following pre-gig morning and early afternoon to properly explore Destin.

I have nothing but wonderful memories. Back then, we found Destin to be a sleepy, 1950’s-ish Florida Panhandle town that included a couple of epic grass shack bars, some family diners, and a totally serviceable oyster bar or two—and not much else other than a gaggle of one-story motels.

We frolicked by the ocean and the motel pool more than we should have, to the point where John “A Whiter Shade of Pale” Crenshaw sunburned the fuck out of himself. We shouldn’t have laughed but we did—John was quite the sight laying in the motel room bathtub that we filled with ice water (and beer). He was beet-red from his scalp to his big toe except for his lily-white butt—and cursed us to no end while not trying to move a muscle other than his tongue and lips. At the time, he played xylophone in Marshall’s band, and it was an extra treat watching a human lobster play such a movement-demanding instrument while standing as rigid as a beanpole. I’ll admit, though, that it was vicariously painful watching him try to stage presence-smile in what turned out to be an Addams Family, Lurch-like grin/grimace….

Me and John Crenshaw enjoying lunch in Florida. His sunburn had subsided by then and so it was Funtime yet again. John Crenshaw might be my favorite guy in America, or he is at least tied with Robert Steele....

2026 Destin is nothing like that.

Somehow, in the ensuing 45 years Destin Florida has transformed into an overcrowded low-rent tourist trap that is so gaudy that you would think the embarrassment would be too much to bear—that the town powerbrokers would tear the whole thing down and start over. The entire place is lined with giant pirate- and seahorse-themed waterparks, dozens of high-rise resorts, and every U.S. interstate-hugging franchise fried-food joint ever invented. I drove around for most of a day and found almost nothing from 1982, which was disheartening. I even had a hard time finding the ocean, because if there wasn’t a forbidding mega-resort blocking any access, there were instead lines of new-money ticky-tack houses that owned and guarded the beachfront from us low-life sunscreen hillbillies like it were all theirs and theirs alone.

I can only imagine the rigid tyranny and despotism of the monthly neighborhood governance boards….

A load of negativity for sure, and I could go on and on, but I’ll cut it short by saying:

If you have spoiled-to-the-bone, screaming kids who need to be entertained hyperactively for every waking hour and who can’t pass on a single Pirate of Porpoise Playground; and you have thousands to spend on their constantly whining requests for every Made in China plastic chachka junk-toy they see; and you love to share the only wind-blasted, riptide tormented public beach with all the other have-nots who can’t afford the beachfront resort; if you don’t mind being packed like sardines and enjoy waiting lists wherever you go; and you love all the mad array of food choices, just so long as you’re happy with nothing but shit that’s fried unto petrification….

Then Destin Florida is a must stop bucket list-er tailor made just for you.

If not, drive on through and make your way across the Panhandle to Apalachicola.

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Jeez, do I sound like a snot-nosed snob or what?!?

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When I rode into Apalachicola after a few hours of nondescript, non-oceanside rolling—despite what Google Maps say, I wanted to pull over and kick myself. I couldn’t due to being old and pretty much crippled, but I would’ve if I could. Just driving around the little town upon arrival I was filled with remorse at not toughing it out and driving on through Destin and spending the day or so in Apalachicola.

The whole town reminded me of early-1980’s Wellfleet on Cape Cod, and I wouldn’t be able to pick which is “quainter” to the point of qualifying as “cute.” Super cute. Still, although Apalachicola qualifies as a Grade A poster child for a romantic getaway, as with Wellfleet (at least as it was back in 1980) the little town is also a working, functional place that is known nationwide to anyone who loves to slurp down raw bivalves.

Apalachicola originally was a pivotal cotton town, but when cotton morphed into a much more centralized, mechanized industry, the hardworking leftovers were able to pivot to oyster farming. It is now the heart of southern oyster production and in this humble oyster lover’s opinion, Apalachicola gifts us the most flavorful little things this side of Arcachon France.

Sadly, I hit town too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. I circled around the old town several times, reading all the historical markers, and tried to talk a few of the oyster bar workers who were prepping for lunchtime—to make an exception and open early for one of their biggest fans. They were non-plussed, and stuck (too rigidly in my opinion) to their hours-when-open heartbreak.

I finally rode out of town, wistful, and more than a little bit feeling sorry for myself. As I rode across a long bridge that straddled a beautiful, picturesque inlet, I vowed that I would come back some day, yet the thought of a return did little to assuage my self-pity. As I hit land, I almost started crying but then:

THERE IT WAS!

In Eastpoint Florida, just across a picturesque inlet from Apalachicola, was a gorgeous, too perfect for words oyster shack perched on the edge of said inlet. I got so excited I didn’t write down the name, and I sure wish I would’ve. If I had, I’d write them a love letter. I swear, it was so exactly what a country oyster joint should be that it almost wasn’t real.

I sat out on the deck and as I waited for my order, I gave enthusiastic and reverent thanks to who- or whatever guardian motorcycle-flaneur angel that keeps looking after me.

My HAPPY DAY find is a completely family owned and operated gem. The glamorously beautiful daughter (can you tell I liked the place?) took my order, and her amazingly maybe even more beautiful mother dropped my oysters and beer on the counter seat right on the edge of my new favorite inlet.

She most graciously chatted with me in that delightful Florida Panhandle drawl, and smiling, as I brought the first shell to the edge of my eagerly awaiting mouth my blissfully satisfied brain contained only one single thought:

I was in heaven.