Continued from (click here) St. George Island
Apalachicola Bay is noted for oyster farming. I say “farming” because that is what the oystermen do. Decades ago the oysters in the bay were abundant to no end. The fresh water flowing into the bay from the Apalachicola River reduced the salinity of the bay and created the perfect environment for the shellfish.
When the natural oysters started to be overharvested, the oystermen found that they could actually cultivate the oysters to sustain the harvest. Thus, oyster farming was developed. Today the oyster industry is in danger again from reduced fresh water empting into the Gulf due to the draught in Georgia and other states north of Florida.
Even with the decline in the oyster harvest, Irene and I thought there would be enough left to give us a good sampling. Off we went in search of the best oyster bar we could find. The lady at the park welcome center told us that Eddy Teach’s Raw Bar was the place to go.
Into town to the stop sign, take a right, take another right and follow the winding dirt road for a half mile and you get to Eddy Teach’s.
Sophisticated? – definitely not. High class? – nope. Dress up? – not in the least.
This was more an open air eating and drinking establishment and a great local hang out. Everyone was welcome from hippy bikers with long beards and tattooed bodies to the Snow Bird Tourist carrying her miniature poodle in a fancy beaded tote bag. It was a place to “let it all hang out”.
We were the only ones there at three in the afternoon and we were welcomed by the bartender wearing a Bret Favre jersey. He was a retired transplant from Menomonie Falls WI who enjoyed tending bar and the atmosphere of Eddy Teach’s. He was able to give us lots of tips about the area – sure was more informative than any website travel guide.
The oysters were fresh every day and were prepared in every imaginable way. We tried several different recipes. Bret Favre told us that even though we thought they were great, they got even better later in the season when the water temperature in the bay cooled down more.
Off we went to explore the rest of the island.
A great place to get information is a Mom and Pop dinner. We found one on the main drag that advertised pies as their specialty. That is just what we needed after platters of oysters…. The key lime pie was exceptional and the waitress told us about That Place on 98 – where we could sit on the porch overlooking the bay and have lunch or just a tall glass of iced tea. This sounded great but would have to wait for the next day.
Back at the campsite we enjoyed soup and sandwiches on the picnic table for supper.
I started a fire in the fire ring and as the sun sank slowly into the west, we enjoyed one of the best sunsets I have ever seen. This promised to be the perfect ending for a perfect day.
Off in the distance we heard the hoot of a horned owl. An inquisitive chipmunk joined us momentarily at the campfire looking for crumbs and other tasty morsels.
There is something mystical about a campfire at dusk. As I stared into the flickering fire it was hard to keep my eyes open. The rustling of the breeze in the trees, the sweet smell of the pines, and the quiet loving presence of my soul mate had a hypnotic relaxing effect and transported me into another dimension. A perfect dimension of complete relaxation - with no cares no worries, no schedule to keep.
This was truly “Life in the slow lane……”
The next morning was cloudy and it looked like we could get some rain. This would be a perfect day for exploring Eastpoint and lunch at “That Place on 98”.
Off we went over the 5 mile bridge into town. We found a couple of antique shops that had some fascinating nautical artifacts. I reminded Irene that this was “Lookey….Lookey….. but do not buy” since we were at critical mass with the motor home storage.
A couple of blocks down was Highway 98. The waitress had told us to take a right on 98 and go down a couple of miles. “Watch carefully” she said, “or you will go right past it”.
Sure enough, we would have missed it. “That Place on 98” looked like a modest private home on the waterfront. No roadside advertising and just a small discrete sign above the door. There was parking for 3 or 4 cars in front of the home; a half dozen around the side, and the rest of the parking was in the grass on the other side of Highway 98.
We parked in the grass and strolled across the highway. This was a lazy highway with almost no traffic that wound its way through the lazy little town.
The restaurant was every bit as wonderful as the waitress described. We were ushered out to the bayside porch for the best seat in the house. The restaurant was perched on the hillside, perhaps 30 or 40 feet above high tide. This provided some protection from a storm surge from a hurricane, and it also provided an exquisite view.
The crab cakes were out of this world, as was the house specialty, Coconut Cream Pie. We sat on the porch high above the water and enjoyed our lunch as we watched the oyster boats in the bay.
Not more than a couple of hundred feet east of the restaurant was a fish house where the oystermen were unloading gunny sacks of freshly harvested oysters from their boats. I could see they had a retail shop so, of course, that would be the next stop.
There are some things that give you a real good feeling. Walking up to the fish house, I got one of those real good feelings when the door opened and we were invited in by the owner himself. His hospitality was equal to visiting Mom and Dad for Thanksgiving and ,for a moment I wondered if he mistook us for a friend or relative of his. He was thin, wrinkled and weather-beaten and viewed the world through thick glasses that needed a good cleaning. Although it was quite warm that afternoon, his clothing was layered; a colored T shirt, then a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, and lastly a green and black plaid flannel shirt. Yes indeed, he was ready for anything.
He was in no hurry to sell us anything and it seemed he enjoyed our company more than the thought of making a sale. He leisurely showed us his selection of fresh fish, smoked fish, and fresh oysters, all the while telling us about the history of the fish house which had been in his family for over 5 generations. He told us of the glory days of oyster harvesting when the bay supplied most of the oysters for the Gulf States. He had a sad look in his eyes when he described the present condition of the bay and the decline in the oyster population.
I selected some smoked mullet and told him that we also wanted some oysters to take back to camp with us. At that he called for his assistant who appeared like a genie from the back room.
Here was another colorful character. He wore a grey vest - no shirt. A baseball cap shaded his face but did nothing to hide the twinkle in his eyes. His full graying beard gave him the appearance of everybody’s favorite great uncle.
He was an oysterman and a fisherman. He had personally caught the mullet for smoking and it gave him great satisfaction to see his catch in my check out basket. We told him we wanted some oysters to take back to camp for dinner.
When we mentioned that we were camped on St George Island he got all excited. “That’s where I lost my teeth last year!” he exclaimed.
“Do you know where the old fishing boat is pulled up on shore for a historical marker?” he asked. We did indeed know the spot since we had taken pictures of it the day before.
“Well, last summer – in fact it was the 4th of July – I remember because the boss finally gave me a day off – quite a task master, he is.”
“I took my fishing rod over there to do a little surf fishing. In a couple of hours I had a nice catch and was ready to go home, have a cold one, and clean my fish.”
“I started up to the road to my truck and as I was walking past the old fishing boat, a bear came out of the woods and started coming right at me. I shouted at the beast but he was intent on my fish. The bear was only about 50 feet away when he started at a dead run right at me.”
“Let me tell you kids”, he whispered with eyes as big as saucers, remembering the terrifying attack.
Apalachicola Bay is noted for oyster farming. I say “farming” because that is what the oystermen do. Decades ago the oysters in the bay were abundant to no end. The fresh water flowing into the bay from the Apalachicola River reduced the salinity of the bay and created the perfect environment for the shellfish.
When the natural oysters started to be overharvested, the oystermen found that they could actually cultivate the oysters to sustain the harvest. Thus, oyster farming was developed. Today the oyster industry is in danger again from reduced fresh water empting into the Gulf due to the draught in Georgia and other states north of Florida.
Even with the decline in the oyster harvest, Irene and I thought there would be enough left to give us a good sampling. Off we went in search of the best oyster bar we could find. The lady at the park welcome center told us that Eddy Teach’s Raw Bar was the place to go.
Into town to the stop sign, take a right, take another right and follow the winding dirt road for a half mile and you get to Eddy Teach’s.Sophisticated? – definitely not. High class? – nope. Dress up? – not in the least.
This was more an open air eating and drinking establishment and a great local hang out. Everyone was welcome from hippy bikers with long beards and tattooed bodies to the Snow Bird Tourist carrying her miniature poodle in a fancy beaded tote bag. It was a place to “let it all hang out”.
We were the only ones there at three in the afternoon and we were welcomed by the bartender wearing a Bret Favre jersey. He was a retired transplant from Menomonie Falls WI who enjoyed tending bar and the atmosphere of Eddy Teach’s. He was able to give us lots of tips about the area – sure was more informative than any website travel guide.
The oysters were fresh every day and were prepared in every imaginable way. We tried several different recipes. Bret Favre told us that even though we thought they were great, they got even better later in the season when the water temperature in the bay cooled down more.
Off we went to explore the rest of the island.
A great place to get information is a Mom and Pop dinner. We found one on the main drag that advertised pies as their specialty. That is just what we needed after platters of oysters…. The key lime pie was exceptional and the waitress told us about That Place on 98 – where we could sit on the porch overlooking the bay and have lunch or just a tall glass of iced tea. This sounded great but would have to wait for the next day.
Back at the campsite we enjoyed soup and sandwiches on the picnic table for supper.
I started a fire in the fire ring and as the sun sank slowly into the west, we enjoyed one of the best sunsets I have ever seen. This promised to be the perfect ending for a perfect day.
Off in the distance we heard the hoot of a horned owl. An inquisitive chipmunk joined us momentarily at the campfire looking for crumbs and other tasty morsels.
There is something mystical about a campfire at dusk. As I stared into the flickering fire it was hard to keep my eyes open. The rustling of the breeze in the trees, the sweet smell of the pines, and the quiet loving presence of my soul mate had a hypnotic relaxing effect and transported me into another dimension. A perfect dimension of complete relaxation - with no cares no worries, no schedule to keep.
This was truly “Life in the slow lane……”
The next morning was cloudy and it looked like we could get some rain. This would be a perfect day for exploring Eastpoint and lunch at “That Place on 98”.
Off we went over the 5 mile bridge into town. We found a couple of antique shops that had some fascinating nautical artifacts. I reminded Irene that this was “Lookey….Lookey….. but do not buy” since we were at critical mass with the motor home storage.
A couple of blocks down was Highway 98. The waitress had told us to take a right on 98 and go down a couple of miles. “Watch carefully” she said, “or you will go right past it”.
Sure enough, we would have missed it. “That Place on 98” looked like a modest private home on the waterfront. No roadside advertising and just a small discrete sign above the door. There was parking for 3 or 4 cars in front of the home; a half dozen around the side, and the rest of the parking was in the grass on the other side of Highway 98.
We parked in the grass and strolled across the highway. This was a lazy highway with almost no traffic that wound its way through the lazy little town.
The restaurant was every bit as wonderful as the waitress described. We were ushered out to the bayside porch for the best seat in the house. The restaurant was perched on the hillside, perhaps 30 or 40 feet above high tide. This provided some protection from a storm surge from a hurricane, and it also provided an exquisite view.
The crab cakes were out of this world, as was the house specialty, Coconut Cream Pie. We sat on the porch high above the water and enjoyed our lunch as we watched the oyster boats in the bay.
Not more than a couple of hundred feet east of the restaurant was a fish house where the oystermen were unloading gunny sacks of freshly harvested oysters from their boats. I could see they had a retail shop so, of course, that would be the next stop.
There are some things that give you a real good feeling. Walking up to the fish house, I got one of those real good feelings when the door opened and we were invited in by the owner himself. His hospitality was equal to visiting Mom and Dad for Thanksgiving and ,for a moment I wondered if he mistook us for a friend or relative of his. He was thin, wrinkled and weather-beaten and viewed the world through thick glasses that needed a good cleaning. Although it was quite warm that afternoon, his clothing was layered; a colored T shirt, then a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, and lastly a green and black plaid flannel shirt. Yes indeed, he was ready for anything.He was in no hurry to sell us anything and it seemed he enjoyed our company more than the thought of making a sale. He leisurely showed us his selection of fresh fish, smoked fish, and fresh oysters, all the while telling us about the history of the fish house which had been in his family for over 5 generations. He told us of the glory days of oyster harvesting when the bay supplied most of the oysters for the Gulf States. He had a sad look in his eyes when he described the present condition of the bay and the decline in the oyster population.
I selected some smoked mullet and told him that we also wanted some oysters to take back to camp with us. At that he called for his assistant who appeared like a genie from the back room.
Here was another colorful character. He wore a grey vest - no shirt. A baseball cap shaded his face but did nothing to hide the twinkle in his eyes. His full graying beard gave him the appearance of everybody’s favorite great uncle.
He was an oysterman and a fisherman. He had personally caught the mullet for smoking and it gave him great satisfaction to see his catch in my check out basket. We told him we wanted some oysters to take back to camp for dinner.
When we mentioned that we were camped on St George Island he got all excited. “That’s where I lost my teeth last year!” he exclaimed.
“Do you know where the old fishing boat is pulled up on shore for a historical marker?” he asked. We did indeed know the spot since we had taken pictures of it the day before.
“Well, last summer – in fact it was the 4th of July – I remember because the boss finally gave me a day off – quite a task master, he is.”
“I took my fishing rod over there to do a little surf fishing. In a couple of hours I had a nice catch and was ready to go home, have a cold one, and clean my fish.”
“I started up to the road to my truck and as I was walking past the old fishing boat, a bear came out of the woods and started coming right at me. I shouted at the beast but he was intent on my fish. The bear was only about 50 feet away when he started at a dead run right at me.”
“Let me tell you kids”, he whispered with eyes as big as saucers, remembering the terrifying attack.
“I was not going to argue with the bear. I dropped my fish hoping he would stop his attach. When I turned to run to the truck I tripped over a tree root. There I was face down in the sand with a hungry bear right behind me. When I fell, my uppers went flying and I was not about to look for them. I got back to the truck with my life, leaving behind my fishing rod, my teeth, and every bit of my pride.”
“The next day I went back and found my fishing pole but not my teeth. These new ones never did fit good,” he said clicking his dentures for emphasis.
After hearing that, we assured him that we would watch for bears and would be careful not to leave any food out at night that might attract animals.
He seemed glad to know that he may have saved us from a bear attack, perhaps even saved our lives, and he went to work sorting our oysters.
“You should probably have a half bushel for a nice dinner. I will make sure you get our best.”
“The females are the best for steaming.” he commented.
“How can you tell the females from the males?” I asked.
Without hesitation he quipped, “Well, they’re the ones that get all gussied up with lipstick and eye shadow.”
Boy…. did I step into that one……
On the way back to camp I stopped at the gate to ask the attendant about the bears. She looked at me in a puzzled sort of way, “There are no bears on the island. Never have been.” she said as she rolled her eyes.
Wow…… What a story……He was surely a master of tall tales and I believed every word he uttered.
I love to go back and look at the pictures and remember the day we shared the lives and stories of a couple of wonderful old men. Two wonderful old men who had indeed mastered “Life in the slow lane…….”
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