Once you show proof of identity, get passed the armed guards, drive along the exercise mud pit, and sneak by the explosive device detonation area, you’ll find yourself in Ammo Country. Of course before all that, you need to get to Fort Walton Beach, Florida. And it might help to have a friend in the Air Force.For the second time in 2010, I found myself walking along the beach with a Starbucks in hand, and this time I was in northern Florida. My Fourth of July weekend exuded patriotism: fireworks by the beach, an American-style cookout, and lots of beer. Can’t say I’ve done all that before, and there’s no other person I’d want to celebrate our country with than my pal Jo, a Second Lieutenant in the United States Air Force (you may remember her from stand-out trips such as Nice, Paris, Grenoble, Dublin: Round One, and a recent stop-by in Denver).
Flying into Pensacola a day late, thanks to an impromptu stop in Abilene to refuel that resulted in a missed connection in Dallas, I was thrilled to touch down along the coast. Pensacola came across as fairly flat and industrial. Surely there are some more impressive parts to it (surely? Maybe not…I don’t know why I’m giving it more credit than it likely deserves), but either way I was pleased to head about an hour east to Fort Walton Beach.
The view from Jo’s house is that of pure envy for anyone who values beauty and seascape. With waves lapping up along the sandy white coast, boats zooming by at high-speed, and sun-bathers lounging on the shore, it was almost hard to believe that the devastation of the BP oil spill was approaching Jo’s backyard. A deep sniff of the seasalt air revealed a hint of oil fume mixed in, and it was a glib reminder of the struggle going on in Florida, Mississippi, Louisiana, and beyond.
Along with a whiff of oil in the air, there was also a noticeable hint of anger from the locals; anger towards BP, the state and federal governments, and the media. Trucks sported signs on the windshields with the number of days since the spill scrawled out, tee-shirts damning BP were selling on the streets and in stores, and beaches were far less populated than a holiday weekend would normally pull in. Jo and I vigorously discussed the overarching issues related to the spill, particularly the response time and steps being made toward resolution. As always, we decided to put politics aside for the rest of the trip—but there’s no denying on either side that the BP oil spill resulted in far-reaching, earth-shattering devastation. You can donate to the Gulf Coast Oil Spill Fund here.
Fort Walton Beach and Destin were still unaffected, but the proper authorities were gearing up for the worst. Areas in Pensacola were already closed, and it was only a matter of time before the oil made its way to Jo’s neck of the beach. We took advantage of the untainted waters for what little time remained.
I don’t subscribe to the no shoes, no shirt, no problem philosophy, so my flip-flops and tee-shirt landed me in the minority while walking along the Destin boardwalk (apologies if “Under the Boardwalk” is now stuck in your head). Plenty of scantily-clad individuals were hanging out on boats, enjoying mid-day margaritas, and making noise on jet-skis. Deemed the “Red-Neck Riviera,” Destin certainly lived up to the stigma. This kind of thing isn’t my scene, but the experience is one worth having every now and then simply to confirm my prejudice remains intact for good reason.
So skip the ski-dudes or whatever they’re called, and go to Destin for the only thing worth going to Destin for: McGuire's Irish Pub. With nearly $1 million worth of singles on the ceiling and walls, this isn’t a classy joint—and that’s fine by me as long as good beer is involved. Jo and I rocked a pitcher of the red microbrew, and got down to business with some custom burgers. From the Skippy peanut butter burger to the hot fudge sundae burger, you can get pretty crazy in your ordering technique. Or you can put on your fancy pants and get a $100 burger that’s fitted with caviar and a bucket of champagne. My $9.99 sharp cheddar and bacon burger suddenly didn’t seem quite as adventurous. Also of note: the 18 cent bean soup…$18 if that’s the only thing you order.
After an obligatory stop at Starbucks, we headed to the ocean. Now, I’m not a very exciting person. It’s ok, I can admit it. I like reading and television and leisurely bike rides. I don’t like surfing or snowboarding or bungee-jumping. Geez, I don’t even have my ears pierced. So taking a quick, unscheduled dip in the ocean fully clothed is as crazy as I want to get, and Jo always brings out the crazy. Of course, three days later I paid for this spontaneous act and needed to get my ears professionally drained at Urgent Care, but whatever. I may not be exciting, but I’m not a fuddy-duddy. Although, I suppose using that turn of phrase automatically makes me one.
Enough about burgers and beaches, let’s get to Ammo Country (aka Eglin United States Air Force Base). It has all the necessities you’d expect at a top military outlet: state-of-the-art gym, gigantore AF flags, and an immaculate commemorative area dedicated to defunct airplanes and helicopters that played integral roles in past operations. It’s all very humbling and I want to express my respect for past and present American armed forces around the world—thank you for all that you do.
That night we enjoyed some flashy fireworks and perfectly grilled steak on the deck, making it the ideal Fourth of July. The next day we crawled our way to The Donut Hole, a hotspot for locals and visiting celebrities alike. About 30 minutes worth of waiting in line proved worth it for some top-notch donuts and coffee. With that, we were all caffed up and raring to go...just in time to head to the airport. My weekend of Fort Walton fun came to a close as I found myself sitting in the Pensacola departure lounge (sunburned) and reading some terrible airport-only book.
Though I don’t anticipate more trips to Florida in the near future, I did enjoy this one. Long holiday weekends and Fourth of July in particular are best spent in someone’s backyard—especially when that backyard is Jo’s and it’s looking out over the ocean.
