North was up the beach. South was down the beach. Jacksonville was over that way, and St. Augustine was down a ways. This was just about all a kid growing up in Ponte Vedra Beach in the early ’70s needed to know about direction. Our compass was calibrated by the design set in the terrazzo floor at the Surf Club where our view of the world was as unique as any Saul Steinberg drawing, and contained as much character and style as any resort community along A1A from Maine to Key West.
This was PV and the shock of the new was beginning to rattle our experiences, giving us a view inland from the very edge of it all. News was something that happened in other places and was reported on by the Times-Union. Our current affairs and dedicated community spirit were chronicled in the Ponte Vedra Recorder, which kept the lamps lit on all the need-to-know bulletins for locals and visitors, courtesy of Peg Bradford. As young readers, our focus was on the day to day, the seemingly mundane, the very things visitors from other places came to PV to experience: hospitality, generosity and the familiar etiquette of leisure.
All three were a big part of our daily lives. But when visitors began expressing too enthusiastically their love of what they found in PV, bringing ideas too big to manage in more than one sitting, some of the older adults would casually steer the conversation to “If you like it here, you will love it in Palm Beach.” From Rutile Drive west along Corona Road, there were no houses out to the bypass. We could see the lights at Roy, Jr.’s house from our back porch on the lagoon side of the Boulevard. Some of the roads in between had been paved and lots were marked off with wooden stakes that had hand-lettered survey coordinates rendered on each. Le Master Drive south of Poinciana Way was still dirt and gravel with a cable stretched across there, and at Corona Road, preventing passage. Granada Terrace, Lake Road and Lake Terrace were paved, but the lots themselves were not yet graded. There were still large piles of tailings looming like mini sand dunes around the island. Fossil hunting was very good around these dry sand piles.
The idea that there was an island in PV, beyond the famous green, was a novelty. Alligators were very common in the lagoons then, and their presence was even encouraged to keep the growing gar population in check. The alligators would enter from the south, either over and across Corona Road or crawling as juveniles through the culverts east of the treatment plant. Seeing alligators sunning on various banks was common. One big one, a particularly large old bull, had been nicknamed Alex, and residents knew him by his nose-to-tail profile as he patrolled the south lagoons, cruising the center of the water regularly. When we would see him sunning, he was every bit as big as any of the whoopers at the Alligator Farm down a ways on Anastasia Island. Sometimes at night, we could hear a loud bellow above the crickets and tree frogs, and we knew it was him, somewhere over by the darkened island. He was estimated to be a 10-footer or more by John Veal.
Exploring near the lagoons always demanded caution and vigilance. We couldn’t just run around PV. We needed to be aware of our surroundings. Sunbathing cottonmouths were always present, and the rule was to scare them before they scared us. A stem snapped from a dry palm frond made the perfect sword for noisemaking as we struck the tall grass ahead of us to announce our presence to any snake nearby.
The alligators, on the other hand, were attracted to the activity and sound we were making. We would see one out in the water and know it was watching us. Its head would disappear beneath the surface and then reappear several yards to the left or to the right, but always a few feet closer. It would repeat this pattern back and forth, and when its head would finally turn and we would see both eyes, that was when we were absolutely sure we were the prey. We would retreat to the tops of the tailing piles and watch as the reptile, now confused with the lack of activity and sound, would turn and move down the lagoon and eventually out of sight. Exploring PV took time and patience.
One of our favorite places to investigate regularly was under the bridge on Rutile Drive. This was the old bridge, made of creosoted timbers and pine-pole pilings. In the ’70s, there was plenty of room along the lagoon banks underneath, and it was where we found alligator claw prints in the mud almost every time. In the shadow of the bridge, we could see snapping turtles and small gar. Both were equally unattractive and prehistoric. To us, these were the real creatures from the black lagoon. And since the question of how deep the lagoons were at that end of PV was never really answered to our satisfaction by any adults we asked, that in itself was enough to keep us away from these water-filled bottomless pits. But still, coming up on a snake stretched out on the road while riding our bikes did happen. And seeing Alex burst at full speed across a vacant lot towards the lagoon, after Mrs. Mickler had stopped our school bus for a teachable moment, blowing the horn enough times to get him moving, uprooted our complacency in his abilities. Respect was due this relic that could run 30 miles an hour or more in short bursts. That was faster than a 10-year-old kid could run. We paid attention. Things were accelerating in PV.
In the early ’70s, a series of automobile accidents and very close calls with pedestrians at Solana Road and the Boulevard began to prompt discussions about the increasing traffic along this old stretch of original A1A. Some wanted to make Ponte Vedra a gated community, from Duval Drive south to Corona Road. Some felt there was no need to have any traffic coming north from Mickler’s Landing up past the Club. Instead, the proposal was to have cars turn on Corona Road, then over to the A1A bypass and continue around that way to Jax Beach. J. Turner Butler Boulevard was still only a concept and was years away from construction. The only way out to the Beach from Jacksonville then, was Beach Boulevard or Atlantic Boulevard, or down U.S. 1 and across the Palm Valley bridge. Many evenings, Roy Landrum could be seen setting up smudge pots at the corner of Corona and the Boulevard. These small metal spheres about the size of bowling balls were filled with kerosene. They fueled the thick wicks that he would light after dark, and they would flicker all night at the intersection to remind drivers coming north that this was their turn to get over to the bypass. This was the very dark end of the beach at night. No streetlights in sight, the glowing smudge pots were nicknamed, “stink pots,” with the smoke and the distinct smell of kerosene against the backdrop of the abandoned Innlet made an ominous sight for any motorist slowing to make the turn. This was the night watch. Mr. Landrum would park his green St. Johns County Deputy Sheriff's sedan along the roadside there by the Innlet. The scene gave the impression that whatever it was outside the perimeter, that required a perimeter to be there in the first place, needed to stay outside the perimeter. Whatever that something was, it had no business being in PV after dark.
This, of course, was all only a cordial recommendation for drivers coming north. There was nothing to say they couldn’t continue up the Boulevard, past the Club and Duval Drive and into Jax Beach. It just meant that if it was after dark, cars would often be followed by security just to make sure they got through PV safely. It made little sense to have anyone wandering around PV at night simply because they made a wrong turn here or there.
Daytime traffic heading south along the Boulevard was a different matter. It was not uncommon for cars to begin to accelerate on the Boulevard after Solana Road and be travelling near 50 mph or so as they reached Corona. Beyond the Innlet was a straight shot to Mickler’s Landing and then down a ways to Vilano Beach. It was 55 mph on this stretch, which meant cars would easily reach 65, 70 or more without realizing it. Speeding on the Boulevard was a real problem.
There were no sidewalks anywhere in Ponte Vedra in the early ’70s, except around the Club and maybe a few areas around the Golf Course crossings and around Christ Church. For a young Ponte Vedran, riding a bike on the Boulevard was daring, but not impossible. As isolated of a community as we were, there were still distinct traffic patterns, and the most direct route on a bike from our end to the Club, was straight up the Boulevard.
But the safest route was Corona to Rutile Drive to Solana. Then left to Christ Church, and right on San Juan to Miranda, then right, up to the Boulevard, putting us out near The Store across from the Surf Club. There were bike racks there. Bikes were the mode of transportation for anyone our age. Riding on the beach was generally discouraged but tolerated. The sand wreaked havoc with the chain and required a greater level of general maintenance overall.
But more than that, it was the inevitable calls to our parents about the circles and skids in the sand that disrupted the beachcombing experience for others. This meant compromise, and we were reminded of longstanding community standards and beach etiquette. We were asked to only ride on the beach at low tide and stay as close to the water as possible so the rising tide would cover our tracks. No circles, no skids, no wobbling lines; just up the beach and back. This made riding on the roads in PV that much more appealing.
During the winter months, there were probably only about 14 or so other kids our general age whose families lived full time in PV. It was rare to see winter guests with kids because of school schedules. Families with kids wouldn't begin arriving until May and they would stay through late August. The Club Youth Group would do its best with youth activities during the winter months, and this included co-sponsoring the annual bike safety rally in partnership with the Ponte Vedra Community Association. We'd gather at the end of Granada Terrace before there were any houses, and the youth director would do his best to teach bike etiquette, PV style. It quickly became a chance to challenge other riders to races, and trying to complete the obstacle course without disturbing any of the tennis balls that had been set out in unique patterns on the road.
Early mid-winter seemed to start in February. The Olympic pool was generally too cold for swimming, the ocean was too cold and the heated adult pool was off limits. The tennis courts were cold, and the golf course was windy for these few months. But all of this was nothing compared to the weather the north was experiencing and visitors from that climate were thankful for the warm respite that made PV the year-round resort it was always intended to be. All eyes were focused on spring. For many retreating in Ponte Vedra Beach, the source of renewal came not from the absence of work or responsibilities, but from an understanding of the necessity of leisure in its purest form, as a basis of culture. Josef Pieper famously wrote in his 1940s essays that true leisure is a stillness, an absolute essential for culture. It isn’t simply free time or rest, those are merely for the sake of work. Leisure is something else entirely. It is a state of being that stands in “perpendicular” opposition to work, not as a means to refresh for more work, but as an end in itself.
This definition has always driven the dedicated community spirit of PV since the very beginning. It transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary, and it has done so, now, for nearly a century in this smartly casual place of all places, Ponte Vedra Beach. No compass needed.
