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 III

The Hippies of Cocoa Village

I spent the afternoon meandering around Historic Cocoa Village. Ten years or so ago, this portion of the Cocoa Beach area was renovated and now hosts a few blocks of restored buildings newly inhabited by mom and pop stores, antique shops, coffee houses, art galleries, and restaurants. The buildings are pink and white and yellow with stucco walls and Spanish style architecture. Palm trees shade the sidewalks. You will not find an Applebee’s or a Starbucks here, thank God. Tourists stroll around from shop to shop sipping on smoothies or licking ice cream cones. Venders on the street sell fresh watermelons and peaches. A few locals can be found reading newspapers and drinking coffee on tables by the streets. The village sits by a beautiful park right on the Intercoastal Waterway.

Even more colorful than the buildings are the owners of the little shops. I hesitate to call them all hippies but, well, most of these proprietors can probably roll a serious fatty. Don’t get me wrong. I have no problem with hippies; they make the world a more interesting place. If not for hippies, where would we go to drink ice mochas and eat organic sandwiches on flatbread that are heated in stone ovens while staring at local art and listening to James Taylor? You won’t find any right-wingers running joints like that. They don’t want organic sandwiches; they want to use coupons at Subway. Hippies can come in many forms (whenever I get around to it, I intend to write a treatise on the Appalachian hippy – a breed unto itself). Some hippies are highly intelligent, thoughtful people, some are annoying and far too baked for their own good, and some of them just look like they need a lengthy bath. But I love their music and I love it when they inhabit small communities like this one. Here are a few of the “hippies” of Cocoa Village:

The first is a guy named Tom who runs a store called Ventana al Mundo (I’m not sure what that means but I think it may be Spanish for “pottery and other artsy crap”). Tom sells handmade crafts imported from Central and South America and, to be honest, some of it is very impressive. Tom is the type of guy who uses his hands the entire time he talks. Leaning back into the chair behind the cashier’s desk he spoke to me at length about the history of Cocoa Beach and told me tales of traveling to villages in Ecuador and Peru looking for nuggets of art to sell in his store. He tells me that he doesn't settle on crafts from a wholesaler in Cancun and I believe him. The interesting thing about the store is how each piece of art has a story. Point to something on the wall or a shelve and Tom is more than happy to tell you about how he found the piece, what small town or village he was in, who he bought it from, and what the weather was like that day. You can check out his shop at http://www.ventanaimports.com/.

There were others to be found. Nestled in between a gift shop and a seemingly out of place bar and grill. I found and small art gallery ran by an old man with long, gray hair, scraggly T-shirt, and sandals. If you’re not careful, you’ll miss it. The gallery sits back behind several flower bushes and tree and a stone path takes you to this tiny art studio. The guy told me that he used to teach art at a small college in California during the seventies. Since then, he moved to Cocoa Beach, became a scuba diver and makes clay sculptures of local marine life. The gallery is filled with well crafted renditions of sea turtles, grouper, and the like. His work station was also in the gallery and he let me take a look at his current project, a local bird, but I forget the name of the species. I had the feeling that he may have lived in a back room of the workshop/gallery. His name was Harry and on a wood sign outside his ship there is a sign which literally read, “Harry the Potter.” Cute.

I was surprised to find that the Florida Historical Society houses its headquarters and manuscript collections in Cocoa Village. The head archivist is Debra Wynne, an energetic woman who evidently doesn’t get many visitors. She doesn’t quite qualify as a full-fledged hippy (maybe she had retired from a “hippy period” in her youth) but she certainly fits in around there. "Everybody around here thinks we are a museum," she complained. Debra also lamented the fact that the Society doesn’t get any state funding. Florida politicians, she says, have no interest in pursuing state history and will not hesitate to tear down historic houses in order to make room for more condos. I told her about the fight in West Virginia over historic Blair Mountain and how the coal operators (and those in power funded by them) treat Appalachian history with the same respect that some Florida real estate developers and politicians do. But Debra’s problems go deeper. At least in West Virginia there is a growing awareness about local history and more professors are involved in preservation and research. In Florida, again, according to the archivist, the state’s three largest universities fail to give the Historical Society any real support. This is tragic, because the archives are filled with rich collections – some even dating back to the 1500s. A young historian or grad student could easily make a career out of the collections in this place. Even though my knowledge of Florida history is rather rudimentary I’m thinking of becoming a member of the society. I would’ve loved to have had a few days to rummage through some of their material. The society’s website is http://www.florida-historical-soc.org/.

The next time I visit Cocoa Beach I definitely plan on a return visit to the Village. The hippies alone were enough to keep me entertained for the afternoon. Not to mention I found a killer pizza place called Ryan’s. Their meat-lover’s is great. In the final analysis, my only real complaint with Cocoa Village was the fact that all the shops (not including the restaurants) close down at five o’clock sharp. Who knows? Perhaps that is the departure time for the Pineapple Express.

Taken from my personal journal - July 23, 2009

The Cocoa Beach Journal - Entry I

Surf Fishing on Cocoa Beach

Cocoa Beach, Florida is my second home. I first began making the journey here from my birthplace in West Virginia when I could barely walk. In those days, the beaches were nearly deserted and the now famous Ron Jon’s Surf Shop was a one story building with a handful surf boards on the walls. Long before I arrived on the scene, Cocoa Beach was a tiny port and fishing village. In the early years of the twentieth century, flatboats and steamships making their way along the east coast of Florida stopped there for a night of rest and to resupply. There were no tourists, no condos, no lines of chain restaurants on A1A like a fortress wall of fast food, and no guys with flowered shirts playing Jimmy Buffet songs beside resort swimming pools. It was a quiet little secret by the sea. Then along came the Cold War, then NASA and Kennedy Space Center, and everything changed. The tiny village became a thriving community. Soon thereafter, highways allowed easy access to the beach and thousands flooded the area with their station wagons and lawn chairs. The tourist invasion had begun. Although it has shown no signs of ending, this summer has not been as crowded as in recent years. I have noticed empty spaces in the resort parking lots, lonely tables in the seafood joints, and the Merritt Island Mall, which used to be constantly packed, felt like an indoor ghost town – all signs of a floundering economy. But if or when the economy bounces back, I’m sure the tourists will return in great hordes. I guess, in a way, I belong to this tourist invasion, but I have family here and I like to think of myself as a guest rather than a tourist.


The only way to get a sense of how Cocoa Beach felt in the old days is to hit the sand in the early morning before the clutter arrives. And so, to get a taste of the deserted beach of my youth, I head out to do a bit of surf fishing in the morning while everyone else is still asleep or just sipping their first cup of coffee. Upon reaching the end of the wooden walkway that stretches from the resort to the beach, I say hello to Smitty, the lawn chair rental dude. He is the only one out at this hour and he stands by his stack of rental chairs and umbrellas getting ready for the day. Smitty, who is about my age, has been operating his own one man rental business for several years now. It’s actually pretty lucrative. He rents out one umbrella and two chairs for twenty bucks a day. On any given day Smitty will rent out around twenty sets, netting four hundred dollars cash. His business operates seven days a week from March 1st to the end of November every year. Do the math and you’ll find that Smitty probably makes more money than you do… and all he does is set up chairs on the beach. During the winter months he heads for the Keys and spends his days sailing. Not a bad life at all.


“Gonna catch supper, chief?” He asks me as I approach. Smitty refers to everyone as either “chief” or “boss.” He is shirtless and wears a big, straw hat, sunglasses, and shorts. Smitty has no need for Casual Fridays. I tell him we’ll need a couple sets of chairs in a few hours. “Sure thing.” He says. Then he lifts the shades above his eyes and squints at me. “Hey, I remember you. You’re that professor guy from West Virginia.” I tell him that he is correct. He asks if I’m writing any more books and tell him I’m working on it. I find it amusing that I’m the published author and I probably remember him more vividly than he remembers me. “I’ll have to check out one of your books when I get the time.” He says. I smile. You and everybody else.


“Good luck, boss.” He tells me as I head out onto the sand with my fishing rods and tackle box. Behind me my seven year old nephew is carrying a bucket full of live shrimp for bait. Mornings on Cocoa Beach stand in sharp contrast to the Appalachian Mountains, where long shadows prevail and thick mists cling to the hills well after sunrise. Here the sunrise is facing me strong and hot at eye level and its rays reflect like flashing glitter off the choppy surface of the ocean. In places the sea is brighter than the sky and if I lift my sunglasses the light stings my eyes. The waves crash lightly and I can taste the salt on my lips. Sand crabs dart in and out of their holes or scurry across the dunes looking for a bite to eat. I set down the equipment and take off my sandals at the water’s edge. Immediately my feet sink into the wet sand. I take a deep breath and smell the Atlantic. Good to be back.


I have been surf fishing nearly all my life. There is nothing to it, really. I open the tackle box, set the rig with two small hooks, put a two ounce weight on the end, and grab a couple of shrimp. My nephew watches me and I show him how to properly hook the bait. He listens intently and with immediate understanding. I’m amazed with him at times. Most adults don’t know how to listen, much less a kid. This one is blessed with his mother’s sharp mind and his father’s temperament. With the advantages he has he will accomplish anything he wants in life, so long as he keeps his nose clean and doesn’t take his advantages for granted. As I wade out into the sea he follows me and by the time I’m knee deep I feel the first cool splash of saltwater hit my stomach. Then I cast out, watching the rig sail up into the blinding white sky and then dive into the waves. A good cast is a beautiful thing to watch.


The only real trick with surf fishing is learning to distinguish between the tug of the tide and a bite. You don’t use any cute, bright bobbing floaties; you go on feel. When I started out as a kid I needed to watch the end of the rod because the tide pulls on the rod differently than a fish. After doing it for years, though, I can simply tell when I’m getting a bight. So, I stand in the cool water and face the early sun and relax. Within minutes I feel the familiar tap, tap, tap so typical of a whiting nibbling on my bait, pull the rod, and reel it in. Whiting are a good, mild fish and they are the most common species you catch on the beach in these waters. Occasionally you might get a baby hammerhead or some type of small bait fish. But mostly I catch whiting. Within ninety minutes of the first cast, we nab three whiting and a pretty feisty sheepshead. Not great, but not too bad, either. About thirty minutes in, my nephew nearly catches his first fish in the ocean. He is standing about fifteen feet away from me and getting bored when something strikes his rod I watch his eyes light up like Christmas morning. He reels with all his might but, unfortunately, the fish escapes at the last minute. Afterwards he kicks the water in disappointment but I tell him not to worry about it. He’ll catch one sooner or later. Besides, if you are smart, you can learn more from the fish you don’t catch than from the ones you do.


We aren’t the only ones fishing on this morning, and we certainly are not the best. About twenty yards out, I spot a pelican searching for his breakfast thirty feet or so above the waves. He moves from my right to left, flapping hard against the wind. Then suddenly he stops flapping, allows the wind to stand him upright, turns, and dives straight down into the sea. A second later he emerges with a fish in his mouth. The pelican floats on the water and finishes his meal before heading flying off and disappearing into the sunlight.


In short, the morning went as about well as it can go. Nothing too exciting happened and that is just fine by me. We caught a few fish and enjoyed our time in the surf. I feel sorry for the poor saps who miss out on this vibrant world around them and only come to the beach for a tan.


..... taken from my personal journal entry of July 20, 2009