To Ferdinandina Florida

St Augustine is a nice town, but it is always time to move on. I have the deadline in Missouri to think about. I had now come all of the way East, now I could begin heading West again. So I jumped in my truck and headed North. North? I thought I was going to go west ! After much thought I came up with a couple of good rationalizations. One was I had just landed in St Augustine, from the West, to head directly west again would be to back track over territory I had already been over. What fun is there in that? I think, however the more honest reason was that I enjoy the ocean, I have just spent the previous decade in Missouri and I missed being on the edge of a continent. I wanted to have more incredibly fresh seafood before heading inland again.

So North it was. I started my drive and 20 minutes later I realized I had ended up on the wrong road and had to go back into St Augustine and start over… but they have a nice airport in St Augustine with airplanes and everything!

I made my way back to the ocean route (road A1A) and toodled my way up the coast. There are lovely, white sand beaches along there with very little development. Patches of houses string along the shoreline. I discovered the difficulty of driving along a stretch of road where every five minutes you are tempted to pull over and go swimming. But I managed to maintain my discipline and continue driving. I skirted past Jacksonville, determined to stay as close to the ocean as possible. Once again I was driving semi-blind for lack of an excellent map. I made my way to Mayport, FL and was rewarded with one of my favored dining experiences. A small restaurant by a fishing dock, Singleton's Seafood Shack.

There are many good things to be said about fine dining in excellent, expensive restaurants. Then again there are equally good things to be said about the experience of a dockside eatery. The fish there is absolutely fresh and not traveled. You will often find species that are unavailable in the nicer restaurants simply because the harvest is smaller, less predictable, or the fish doesn't travel well. While you might not have all of the sauces and other subtle delights of a fancy restaurant you will often have two or three choices on how your fish is prepared: fried, grilled or blackened. It may not come with a salad or baked potato, but it will always be good, fresh fish.

I love the simplicity of the dockside eatery. The tables might be plywood and 2 x 4s or old picnic benches. The china might be nothing more than paper trays in plastic baskets, but the view of the docks are something I never tire of. Watching someone else working is always good for the appetite. The salt air, ambient sounds of motors, ropes, chains and the thunking of someone moving crates about is a symphony all of its own.

My waitress was an older woman with a jaded look in her eye, She had see enough of it all. Her look almost said "I have three kids, grown teenagers, at home. I raised them by myself without the help of any man and what the hell do you want anyhow?" She had seen enough people come by that place there was nothing new for her in it. My jauntiest repartee failed to brighten her eye or lift the corner of her mouth.

"What'll ya have?"

"I'd like to try the Archer Fish, please."

"Grilled, Fried or Blackened."

"Grilled, please."

A slight recognition flashed behind her eyes as if she were thinking: "I knew it. Why do bother asking these bozos and just bring them what they want?"

"Fries, baked potato or potato salad?" The deadpan interrogation continued, I felt I was ordering my lunch from an undercover Joe Friday in a blonde wig. "Just the facts, sir, just the fish. Don't try to brighten my day. If you have seen what I have you would have nothing to smile about as well."

I managed somehow to complete my order without confessing anything other than my desire to eat. She managed somehow to serve my lunch without a warrant.

And the fish? Wonderful, absolutely wonderful. As fresh as can be. Delicious with a nice grain and flakiness to it. And let's be honest. Good service is service from a person who is honest to who they are. My waitress knew her job and performed it exemplarily. The fact that she was herself and, perhaps, having a bad day (and let me in on it) is to be commended. I am always disappointed by an experienced waitperson who is putting on a phony act. Needless to say, I appreciated my "Joe Friday" waitress, she made the lunch that much more memorable.

Though I say there is nothing like one of these dockside places, you still need to be careful of imitations. Do they sell raw fish there as well as cooked? This is a good sign. Do they have tablecloths? That's a bad sign. I have been to faux dockside restaurants. One of the clues that gives them away is that there is more than one of them at the end of the pier. If there is more than one there is a likelihood that the second and third were trying to profit off of the popularity of the first. This is not a bad thing... At first. But eventually they will start drawing lots of tourist trade. For efficacy they start buying fish from other docks. With the popularity of the place some of the fishermen realize there is more money to be made offering boat rides to tourists than from fishing with the result being no more fishing is done there. I'm sure that you could get excellent seafood in Carmel, California when cannery row still had canning factories, but nowadays? It all arrives in boxes from other places.

It is important to look for these external signs. If you are not careful you might find yourself sitting down and asking the waitress: "Which of the fish are locally harvested?" and the reply will be "Well, only the oysters, but the fish is very good, very fresh." Ah, but by then you have already ordered your drinks, you are committed . it turns out the only thing they won't deep fry is the swordfish which was thawed fresh this morning. Even the local oysters end up fried. Ah, such a pity.

After lunch I hopped on the ferry across the river and drove on. I made it all of the way to Ferdinandina where I pulled over and found a hotel. I went out to the beach and swam in the ocean again, never once hearing the music to Jaws. Well, actually, I did, damn Steven Spielberg anyhow! Hearing the music made me swim 50 yards closer to shore and look over my shoulder more often.