Fifty years later, it is still connected to Anna Maria Island

The other day I packed onto the beach, hoping to jump on a holiday weekend. Without thinking, I threw a yellowed copy of John Mortimer’s “Baile of the Bailey of the Bailey.” Like we’ve done it over the years — no, we’ve made those decades to liven up the Jeep for a drive to Anna Maria Island.

I don’t remember our first visit to the southern island of Tampa Bay in Manatee County. Like many Tampa families at the dawn of the 1970s, we spent two weeks at Indian Rocks Beach every summer. It’s nearby, cheap, the cabin has a pool and your friends stayed on you or the street. The pizza joint was delivered.

A few years later I switched to Anna Maria. Another nurse on her mother’s floor at Tampa General Hospital owned a duplex there. Surrey’s location was nothing special. A single story, a cinder block tank with two small bedrooms, one bathroom and a couple pull-out sofa in the living room. The curtains covered the window, but after misunderstanding the size, Sally sewed two completely different patterns together. That wasn’t important. This was our place. The kitchen was spacious, the terrazzo floors were cold, and the cabinet had puzzles, perxies and poker chips. There was an external shower and a screen in pouch, and the most frightening boiler you’ve ever plugged in.

The island was quiet. The only groceries are IGA, which is dark and sloppy, suitable for old breads and melted ice cream. Most businesses in town sold tomatoes that were tracked down from Ruskin, so the stove always had a pot of spaghetti. I defeated the basics, including powdered donuts, frozen burger pate, pix ginger ale, and lasagna trays. If Grandpa wanted a six pack, he jumped into the Voltel.

At the time, Anna Maria had nothing much to do, but she hadn’t realised it at the time. My mother and girl dug their feet into the sand at the bean spot. Every morning at 7am my brother and I ran to the rod and reel pier. There, Frank Cavendish unlocked the gate by pushing the meat head, a white T-shirt and a black revolver into the belt. My father was also standing on the pier. Every year, wet the lines from the morning to the night, raining and glowing. I’ve never caught things.

One night we went out for dinner. We went to Bradenton Beach, where popcorn shrimp was usually poured. My parents also skipped to Pete Raynard’s dressy meal. But nothing beats a crashing trip to the south of the city pier. We walked about 30 yards at low tide. I towed my raft basket, reached into the foaming hole, and scooped the clams out of the sand. I cleaned and washed the meat, Grandma slapped the grinder she brought from the house on the counter, and my mother fryed the sweetest and saltiest goat you’ve ever had.

Over time, as with everything, my faces, routines and landscapes changed. Children become adults, and they have their own children. Famous Tampa Sportscaster Salty Solfreishman taught me, 10, how to fish for family reunions and pre-wedding drinks became the place for the garlic house fries. Today, Anna Maria has more bridal parties than anyone who has a fishing rod. Publix moved to everyone’s relief years ago. But McMansions is taking over. The same goes for golf carts. There is a nail salon in the marina. On October 9th, Hurricane Milton swept a rod and reel built in 1947 into the sea.

Anna Maria has an old Florida vibe that’s not packed yet. Killing a day on Pine Avenue, the island’s past is alive. These July 4th weekends look like yesterday. Grill under the coconut oil musk, cook hot dogs and clams, sparking sparks and stepping barefoot. Our traditions have changed, but as our experiences expand, our connections become deeper. That’s probably why my family has returned for half a century, even if we were growing, aging and diverging throughout America.

I drove to the island a few months ago against the usual conga traffic line heading east. Those cars were packed with visitors who checked out on Saturday mornings. At the top of the bridge, a blue Toyota suddenly slowed down, and from every window, his arm and hand were shot. Children and adults were bidding farewell at unforgettable times. It’s just a guess, but it could be the beginning of a connection with another family.