Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 5 Lynn’s Oysters

In every sense of the word, Lynn’s Quality Oysters is a seafood dive. The small cinderblock building is nestled between US98 and the bay in Eastpoint, even has its own dock that allows fishermen to deliver directly to the restaurant-shop. Inside there is a display case with fresh seafood on ice, and a wooden case, which could easily be converted to bookshelves, containing impressively numerous hot sauces, seasonings, and breading.  There are only two tables and a L-shaped bar, seating seven. The total seating capacity for dining patrons must be about fifteen. The walls are adorned with various items: faded photographs of the store in the aftermath of Hurricane Dennis in 2005, a stenciled print of Dale Earnhardt, and beer advertisements. A steel cargo holder for a pickup truck is located along the wall near the bar, it is full of beer on ice. Hanging over it is a home-made wooden sign, a bottle-opener attached at the bottom, reading, “the best beer is an open beer.”

Oyster Flag from the outside wall

“Are these from the bay?” the patron at the bar asked. The amiable man shucking oysters behind the bar slowly shook his head no. He confessed that they were from Pine Key, some three hours away by automobile, about 120 miles across the bay. He explained that the oyster in Apalachicola Bay were too small to harvest at this point. The patron continued, understanding the problem, by asking if there were any recovery in sight. The large man, with a full red beard, a Lynn’s t-shirt and ballcap, looked despondent and exhaled a “no.” After a pregnant pause, he continued, “some people are saying that we might have to shut down harvesting for a few years.” The two men, lamenting the fate of Apalachicola oysters, laid the blame on upstream cities taking too much water from the Apalachicola watershed. Others in the raw bar listened to the conversation silently, as did I. I judged the mood of three employees and the owner of Lynn’s to be one of resignation, rather than anger. But there is no doubt, local identity is closely tied to oyster harvesting along the Apalachicola Bay. 

Lynn's Gumbo

Many come to Lynn’s for the oysters. It is common to see local people stopping by for a beer and a snack after work. I come for the best gumbo I have ever had. Made from the recipe of the owner’s mother, I hear employees often express their pride in creating the stew. We occupied the smaller table on a Friday afternoon. An older couple shared the larger table with two men, who had been friends for a long time judging from their conversation. After eating a dozen oysters, one of the men ordered a bowl of gumbo while his friend enjoyed a second dozen. After a few bites, he exclaimed, “I don’t know who makes the gumbo, but they deserve a raise.” 

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 4 Liquid Gold

The small city of Wewahitchka, established in 1875, is located about 25 miles north of the coast in northeast Gulf County. The city takes its name from Native Americans and is believed to mean “water eyes,” because of the shape of two oblong lakes on the edge of town. The lakes are separated by a noticeable ridge that resembles the bridge of a nose. More importantly, situated along the swamps of the Apalachicola River, the city is the center of tupelo honey production. 

Most people are surprised at the cost of tupelo honey. In order to get the purest product, existing honey must be removed prior to the production tupelo trees blooming. Then, the harvest season is very short, only two to three weeks. Finally, tupelo trees are cluster in remote swamps making the retrieval of honey very difficult. Nevertheless, tupelo is considered one of the best and rarest of honeys in the United States.

The Mailbox at LL Lanier

We visited L.L. Lanier & Sons Apiary in Wewahitchka, a family business that began in the 1890s. Located on a small avenue on the edge of town, at first glance it is hard to believe that this modest operation is the source of the rare honey. Jars of the liquid gold are displayed outside the storeroom, a converted house, and the staff are employees that help in all phases of the production. While many local shops will claim to carry tupelo honey, at much more reasonable prices, caveat emptor: quality and purity vary.

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 3 Food and Eating

Abandoned seafood processing house in Apalachicola

Eating along the Forgotten Coast can be an adventure; in a good way. Eastpoint, the small hamlet on the eastern shore of the Apalachicola River and the bay, is widely regarded for its oysters. A local Apalachicola resident told us when he was a young man, Eastpoint and Saint George Island were poor and underdeveloped. Oyster boats dotted the bay between the two towns, so thick he said, that “you could walk from boat to boat from the island to the mainland.” Perhaps a bit of hyperbole, but an indication of the thriving industry. Several restaurants cater to locals and tourist alike, touting the best oysters in the United States. We met a group of German university students who were thrilled to have a chance to try the local oysters, even if it was not their favorite new food. Seafood processors and canneries once lined the riverfront in Apalachicola. Declining oyster production in the Apalachicola Bay, because of both natural and human activities, has had a devastating effect on the local seafood economy. Today, the processing plants are closed; the buildings derelict or converted to other commercial enterprises focusing on entertainment and retail. Nevertheless, seafood remains a significant part of the local economy and heritage. 

In addition to oysters, several restaurants offer traditional foods not found in many restaurants in the United States: gumbo, alligator, conch, frog legs, among others. Richard and I had lunch at the Red Pirate in Eastpoint, an establishment that is frequented by the local population and includes miniature golf as a diversion. Having looked at the menu I noted, out loud, that Richard could enjoy a gator or frog leg basket for lunch. He chuckled and said that he had not had frog legs in about twenty years.

After our orders had been placed and we were settled, I told Richard about a famous family story. Growing up in Louisville, one of the most popular places to eat after church on Sundays was KingFish, a small local chain that began in the late 1940s. I still fondly long for a fish sandwich from KingFish from time to time. A number of fellow Louisvillians would disagree with my assessment of KingFish, claiming that the best fish sandwich in town is Moby Dick’s (“A Whale of a Sandwich,” the advertisements suggest), but I digress. On a particular Sunday, when my brother would eat only chicken, he wanted to order a second helping of chicken from the kid’s menu. My cost-conscious parents tried to provide him with food from their meals, but he adamantly refused seafood of any sort. My dad eventually offered my brother the “chicken” from his sampler platter, which he happily devoured in a matter of a few minutes. Dad asked how he liked the chicken, to which my brother expressed satisfaction. Dad then confessed that my brother had just ate the frog legs; my brother was sullen and horrified. Richard laughed, thinking that it was a good story.

Richard then told me about a restaurant in Montezuma, Ohio, the next town east of Coldwater. That restaurant, which was little more than a house converted into a small dining room, in the 1940s served frog legs and turtle soup. He remembered that the restaurant paid high school boys to take flashlights at night and hunt frogs. Some of the legs, he claimed, were as big as chicken legs. Richard mentioned that no one eats turtle soup anymore and pondered why. I mentioned that several turtle species were protected, and it was illegal to harvest. He smiled and remembered that his father, who wintered in the Tampa area after retirement, could never pass up a bargain. One winter he went to a grocery supply store and bought two cases of canned turtle soup because it was a good bargain. He brought them back to Coldwater, and everyone in the family ate turtle soup for a long time. When they cleaned out the house, years later, after his mother died, they still found cans of turtle soup in the basement.

In a society where there is an astounding homogeneity of food choices, simultaneously with a desire for diverse food tastes and experiences, the decline in turtle consumption might have portended the decline in oyster production. The reason why turtles are not widely consumed in the United States today is largely because of overconsumption in the past, not because of changing culinary habits. Green sea turtles were hunted to the brink of extinction; governments banned the production of turtle soups. Today, even some of those in the oyster industry have called for radical solutions to save a heritage industry. One wonders what people fifty to a hundred years from now will think about oysters as a part of our diet.  

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 2 Saint George Island State Park

St. George Island is a 28-mile long barrier island near the mouth of the Apalachicola River in Franklin County, Florida. The Dr. Julian G. Bruce St. George Island State Park occupies the eastern most nine miles of the island, containing undeveloped shorelines and numerous hiking trails. The last four miles of the island, and the state park, are gated for the protection of an ecologically sensitive area. It is open to the public but there is limited vehicle usage allowed. The limited access, the remoteness, and the chance to observe nature was an appeal: It was the allure of the secluded.

My first inclination was to walk the five miles to the end of the island; however, a bike ride afforded me more time to explore once I arrived at the east end and I would have reserved some energy for that exploration. The adventure began after Angie dropped me and the bike off at Sugar Hill Beach area. As I rode the bike through the gate, rap songs from the early 1980s, by the Sugarhill Gang, played through my head.

A ruddy turnstone

The road was bumpy and desolate. It was a beautiful day and there was exhilaration in exploration of the remote and barren dunes. I am not used to riding a bike, so I stopped after two miles into the journey to explore. Thus far I had passed three other cyclists going the other way. They would be the only people I met on my outbound journey. The island was becoming very narrow, perhaps only 100 yards to the water from either side of the road. I walked to the ocean side first and saw several shorebirds. A couple of Ruddy Turnstones were a little wary of me coming too close, but were largely unconcerned about my presence. Once I remained still, the turnstone went back to its business of finding lunch beneath the seaweed that washed ashore. 

There is something compelling, and even satisfying, about crunching shells as I walk. They were all largely broken anyway – I was not denying collectors a great find or animals a home. But that crunch is a sound that sticks with me. As I explored the bayside of the island, it was a different sensation. The sand, textured by the rain of two days before, providing a wonderful tactile experience on the soles of my shoes.

A tree used in turpentine production

With a few exceptions there are not many trees, and virtually all are loblolly pines. Beginning in the 19th-century, and lasting well into the next, these trees had slashes cut into the trunks in the shape of “cat-faces” as part of the process to collect sap for the production of turpentine. It was a major industry in Florida's history and led to the acquisition of the island from Creek Indians in 1803.  There are still a few trees visual, in the State Park, that bears the cat-face marks dating from the 1950s. 

My smartphone app indicated that I had rode 4.4 miles when I arrived at the small parking lot near the east end of the island. I walked from the parking lot to the point in splendid isolation. Across the strait, I could make out a few houses on Dog Island, the next barrier island to the east. Although one can buy a special pass to drive to the end of St. George Island form the state park, I reveled in the decision to bike to the end. It allows us to observe and appreciate. As I walked the shoreline, careful to avoid damaging any dunes, I spied several plovers and willets. Here, on a natural beach with very little human traffic, sponges were plentiful along the shore. Near the point, there was a sailboat that had run aground on a sandbar just offshore. As I was riding out, I saw the mast in the distance and figured that some boaters had docked in a remote location. I dreaded any interaction with partiers. Walking around the dune, I saw that the boat was damaged, its mast at a 60-degree angle; I realized that I was still alone. Later, when leaving the park, I asked Joshua, one of the rangers at the State Park, how long the boat had been there. It had been abandoned shortly after running aground a month before, and the owner had decided not to retrieve it. The park was in the process of declaring it derelict so that it could be removed. I expressed surprised how much damage had been done to the vessel in as little as a month. Joshua noted that there was going to be a big job to remove the boat; water and sand had gotten into it and it was going to be very heavy to move anywhere. 

The road to the end (of the island)

I turned back and walked the shoreline on the bayside for about a mile or so. I imagined it be the least trafficked part of the island. But it was disappointing to find how much trash and garbage littered the shoreline. I found shoes, containers of smokeless tobacco, soft drink cans, and plastic bottles galore. It ruined the effect of walking in one of the under-explored places of the state. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful day and a unique experience. Yet, there was a price to pay for my exploration. That evening, I found that a tick had burrowed its way into my inner thigh. In removing it, the parasite took with it a huge chunk of flesh. A small price to pay,

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 1 Introduction

The “Forgotten Coast” is a stretch of Gulf of Mexico shore that encompasses Gulf, Franklin, and Wakulla counties in the panhandle of Florida. The popular legend is that a couple of decades ago, when the state was designing a new highway map, the names of several towns and islands from the area were left off. Perhaps more to the point, the coast is a place that has been neglected by development and time. This is not the Florida of Miami Beach; you are more likely to see beach houses with the names such as, “Cowboy Boots & Bathing Suits,” than high-rise, opulent condominiums. For many, this is “real” Florida.

Although the coast is sparsely population today, human settlements along the coast date back for at least 10,000 years. From the tenth through the fifteenth centuries, known as the Fort Walton period, Native Americans practiced agriculture, as well as harvesting local waters for shellfish and other resources. While up to 100,000 Native Americans might have lived in Florida prior to European contact, by the beginning of the nineteenth century the entire state of Florida had been depopulated of indigenous people, through introduced disease, slaughter, and forced relocation.

Prior to the establishment of the United States, western Florida had been controlled by the Spanish, the British, and returned to the Spanish rule in 1783. It is little remembered that at the time of American Revolutionary War, Florida was divided into two colonies. History books often focus on the thirteen colonies that formed the eventual United States; very few mention that there were fifteen British Colonies south of Canada. Today, there is very little that remains in the Forgotten Coast region to remind us of Florida’s colonial history. In fact, there are several points of west Florida history that are not well remembered.

With the nearest interstate about eighty miles away, the primary thoroughfare, paralleling the coastline, is U.S. Route 98. It is a desolate road in many areas, because it traverses swamps and forests. Once, we were touring a historic house in Apalachicola, when the tour guide noted living in the small remote town was usually a blessing. But, she noted with some regret, that the nearest Walmart was some two hours away. Every person on the tour took that as a positive. In the modern world, there is a seeming need for convenience. But, I would argue that this is part of the charm of the area. People make due, the scenery is largely unspoiled, and there are opportunities to focus on diversions.