The Cocoa Beach Journal - Entry IV

Eating Well at the Beach


Eating is one of my favorite parts of vacation. Growing up, my family embraced the philosophy that food is the solution for nearly any problem in life. Sick? Have a nice, warm bowl of soup. Happy? Celebrate with a big steak. Depressed? Have some mashed potatoes and gravy. Somebody died? Fix a lovely casserole dish for the family. Truthfully, a really good meal can make me happy for a couple of days. When on vacation, I can’t wait to find new places to eat and new foods to try. I’m not one of those sorry individuals who search for a Ruby Tuesday or Red Slobster because it is the safe choice; or someone who looks at a menu with unique dishes and decides to stick with chicken fingers or a burger because they are afraid to take a chance. I want to find the good stuff. I want to try something new. If you are too scared to taste what is out there, then just go to Pizza Slut or whatever.

It’s Saturday and, after a nasty lightning storm, we all decided leave the beach and head for Cape Canaveral to grab a bite of fresh seafood. When you grow up in West Virginia, seafood isn’t much of an option, so when I visit Cocoa Beach, I try to cram as many marine creatures into my mouth as possible. But I don’t merely settle for any old place that claims to have fresh fish, I’m looking for the place where the locals go. I always make it a point to check out the parking lots. If the lot is full, and if the cars all have local license plates, then you know you have found a good spot. One of several such places in this area is Rusty’s.

There are several reasons why I like Rusty’s. This restaurant has character. The chairs have scratches on them and need to be polished. The windows in the back of the place look out on a port and there are a couple of guys hacking up fish brought in by the latest boat. Then they take the good parts right inside to the kitchen. The menu changes slightly with the docking of each new fishing boat. When we arrived, the fish of the day was grouper. When we left, it was red snapper. The bar was crowded with Floridians. I watched a couple of old fisherman with thick beards hop off their boats and enter through a side door. The bartender had two mugs of beer waiting for them by the time they reached the bar. Everyone sitting in that vicinity seemed to know each other and all of them said hello to the two old fishermen. The young hostess wore a skimpy shirt and when I followed her to our table I couldn’t help but notice the tattoo on the small of her back…. I think it was the ancient Chinese symbol for “daddy was never around.” Okay, maybe I’m being overly cynical, but nearly all of the young girls I know who come from divorced homes end up getting a tattoo on their back. I don’t know why, but it seems to be a trend. Somebody should do a study.

At any rate, Rusty’s has character and it is my kind of place. It’s not kind of the restaurant you go to with your sweetheart and hold her hand across the table while gazing longingly into her eyes as the candlelight flickers and the soft music plays. You go to Rusty’s to chow down. And chow I did. Fresh grilled shrimp, scallops, and gator (yes, gator – reptiles are underrated as food items in my opinion) with a side of pasta and garlic sauce. Good stuff. I wasn’t going to be able to kiss anyone for a while after this meal, but I didn’t care. I also tried a bite of really wonderful grouper. By the time I rose from the table I felt about as swift and agile as a manatee.

My only criticism of Rusty’s is that they had a cover band playing. The band played outside on a patio surrounded by the tourist faction of the restaurant. Personally, I have nothing against cover bands – I’ve even been in one – but it seems as though beaches and resorts are teaming with them. This one had a woman singer who was probably in her forties and I think she and the lead guitar player were married. Long, grey hair dangled down the face of the guitar dude (what is it with long grey-haired hippy guys in Cocoa Beach?) and there was this depressing, dead look in his eyes, like he had been playing “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Margaritaville” every weekend for the last fifteen years. At least he hadn’t given into “the man” and taken an office job.

Aside from the band, it was a great evening. Nice atmosphere doesn’t always equal nice food, but places with character usually have what you really need. As always, a good meal makes everything better… even vacation.

Taken from my personal journal - July 25, 2009

The Cocoa Beach Journal - Entry II

Random Beach Observations

It is Tuesday in the afternoon on Cocoa Beach and I am in full beach bum mode. I don’t know what time it is and I don’t really care, just taking a moment to write down what I see. The beach is lively but relaxed and not overcrowded. A healthy breeze blows south, the waves are strong, and I am comfortable in the shade of an umbrella rented from Smitty. I’ve been reading from Hemingway’s Islands in the Stream and using a seagull feather I found in the sand as a bookmarker. In front of me some children – two boys and a girl – hastily construct a wall to protect their sandcastle from the coming tide. They are using plastic yellow shovels and the girl is chirping orders for the boys to dig a moat. They dig as though the fate of the world depends upon their speed.


A few paces to their right an old lady with a fancy hat tosses some kind of corn chip in the general direction of a seagull. The bird timidly accepts the gift and the lady is amused. She tosses a few more chips and, within seconds, is surrounded by seagulls and is now trying to shoo them away.

About six feet to my left I glance at a woman lying on her stomach on another rented chair. She is Latino and very beautiful. Her top is untied, her bikini is as black as her hair, and her oiled, bronze skin glistens under the sun. She is one of those rare women who you can stare at for an entire afternoon and it would not be wasted time. Sitting under an umbrella beside her is a much older man who does not stare at her at all but instead watches a cruise ship as it lurks across the horizon’s edge. He is nearly bald with a watermelon belly, grey chest hair, and wearing what looks like a gold Rolex watch. He is smoking a fat cigar and the breeze carries the scent to me. A cooler rests at his side and he periodically reaches inside and retrieves a Red Stripe. Both of them wear impressive wedding bands and her engagement ring is enormous. It even looks huge from where I sit. When she rises to sip from a bottle of water I notice her diamond necklace. In the two hours or so that they have been on the beach I have not heard either of them speak to one another.

A few young men with tattoos, waxed chests, and surfing boards that bear the Ron Jon’s insignia strut by three sunbathing girls who lounge on a large blanket in the sand. It’s funny. I remember when having a tattoo was unique and actually meant something. Now it just means you may have been to the mall or had a drunken night during Spring Break. The boys stick out their chests and try very hard to be impressive. I think one of them has highlights in his hair. Holy crap. No wonder the terrorists in Al-Qa’ida believe they can win. The boys just said hello to the girls and, after a brief exchange, rushed into the water with great enthusiasm. The girls are watching. Two of them have even risen up on their elbows. Ahhh… too bad. The boys don’t really know how to surf. They are being wiped out like splattered bugs on a windshield. Naturally, the girls are losing interest. One just rolled onto her stomach and is flipping through a magazine. The other two are refocused on getting a tan, or melanoma, or whichever comes first.

Ahead of me, I hear the little girl squeal as the first wave of the tide rolls over the sand wall and fills the moat that she and her two boy minions have tried so desperately to build. The next wave hits the foundation of the castle. The girl screams again and urges the boys to continue the struggle but they have had enough. One of the boys shrugs his shoulders, tosses the shovel aside, and heads into the surf. The other boy follows. “Well, fine then!” I hear the little girl say as she stamps her feet and marches over to what I assume is her parents’ umbrella. Another rush of water hits the castle and I’m reminded of the Hendrix song.

And so castles made of sand, melt into the sea, eventually…..

The song gets stuck in my head while the stunningly gorgeous Latino beside me stands abruptly and announces to her obese spouse that she is ready to leave. The man downs the last bit of his Red Stripe, stands, and stretches. He grabs his cooler and towel while she stoically gathers her belongings. As they walk away from the beach I hear her say that she wants to eat “somewhere really nice” tonight. The man responds with a grunt. It dawns on me that over the course of the entire afternoon that I shared the beach with them, this woman failed to smile a single time. What a shame. I would have liked to have seen her smile.



Taken from my personal journal - July 21, 2009