Hutchinson Island, and the Hunt for Wild Sand
- By William J Mullen
March 03, 2018
Somewhere over the Atlantic at 35,000 feet.
My wife Kathy and I were staying on the Atlantic coast of south Florida. A nice community called Boynton Beach. We were hosted by family with a lovely villa a couple miles in off the shore. It’s kind of a quintessential south Florida setting: large lanai; pool; cactus and palms; bromeliads; lots of sun.
Despite the obviously near perfect surroundings, we set off on an early weds morning to do one of the things in life we love most to do; are best at — hunting for some wild sand.
Over the past 5 years we have become quite familiar with the beaches of the Gulf Coast: Siesta; Manasota; Boca Grande; Cayo Costa; Sanibel.
Not so much for the Atlantic coast.
We have visited a few Atlantic beaches over these last 5 years as well, but primarily municipal beaches — beaches of convenience. We find ourselves here, on Florida’s east coast periodically for family gatherings, so often times, a beach that is closest is the most viable option.
We’ve been to some great little beaches here locally though: Macarthur Beach State Park, nice beach, and has an interactive learning center, and walking trails; Gulfstream park, a small but nice stretch of sand; Lake Worth Beach Park, a very nice easy public access beach, which also is home to Benny’s on the Beach — a fishing pier and restaurant serving breakfast, lunch, dinner, and sports a full bar.
But that’s not what we were looking for. No, we were following our hearts, searching for the wild sand; open beach; the path less travelled.
We were bound for Hutchinson Island.
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February 28, 2018
Hutchinson Island, Florida
Hutchinson Island is a barrier island approximately 40 minutes north of West Palm, and about 2 hours from Orlando.
It rests just outside of Port St. Lucie and the Jupiter Inlet Aquatic preserve. The island is 23 miles long, and the entire Atlantic Coast is 100% beach. The Inland Waterway side of the island has several water access points as well. The Atmosphere is low key, far removed from the bustling crowds of a Daytona, or Siesta, or St. Pete. There was no traffic jam to cross the two bridges to Hutchinson, no problem finding parking (anywhere) and lot’s . . . lots of empty beach.
We spoke with a few locals on the way in, and a very nice county Sheriff. They all said how “busy” it was and we may not be pleasantly surprised. Huh. Well we had come this far . . .
As we turned north out of the Cumberland Farms (a quick beer stop) we noted, laughing, the lack of traffic. Busy we thought, hell we’d really like to see it when it’s slack season! We drove past the few well tended hotels and condominiums at the southern end of Hutchinson — gorgeous, but again, very few people.
We had set our sights on the northern end of the barrier island looking for a spot even less travelled.
Upon leaving the “business district” we soon realized, this was not really what we were expecting from the megalopolis coast — barrier forest, intact dunes, and a long straight near empty road pointing dead north. We passed several beach access points, including Blind Creek. This is the running joke among the locals, with everyone sort of giggling as they told us that we should really visit this section — a nude beach. Well, they all like a good laugh, and we laughed with them already knowing about Blind Creek. But we weren’t looking for that kind of action: a couple dozen naked old men. Nope. Thanks anyway.
We passed by Blind Creek in a fast car, only taking note where it was.
For us one of the few detractions of Hutchinson is smack in the middle of things. A two reactor nuke plant. Always we are confronted with ourselves. Mankind and it’s trappings. We gawked in passing.
We drove about 18 miles up island to a beach access called Middle Cove. We decided to stop briefly, just to have a little look at things, get a feel for the whole place, hell we hadn’t been out of the car aside from the Cumberlands. So we parked, and navigated the sandy path through the barrier dunes to the beach.
We were broadsided by what we saw.
We stood at the foot of the dunes where our path dumped out onto the beach, and looked across perhaps a 300 foot deep beach to the surf. The beach was flat, and near perfect granular sand. We looked south, down the arching beach, to see four people. A couple surf casting and one couple sitting quietly in beach chairs. To the north three people: another couple casting, and one walker maybe a mile away. That was it. Eventually a couple of older gals shell hunting for their small craft enterprise arrived on the scene. Hard to handle those kinds of crowds. To that, I say in the vernacular of our social media world: LOL.
Our time was limited this day however, and we had commitments later in the afternoon back down in West Palm, so we had to make the best of our time. We immediately raced back to the car, grabbed our things, set up an intro to our video travel project “Beach Movies with Bill and Kath” and bolted back out onto the beach.
It was clearly not hard to find a spot to drop our belongings and ourselves, and we quickly set up camp, and opened a couple of beers. Now of course, I should footnote that drinking on Florida’s beaches is not necessarily welcomed by the authorities, however in times such as these, under the clear blue sky, beside the aqua-marine Atlantic, at 87 degrees on February 28 — I highly recommend it. But that’s me, I’m not a sucker for convention.
Adjusting ourselves for the best view of the length of the beach, we watch the surf casters: casting, drinking, enjoying the day. We see some horses and riders a bit farther up the beach. The surf is impressive and wild today. Hutchinson is sought out by surfers and I can see why, some of the waves rolling in for quite a ways before expelling their energy onto the land.
As I am finishing a beer I see one of our fishing neighbors has something on the line. I decide to investigate.
I meet Jim and his wife (her name fails me now), they are down in the area from north Jersey from January to June each year now for eight years. They have three lines in the ocean. Jim hauls in his line only to lose the fish a few feet from shore.
“What are you hoping for?” I ask.
“Nothing.” is his reply.
“Fair enough, just being out here is good enough . . . ?”
“Yes.” He smiles a broad toothy smile and I can tell I have met a good soul.
We talk about our hometowns, and upon learning of mine — Sandy Hook, Ct — he offers his sincerest hope that we won’t experience . . . well we’ll leave that for another kind of story. He tells me about the rat race, and how they held out hope for years they would find a way to move near to this place they loved so much. I did not inquire as to how they did it, but I let him talk.
He had obviously made a good living back north.
“When we decided we would actually start the process, I was looking at buying a Ferrari, but felt that this was really that we wanted,” so he continues, “So we bought a 2001 Nissan Sentra instead,” pausing to smile at me, he continues, “ and I’ll tell you, best car I ever bought.”
We laugh together.
He says, “Seriously, the thing just keeps going, and it’s baby blue with chipping paint, I just get the oil changed, and you know, the once and a while stuff,” looking up with that broad smile again, “I never, ever have to worry about it being broken into, nothing. It’s perfect for this sort of thing.” He turns to check his lines, “But, we do have a travel car though, Lexus SUV . . . I like the Nissan better.”
Jim and I talk for a bit more, and I offer to give him back to his lady, she laughs without care, an honest laugh, and waves.
I bid them farewell and best wishes.
Kathy watches me walk back up the beach, and I am greeted with a big smile.
That’s the thing about beaches, well, wild beaches: the folks you find there are all there for the same thing, the same reasons, with the same mentality. We all have chosen a path less travelled. We went off of the beaten path, to find that bit extra: in life.
I take the time to speak with the other surf casters, folks from Portland Maine. Also snowbirds: January to June. Also, very nice folks. Ken was a bit more interested in his fishing, but June was thrilled that I stopped to talk. And honestly, we really just bullshitted and laughed with each other. Ken kept looking back and laughing at us.
I was presented, by both couples, a distinct distaste for the fact I planned on writing a piece about Hutchinson.
“We like it this way and want to keep it this way.”
I said, “I know, but only folks like us will come anyway — the few, the hardy, the slightly not right; the beach hunters.” They thought that was just fine.
I sat back down with Kath and we discussed filming for this piece, and the various other projects I am currently involved with. Recently I have decided to focus my whole being on “beach hunting”: searching for the good sand, the open spaces, the real rewards — of my life.
Beers are finished, and the clock tells us we’re already running late for our engagements in West Palm. We pack up, take one final look at the Atlantic, and walk back to the path through the sand dunes.
That’s when we met our two loves.
If I had any semblance of memory left, or a pad of note paper at the time, I would know their names. Shame on me.
They were meandering back to the parking lot as well, shell hunting all along the way. They were both smiling (It’s like the secret handshake isn’t it: smiling.)
I shout out, “Any good finds?”
They both look up and smile from ear to ear, “No, it’s not so good today.” one says.
“It’s better after storms when it all . . .” she pauses looking for a word, hands making circular upward gestures.
“The cream rises to the surface?” I quip.
They look bewildered and joyous, “Yes, that’s right.”
We chatted and greatly enjoy our mutual company. They are locals, but not. Each moved down some years before. They are out on Hutchinson today, for the obvious, but also looking for the right shells to make craft boxes that their church sells for charity. Fantastic. They speak at length about the Island and local communities, we talked about the Lake Worth Street Painting Festival which had already covered earlier in our trip, we talked a bit about ourselves, and our country.
They were great, great people. Beach hunters.
More importantly, like everyone else we met: the surf casters; a county Sheriff; several folks in the Cumberland Farms; a man in a Patriots hat (c’mon I’m from New England) and his dad — they were all happy.
But this is a common trait among folks who have made that decision: to look for the wild sand. It is a symptom of the rest of their lives really. It is a symptom of people who stopped caring about the trappings of the world that tell you be this or be that. These folks, we, have made the leap to live our lives as such: our lives. It’s like the Lake Worth Street Painting Festival, 600 artists coming together to adorn the streets with chalk art which quickly washes away, blows away, and gets trodden off by feet and car tires — it’s art for art. As we are living life for life.
There is a peace in this: the wild sand. A quiet place that we know is there, away from the rest of the world, away from the trappings of life: Ferraris; trophy homes; bills; bullshit. Yes, a few of us have learned that peace can be found, with a bit of extra effort, off the beaten path — just like the beaches of Hutchinson Island. Peace
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Writing this piece at 35,000 feet somewhere over the Atlantic ocean, flying back north, back to the cold and grey; in a tube full a people, with crying babies and sweaty adults I think if I could only get them all to understand what I’m really getting at here: that to get to the good stuff, you need to go those extra few miles, keep your eyes wide, and your smile — even wider. These are the things that all pay dividends.
Because ultimately we all search for the same thing.
We all are searching for the perfect piece of sand; the perfect peace.
It’s out there people, it’s out there . . . just go that extra mile.
WJM
William J Mullen 