Strange Days Indeed

I'm sitting on my blue chair at Grayton Beach. A red flag hangs lifeless behind me while the Gulf of Mexico churns ahead. Also behind me, disconnected from the ocean, is Western Lake. At high tide the ocean flows into the lake right where my chair sits. I'm nervous as the waves creep toward me. Twenty feet away.
However, what with the cars driving along the beach - yes on the beach - and the flatness of the shoreline, this is the safest spot I can find.
A woman in winter boots, sweatpants, and a bikini top walks by.
Chris and I have driven to County Road 30A past Destin this morning and biked along the scenic road and through the beautiful subdivisions. Our first stop: coffee at Bad Ass. The off-season quiet and tranquility was sheer bliss, and a rarity in this area that bustles to a breaking point each summer.
The bridge is out at Puggslyville again, so we decide to visit Grayton Beach, a place we haven't been to in decades.
The magic of the beach eludes me here, and I wonder if that's why we've stayed away. It's grown surprisingly hot and the wave distance is now 18 feet.
The birds are the same, though. They skitter and stand along the flat moonlike expanse of shoreline.
I turn away from the Gulf and toward Western Lake, realizing I've been missing the real view. The blue sky reflects in the calm lake, and behind its pristine beauty stands a row of lofty pines, no doubt lining 30A.The best part of this beach is the road we just came from. I'm ready to get back to it.

Photo credits: Chris Zokan