The Glorious Black Hole of Daytona

Daytona Beach, Florida, is known for Nascar and for Harley-Davidsons and spring break – and it’s on the ocean…and so we decided that that was going to be our next stop, in the random way we decide all of our destinations. We scrutinized Bill’s now dog-eared hotel coupon books for a bargain on a place as we made our way toward the Atlantic coast of Florida, but we weren’t having the best of luck – sometimes finding a hotel on the beach is difficult when you have a trailer shackled to your Suburban like an eight-foot ball and chain. We ended up on South Atlantic Ave, driving past endless hotels and condo complexes, until we came upon the Castaways Beach Resort. The seven-story hotel was completely covered in scaffolding on one side, with a nearly deserted parking lot flanked with industrial-sized dumpsters. The display board in front stated CONSTRUCTION PRICES. And of course, that’s where we ended up. Sarah and I lugged our stuff to Room 111. I was changing my clothes when my peripherals detected human movement to my left, so as I ducked I looked over. Three construction workers with hard hats were strolling by, not even two feet from where I had been preparing to pull on my bathing suit bottoms.

It was a bit stuffy in the room when we put our luggage down, but we had a door that opened up to the pool/beach area, so I went to fling it open. The door opened about six inches before it slammed backwards, and I was confused until I looked up and realized that the door had a chain and padlock on it because of the scaffolding that was looming outside my window. We learned the next day that another reason for the ‘construction rates’ on the rooms was that early in the morning, noises like a jackhammer filled the air inside the rooms and hallways of Castaways like violent sound waves from industrial machinery. Adding to the charm of the Castaways Beach Resort is that the vertical neon turquoise lettering out front of the hotel that is supposed to light up at night doesn’t say “CASTAWAYS”…it says “AYS”. Rather ghetto, yes, but it had its charms, as we soon learned.

Sarah and I got hungry soon after we checked in, and ventured on a quest for food. We walked down Atlantic Ave for a few blocks but didn’t really see anything – so we climbed down to the ocean and strolled along the sand back in the direction we’d come from, figuring we’d come across some sort of place. We walked for a while to no avail and ended up back at Castaways. Bill cruised up on his bike as we stood in the parking lot and asked what we were doing. We told him of our quest, and he looked quizzically at us. “There’s a restaurant here,” he said, motioning to the side of the hotel. And lo and behold, there was a sign saying ‘Mango’s Beach Bar and Grill’, attached to Castaways, and in that instant our predestined good times in Daytona were born.

Our experience in Daytona was different than the normal tourist experience; we hung out at Mango’s and soon struck up conversation with the locals that hung out there. There was George the karaoke guy; Steve the cook (great grilled cheese – and I know where he keeps the pickles in the fridge); Jackie, who owned Mango’s; Kelligrace, the bartender; and the wonderful assorted regulars who spent great parts of their lives hanging out there. The locals were great to us – they took us out all over Daytona and taught us the ways of the town. So many people we met were Northerners had that elected to leave the winters behind forever and move to the Sunshine State - people from all over New England, plus New York and New Jersey, all who wrinkled their noses at the thought of the cold. Since I’ve never lived away from New England, I never really gave thought to the fact that there are people who live in the same country as I do that never had to deal with the snow. (As for me, though…I really missed skiing this winter. Especially since I bought gorgeous new skis last July…that are still unused…)

Mango’s was a karaoke bar, and I was hesitant to sing because my last (and only) karaoke experience, years ago, didn’t end very pleasantly. Also, add to the equation the fact that I really can’t sing.  I eventually did get up there, although I did make George sing duets with me. And believe me, nobody has heard a Grammy-worthy musical performance until they’ve heard the rendition of “Summer Lovin” from Grease, sung by George and myself. The bar didn’t clear out when I was up there, so I suppose that’s a good sign.

I know Bill is great with business dealings, and with money and stocks and finances, (the man watches FINANCIAL television for fun) but I really got an idea of how good he is while we were in Daytona. Sarah’s paychecks weren’t going into her account for some reason; they had been sent from Bill’s bank but then they apparently had vanished, never to make it into her bank. It turned out that the addressing had been wrong on the envelopes, and Bill wanted his bank to pay for the overdraft fees that Sarah had accrued when her money was supposed to be in her account. I was listening to him lay into this woman on the phone, and he must have had her stuttering. She originally said that they wouldn’t reimburse the charges, but Bill got her to talk herself right into a corner. She also said she wasn’t allowed to give out her boss’s extension or last name (and how suspiciously odd is that!). “So the address was wrong on the envelopes,” Bill said, to which she replied yes. “I know that isn’t my fault,” said Bill. “Do you admit that?” Yes. “I know it isn’t Sarah’s fault,” said Bill. “Do you agree?” Yes. “I know it isn’t Sarah’s bank’s fault – do you agree?” Yes. “Then whose fault is it? Because it seems to me that it is your fault,” he finished. The entire diatribe was brilliant, it truly was. And he sure got reimbursed.

To get onto the beach we would walk around the side of Castaways, beneath about a dozen leering construction workers atop  lopsided scaffolding, past the pool, and down a set of steps. Legislature was just passed stating that people will be allowed to drive on the beaches of coastal Florida for 25 more years; an annual pass costs $50 and a one-day pass costs $5. I certainly never saw this before and it was a different beach experience to walk down onto the beach and then have to look both ways before reaching the water because cars are driving on the sand. And these warm Atlantic waves could be brutal; we spent hours playing in the waves, but they really beat us up. We had waves crash over our heads that knocked us over and dragged us in the sand, and Sarah and I both had the tops and bottoms of our bathing suits pulled off by the turbulent water in different stages of indecency. Any wave-frolicking session automatically meant that several gallons of salt water were going to be shoved forcefully into my nose and mouth and ears, which was painful - but worth it for the rush. The beaches of Daytona were so alive with people and surfers and cars and parasailers and boaters and boogie boarders during the daytime…there was so much to look at…it was a beachy sensory overload!

There’s an ordinance in Daytona beginning on May 1 until October saying that all bright lights by the beach have to be turned off at night because that’s the time of year the sea turtles lay their eggs on shore. Bright lights confuse the turtles and may disrupt their egg-laying. It’s good to see that even in a place as built-up as Daytona, (and the waterfront is as built up as any place I have ever seen) there are still measures being taken to preserve wildlife. There are so many shorebirds tiptoeing around on the sand, and brown pelicans flying through the air…but birds are birds, and they are professionals at seeking out a French fry tossed on the sand just like back home. It’s universal: sea birds have a sixth sense…the French fry sense.

We integrated ourselves into the local Daytona social scene…when we weren’t at Mango’s, we visited our friend Tiki Bill at his Tiki Bar at Perry’s, another hotel on the beach. Tiki Bill is a champion frozen-drink-mixer…it’s fun to watch…like a one-man alcohol-infused, Jimmy Buffett-scored Cirque du Soleil that ends with a perfect pour every time. We explored the Ocean Deck, which is a restaurant and bar on the beach, several small local smoky-aired places where everyone knows everyone, a place called Adobe Gila’s, which would have been much more fun if the place hadn’t been so packed it was impossible to breathe, (and I have never seen a line for the men’s restroom this long in my entire life) but my favorite was a hole-in-the-wall place with a single-stall women’s room called Frank’s Front Row, which featured some well-worn, well-loved pool tables and great local bands. It’s the dive bars that I always seem drawn to. What does this say about me, I wonder? (That I have good taste, of course.)

Nascar is, obviously, a huge deal in Daytona. I have never in my life felt much interest in it, and nobody I know back home is really into it, but that’s not the case down there. All the sports bars down there have Nascar on all the time, cars racing around and around in endless circles, with the arrows pointing to them, naming which driver was in which place in the race. Bets are liberally placed. So I watched a little Nascar and felt a bit closer to the most-watched sport in our country. I got into a conversation with some locals, Wylie and Tiki Bill, about the death of Dale Earnhardt Sr, who raced the black #3 Chevy. They both swore that the clouds formed a giant number 3 in the sky after he died, which they both personally saw. Tiki called the local radio station to report it, but people had already seen it and called in. That’s a bit freaky.

I’ve never really played darts before; my dad had a dartboard set up in the basement for a while and in high school some of my friends and I halfheartedly chucked some darts at it, but this was honestly the first time I ever really played. Sarah and I ended up in a game with our Daytona friends on our last night there. It was an electronic dartboard, complete with flashing lights and beeping noises, and we played a dart game called Cricket in which you aim for the 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, and the bullseye. I wasn’t wearing my glasses or contacts, so before I threw my darts I had to pull the skin at the corner of my eyes tight and squint so I could see which piece of electronic dartboard pie I was aiming for – which looked ridiculous but was necessary. Once I focused on the right piece of pie, I was all right at throwing the darts. It was rollicking good fun.

We all had such a great time in Daytona that we extended our stay three times; what was going to be a four-night stay turned into nearly three weeks – April 21 to May 9.  Bill loved riding his bike there and has logged 2703 miles on his K2 bike with the squishy, deformed black seat. Daytona Beach was like a glorious black hole of fun, and we could have stayed even longer, but we knew we had to end our mini-vacation and move on with our trip. It was time.

There is a place in my heart for Daytona and all of the amazing, hilarious people we met there. There is no question in my mind that I will be going back to visit them, my warm-weather friends who live with a view of the ocean every day of their lives.

-stephanie

Comments

[wylie love]

i enjoyed reading about daytona, really good article thank you for my name in it, and yes mango's rocks a good time to be had by all.