by Carl Nelson
In my early teens Daytona Beach was our meeting place. It was 23 miles long, often 6 lanes for cars and offered some monster waves for body surfing. I was part of a group of boys my age who spent most of their free time on the beach playing football or four square or just soaking up some sun. Body surfing was the real deal.
You had to be patient for just the right wave and from chest deep, jump the curl, kick your feet and keep your head in front of the wave. To be a lifeguard, you had to be able to run a mile in 6 minutes and pass a swim test. I wanted the job but couldn’t pass the running part. In my 40s, I could do that and better.
At about age 14 we were discovering girls. The ideal date was to borrow the family car and take whomever would have you for a ride and a stop at the A & W for a root beer float. Those girls on skates bringing your order were an eye full. Afterwards, it was “cruising” time where spots like the Steak and Shake were visited to yell at your friends and see who they were with. If you were lucky, you finished the date on the beach, watching the submarine races. There was a time when Daytona was called the birthplace of speed.
In the early 1900s Henry Flagler, of railroad fame, chose the Ormond area to retire. He built the largest wooden structure in the east, a hotel for his wealthy friends like Firestone, Edison, Rockefeller and Ford to visit. A spur of his railroad finished almost at his doorstep. The greatest attraction for his friends was auto racing. Granada Avenue became the racetrack. It stretched from the Halifax River to the ocean. The cars of the time had highly powered engines but inadequate breaking and several cars were said to have finished in the surf. The beach proper was always the attraction for us however.
I recall one morning walking on the beach with a friend when we came upon a section with some high sand dunes. We stopped to dig some tunnels and doing so discovered a uniform shirt, shoes, a belt and bread wrappers. We were puzzled but put them back where we found them. That night I told my Dad what we had found. He said during WW2 German submarines operated off shore and when supplies were low they would come ashore in pontoon boats and go shopping. I knew that the town had volunteers who were lookouts because I would climb the old towers on occasion.
At the end of the Mainstreet approach to the beach stood a storm shortened peer that was a good destination for us. At the peer’s entrance was an up-scale night club where Latin music was popular. Further out was the fish house where bait and equipment could be purchased. The fee to just watch the fishermen was 10 cents. It was less if you could sneak in. Close by was the broad walk with its Ferris wheel, tilt-a-whirl, and bumper cars. The bandshell stood a small walk further. It was home to the Miss Southern Beauty Contest as well as free musical performances year round. I worked as a pin-setter at the broadwalk bowling alley until my dad found out. You were paid 10 cents a line (per game). You could net 30 cents for an hour’s work. Big money! One thing though, you had to be quick to reset and jump back before the next ball came. Automatic pin-setters had not been invented yet. On the beach it was hard not to make fun of the northern tourists. They were always getting their cars stuck in the sand and needing help. It took several people to push a stuck car out of the sand and some were grateful enough to offer a tip. Some visitors even used the surf to wash their cars. They had to be told that salt water corrodes. We could always tell the tourists by how they dressed while walking the beach or using the beachside showers. The men usually wore black street shoes with argyle socks.
Their shorts came well below their knees and were brightly colored. They always seemed to wear Hawaiian type shirts with palm trees prominently displayed. They wore sunglasses and a cap that made them look like Elmer Fudd. Tourists or not, the beach was always the place to be. As Archie Bunker used to sing, “Those were the days”.
