The Perfect Beach

The idea was to find the perfect beach, one isolated with powdery sugar white sand, tranquil gin clear waters, and a soft ocean breeze. The idea was also to find this beach somewhere within easy driving distance. Yeah, I never found that beach. But my wife and I came close.

            We drove to South Padre Island for our annual summer getaway in late July. I had my Toyota FJ Cruiser loaded with all the necessities and included some extra “just in case” equipment. The most important of these were the Smittybilt 9,500 lbs. load capacity winch and a Redridge Industries GRP (think of it as a large, expandable anchor). I got my vehicle stuck in the sand on North Padre Island a few years back. It wasn’t fun, and this equipment would ensure that I wouldn’t get stuck again.  

            SPOILER ALERT: Luckily, I didn’t need any of my “just in case” equipment.

            My wife Cheryl and I pulled into South Padre’s County Beach Access #5 at Edwin King Atwood Park early on a Thursday morning. Operated by Cameron County, this access point features two large pavilions, BBQ areas, restrooms and showers, and, of course, driving access to the beach. Cheryl and I paid the $10 access fee plus the $2 trash bag fee and pulled forward and onto the beach. Out of precaution (and fear) I put my vehicle in 4-wheel drive and eased onto the packed sand just above the water line. The park was almost empty at that early hour with only a few people on the beach and even fewer cars. I headed north and drove along the beach until we passed County Beach Access #6 on our left. This is the last beach access on South Padre Island and sits just before the island’s main thoroughfare of State Park Road 100 / Ocean Boulevard ends. From that point onward, the only way to reach the end of the island some 20 miles further is by driving on the beach.

            Only a couple hundred yards past Beach Access #6, we encountered a late model Camaro sunk to the axel in the sand. The owner and a few friends were digging by hand under the car to attach a tow rope. Cheryl and I continued on passing a few errant trucks parked higher on the beach but not seeing much in the way of a crowd. Three miles further we spotted a duo of RVs parked end to end. Here, the sand grew deeper, and the ruts caused by previous drivers began to wane. We continued heading north with only a few difficult spots that caused us concern.

            “You’re gonna get stuck,” Cheryl warned as the small SUV twisted and jerked through soft, deep sand.

            “No, we’re not,” I replied aloud while silently praying, “Lord, please don’t prove her right. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

            A few miles past this troublesome spot we ran into nothing. We saw no one for miles. I parked the SUV, popped up a sunshade, dropped some chairs in the sand, grabbed a couple of beers and sat. Before us was blue ocean and rolling waves. Behind us, stood tall dunes of wind swept sand and tall grasses and twisted and gnarled shrubbery. We enjoyed this splendid isolation for nearly an hour before a group of horseback riders snaked their way past us. A half hour after this a disheveled man appeared from the dunes. He walked over the scorching sand and to the water. He stood there talking to no one, lit up a really pungent smelling joint, then began walking south all the while waving his arms over his head and talking to his imaginary friend. I popped another beer and wondered just where the hell he had come from. Did homeless people live in the dunes some 10 miles from the nearest road? Did drug dealers visit these people way out here to sell their goods? And how bad does a person living in the dunes on South Padre Island in July smell?

            A half hour later a sea turtle patrol UTV, drove by. I waved at the driver, and he stopped. We chatted for a time, and he told me how South Padre Island is home to all five species of sea turtles. “The Kemp’s and the greens are the most common. There’s only been one sighting of a leatherback on the island in 100 years but that still counts.” We talked for a time more then he drove off to look for signs of turtles. I returned to my beer and watched the waves roll over what was almost completely my own private beach.

            Well, private except for people on horseback, turtle voyeurs, and homeless pot smokers.

            Still, it was mostly mine, mostly private, and well worth the trip.

This piece first appeared in the Fredericksburg Standard.

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