Not Beachy
A wary wanderer finds Florida is much more
than just the sum of its beaches.
By Janis Turk
I always thought that I was just not a Florida person. Why? I’m not sure.
It probably has to do with the fact that I equate Florida with beaches, and I am just not a beachy person – even though I am a water person (Aquarius at that). Sure, I like the ocean and walking along the shore, but I’m not really a bathing-suit person, which (like my post-childbearing belly) spills clumsily into the reason why I do not see myself as being that keen on Florida.
But I digress.
Like many New Yorkers, my wardrobe is basic black. I like sturdy leather boots, well-worn, wooly cardigans that moths have nibbled, and my old Navy-issued pea coat, which I wear all winter. I love Central Park in autumn, Rockefeller Center in winter, the Berkshires in spring, and Lake Champlain in summer. I recently learned that I may, however, have been wrong about Florida, for this fine state is more than just the sum of its beaches.
What started my education was a late-winter invitation to an island that really isn’t an island (it’s a barrier off the northern shore), a part of Florida that isn’t much like the rest of the state (it’s so close to Georgia you could spit a peach pit and hit the latter state), and a plantation that bears no resemblance whatsoever to Scarlet O’Hara’s Tara.
I was scheduled to go to Quebec for a sub-zero Winter Carnival later in the month when friends invited me to join them for a week of spa treatments, shrimp dinners, and warm weather in Florida. With a trip to the Canadian Ice Hotel ahead of me, a pre-trip getaway to a place in the sun sounded appealing. I accepted.
It was a dark and stormy night in Jacksonville. When my plane finally landed at 2 a.m. I hailed a cab and set out for Amelia Island and its plantation resort. In the driving rain we crossed a mile-long bridge that led to what seemed a dark and foreboding isle. Live oak trees with Spanish moss clinging in fright to their gnarled limbs canopied the road in Icabod Crane fashion. Arriving at a gatehouse with Tavern on the Green-type canopies, I could only see a bit of a reception desk, and when an attendant took me by shuttle bus to the main hotel building, an eerie sense of Fantasy Island déjà vu overwhelmed me.
In a tired stupor I fell into a king-sized cradle of soft pillows and blankets, with little hope for Florida beyond a good night’s sleep. But when I opened my eyes the next morning I saw, to my delight, the ocean. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glistening, playful Atlantic, and I laughed at the sheer surprise of its size and close proximity. As I opened the sliding door to the rush of wind and crash of waves, I immediately wanted to run down to the shore. I liked it that I could wear a floppy hat, dark sunglasses, Capri pants, and a cardigan to go out in search of shark’s teeth and seashells. I didn’t have to be a 20-year-old in a bikini to fit in here, and believe me that was a selling point.
The ocean wasn’t the only surprise.
After a little exploration I learned that Amelia Island Plantation is an AAA-Four Diamond, 1,350-acre property with four 18-hole championship golf courses and 23 clay tennis courts. It also features a health and fitness center, a first-class spa, award-winning youth programs (“Camp Amelia”), a village of delightful shops with an Old World deli and gourmet market, state-of-the art conference center, and excellent restaurants and taverns. Indeed, Amelia is a fantasy island in the best possible sense.
One of the nicest things the staff did was to offer me a choice between a bicycle, a golf cart, or a Segway (those clever stand-up, two-wheel contraptions that George W. fell off of and some mail carriers use – yeah, I passed on that one) so I could tour the island at my leisure.... I chose a zippy little golf cart. It gave me the freedom to roam at will from the shops to the spa and back to the main hotel. I could then see why they called it a plantation. With massive ancient oak branches lining the roads and Spanish moss tendrils trickling down, the resort did have a Gone with the Wind–Twelve Oaks appeal after all.
After a lavish buffet breakfast in the hotel’s Sunrise Café I took my golf cart to the fitness center. Beyond the great exercise and weight-lifting equipment I found an indoor lap pool, hot tubs, steam room, dry sauna, and a spacious changing area with lockers. I was able to run just a bit longer than usual because each treadmill had its own built-in TV, so I could watch Regis and Kelly before soaking in the hot tub with a magazine.
After which I had to get back in my golf cart post haste because I had an appointment with a man with very good hands back at the spa.
After a Sea Dream anti-stress body-wrap and deep-tissue massage, a steam shower topped off my spoiled-rotten morning, and it was time – sigh – for lunch. Since I was already near the Amelia Island shops and the Marché Burette food market and deli, I decided to eat there. I ordered smoked salmon pizza and a little old-fashioned green-glass bottle of Coca-Cola. While my pizza was being licked by flames in a real brick oven, I browsed the store with its fancy cookware, gourmand gadgets, and appealing displays of fabulous wines, freshly ground coffee, spices, and freshly baked breads. The place reminded me of a very hip Martha Stewart-like shop I’d visited in Maine, but with a kind of “Land’s End-Meets-Louisiana” feel. I liked it.
Over lunch the men in our group talked about golf here as if the courses were shiny cars or fine cigars. I didn’t realize there could be such a difference in golf courses (don’t they all have little holes, flags, and sand pits?). But the guys chided me for my naïveté and assured me that these courses were among the best they’d ever played. Soon it was time for other activities such as kayaking through the marshes, visits to the nature center, nature hikes, beach volleyball, bicycling, fishing, and Segway tours of the area.
I enjoyed all of this immensely, but by Day Two of my four-day weekend I started to panic. I was running out of time to simply do nothing! So after a tour of the Victorian downtown of Ferdnandino Beach, Florida, I planted myself in a chaise longue with sunglasses and a good book. Happily, I didn’t really need the sunglasses. It was gray but not depressing, and not real beachy or bright. Nevertheless, all this relaxing was foreign to a workaholic like myself, and I found it hard to concentrate on my novel. I secretly longed for it to be suppertime again.
Dining on the island was a real treat. On the first night I enjoyed the Verandah restaurant with its casual atmosphere and fresh seafood. While everyone else tried the grouper (the chef’s signature dish), I splurged on the lobster, which further indulged my fantasy that I was really in Maine and they were just calling it Florida to confuse me. The next night I dined at the Ocean Grill with its gourmet menu and breathtaking panoramic view of the water. This was my favorite meal (next to the room-service breakfast with strong coffee and a crisp, early edition of the New York Times), and even while I had filet mignon, it was a trendy side dish of three-cheese grits that I adored. Afterward, we all had a nightcap at the Falcon’s Nest, a hopping (but thankfully not too loud or too young) nightspot frequented by the locals.
Come Monday, as a glorious sunlight sparkled atop the water and I started to pack my bags, I noticed that my black maillot was still a bit damp. I put it in a plastic bag before shoving it in my suitcase, and it was at that moment, with the sound of waves crashing against the shore, that I realized my perceptions about Florida vacations had been forever changed.
Who would have guessed it?
I might just be a little beachy after all.
***
Janis Turk is a freelance writer who has appeared in Southwest Airlines Spirit, Country Lifestyle, Tinta Latina, Ranch and Country, Texas Hills, and numerous other magazines, newspapers, and literary journals.
