On occasion, Navy jets flying maneuvers southeast off Mayport, 50 miles out or so, would hot-stick their heading to Cecil Field, which brought them directly over PV just south of the Club. Consternation would ensue, and I’m sure the commanding officer of the station there was famous for his courteous and appropriately worded responses to the letters that invariably ended up on his desk addressed to him personally.
If you were a kid, however, fortunate enough to be on the beach when these events broke the horizon, you were thrilled beyond measure by the encounter, especially when there was a lingering smell of jet fuel exhaust in the air. We’d never know when it was about to happen, and trying to predict it was fruitless, but when it occurred, we could hear the sound approaching from offshore only a few seconds before seeing the metal directly overhead at an altitude so low that details of the fuselage were recognizable.
Only a few milliseconds later, its wake screamed over us with the roaring warm exhaust plume finding us as we instinctively dropped to our knees with our arms covering our heads. Almost immediately it was over, but the exhilaration of those airbursts in 1971 would last for days.
The USS Saratoga (CV-60) was shaking off her cold iron and had flashed her magic sword before returning to Mayport for a period of restricted availability and local operations. She was Poseidon’s trident and crown, the unconquerable gladiator rooster, “Invictus Gallus Gladiator,” a premiere warship adopted in spirit by the PV Navy dependents because of her close proximity and home port. Seeing her profile from the beach as she turned south 10 miles out was always a memorable experience.
Very little said “Ponte Vedra Beach” in those days like navy blue, bright sunrise yellow, clay-court olive, ocean aqua, lifeguard red and any number of fairway greens. Blue blazers were required after 6 p.m., and the Blue Jacket’s Manual provided clues to the etiquette and manners for young Ponte Vedrans. Boys were expected to emulate officers and be young gentlemen. It was bearing.
Members and guests who exhibited these tendencies revealed a certain deep blue character that set them apart from the casual beachcombers. The unmistakable gait of naval experience signaled rank. When seeing a figure with these qualities standing alone on the beach looking out at the horizon, we’d know by their stature that this was a titan.
The Surf Club acted as the de facto community center for the youth of PV, with Christ Church filling in the gaps with youth nights that brought everyone together for games, movies and activities. But it was the Club that developed and promoted most youth programs and directed youth activities, co-mingling year-round resident members with visiting members and guests.
Weekly activities were posted on the bulletin boards in the lobby of the Surf Club, the Inn and the post office. The Club offered four very distinct variations on the one Ponte Vedra experience: the Surf Club, the Racquet Club, the Golf Club and the Inn itself.
The Surf Club was the most casual of the four, permitting dining in bathing suits and towels at the tables on the patio under the blue-and-white umbrellas. There was a dress code for dining inside, which meant for the boys: shoes (no sneakers), pants with a belt and shirts with a collar.
The Racquet Club was all-white attire only: shirts, shorts or pants for men, skirts for women, white socks, and tennis shoes. Tennis shoes were different from sneakers. The courts were clay, and guests could find everything they needed in the shop there.
The Golf Club had similar rules and customs, and small signs around that shop announced “no spikes” next to a bench where members and guests would change shoes to enter. Like the Racquet Shop and the Surf Shop, everything a member or guest could possibly want or need to enjoy any of the amenities was available. There was no currency, no cash, no credit cards accepted. It was all a four-digit number and a signature. Ours was 4747. Account slips would be settled by mail each month, and it was then we’d hear our father’s voice from the sunporch after he had stopped by our P.O. box and picked up the mail: “BOYS!” We knew by his tone that the statement had arrived.
The Surf Club Snack Bar was a favorite of ours, and we paid the price for that indulgence with extra chores as a lesson on responsible use of our family membership. Fourteen milkshakes and 11 cherry Cokes in any given month was far too many.
The Inn was the community’s flagship. Built with heavy Ortega pine, Palatka cypress and large thick Gamble and Stockton bricks mined from the pit that created San Marco Lake, dug to help rebuild Jacksonville after the great fire of 1901, the bricks had been surplused after the building of San Marco, where Ivan Smith, founding partner of Reynolds, Smith and Hills, designed The Little Theater, funded by the Swishers in 1927, that opened in 1938 with a production of “Boy Meets Girl.”
PV proper continued the San Marco experience out at the beach and helped contribute to Flagler’s dream for the coast. In 1971, much of that distinctive San Marco originality could still be seen applied in the architecture and construction along the Boulevard and Lagoons, with the Inn being the showboat. Entering the front doors past the bellmen and the head doorman for the first time alone as a young boy was a type of initiation in its own right.
It was easy to be swept in nearly unnoticed at our parents’ side or in a group to watch the film “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” projected on a screen in the ballroom while in our pajamas at an evening youth activity. But entering alone during the day at a young age was another thing entirely. The doorman was kind, always respectful, but tough that very first time. “No jeans.”
Attempt number one thwarted. The next day, dressed more appropriately, I was met with, “You have to have a belt.” He knew exactly what he was doing. So, I rode my bike home, put on a belt and rode the mile and a quarter back up the Boulevard. This time, I was met with, “Your shirt needs a collar.” By the fourth attempt on day three, I was beginning to understand the message. I returned on my bike dressed in dark corduroys, a black belt, black shoes, black socks, a dark blue shirt with a collar over a white T-shirt.
I dropped my bike on the ground next to the bike rack and walked up to the front door, where the bellman pulled the brass smoothly and deliberately, and a few steps in, I found myself looking up at the head doorman standing between me and the lobby.
“Your hair needs combing,” he said. That was it.
I don’t know where they came from, but the words just came out: “Is Mr. Harrison here?” The doorman looked at me for a moment, smiled and said, “Yes, he is. Sit here, and I’ll see if he’s available.”
He gestured for me to take a seat on a bench next to the bellstand at the foot of the red carpet steps. He disappeared into the lobby. As I sat, I did my best to straighten my hair with my hands, thinking to myself with dread that this was not going to end well.
A few minutes later, which seemed like a very, very long time to me, the doorman returned and said, “All right, Mr. McIntyre, Mr. Harrison will see you now.”
He knew my name? Muriel Harrison was the Club president and a scout leader of Boy Scout Troop 277. He was standing at the door to the Inn Shop, which wrapped around and cut through to the upper back hall where he had his office.
“Hi, Kevin,” he said. “You wanted to see me?” I just started talking. “I was wondering if I could look around?” These were the only words that came out in the moment. “Sure. You’re welcome to,” he said. “The shop is right here, nobody is in the ballroom, and the lounge is closed, but feel free to look around. How’s your mom and dad?”
There was tradition at play that afternoon, and the doorman amplified it for me, ensuring my visit was memorable. There is only one first time that a person ever gets to discover something on their own before familiarity sets in.
This was the gift the doorman had given me. Passing the front desk, I looked over, and he nodded to me with a smile as he held his hands together comfortably behind his red coat. The Inn exuded history. Backgammon tables were against the west wall, chess tables between the windows on the front, with couches, chairs and side tables throughout. Lamps and ceiling lights were all turned on. No one was around. Back to the left was the passageway to the lounge with its large mural behind the bar and adjacent to the card room with its green velvet tables and comfortable leather chairs. Playing cards would need to be signed for, and that incurred charges, but sitting in the chairs in this comfortable room that smelled like pipe tobacco was permitted. The L-shaped ballroom was in the northwest corner of the building. It could be turned into two rooms by pulling out a folding vinyl accordion divider. The large windows looked out over the lagoon and the island green, and floor-to-ceiling curtains stood open to let the light in. Beyond the ballroom was the kitchen’s corridor and staff entrance. Beyond that was the north door that put me out near Pablo and the back-of-house near the old staff quarters, where the caddy house had been moved to be near the original locker rooms that had been repurposed for maintenance.
Later, these quarters would be where the Club, the Diocese of St. Augustine and Our Lady Star of the Sea Catholic Church would all partner to lodge the six South Vietnamese sailors and the one diplomat rescued by our Navy from their patrol boat after they headed out to sea when learning of the fall of Saigon. They had been instructed by a voice on their radio to return to port but voted amongst themselves and decided to head east instead.
Back around front, I remember finding my bike not on the ground where I had left it but properly supported and standing in the bike rack that was there for that purpose. Everything at the Club had a purpose.
Even the banana bread recipe at the Surf Club had a purpose. It was served on china plates as the perfect antidote to winter chill and was a Club favorite in 1971. The recipe came from the 1965 edition of The Junior Woman’s Club of Jacksonville’s recipe book, “Ladies Put Your Kettle On,” page 121: “Cream: one stick butter with one cup sugar. Add: 2 eggs and beat. Add: 1 ½ cups of flour, 1 tsp soda and ¼ tsp salt. Mix well and fold in 3 ripe bananas that have been mashed well with fork. Add: ½ cup chopped nuts. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour (less in a glass dish, about 35 minutes).”
This was Dotty Risley’s recipe that had been adapted for larger batches by the chef as a winter treat served warm at the Surf Club, topped with a pat of butter as a companion to a cup of hot chocolate for kids or coffee or tea for adults in this place of all places, Ponte Vedra Beach.
