THE WORLD'S MOST
FAMOUS BEACH

One seldom finds such a close relationship between wholesome family goodness and drunken debauchery as can be viewed from the Daytona Beach boardwalk. Whether you are a young, innocent toddler or a sex-starved spring break reveler, nothing quite builds memories as the Daytona Beach experience.

Looking out over the 23-mile stretch of sparkling white sand, blue water and tanned bodies, you can see the children frolicking through the surf. Their faces beam with innocent smiles and their squeals and laughter echo against the deep whoosh of the waves crashing upon the shore. They dig at the wet sand with bright plastic shovels as if breaking ground for a monumental construction. Nearby, a new bestest friend lets a soupy concoction of saltwater and mud ooze from his fist, drizzling down to form a castle spire. They are alive with dreams of grand courts in magical kingdoms.

Just up the beach, young adolescent boys in soggy, baggy shorts sprint across the sand, chasing footballs and Frisbees and young adolescent girls. Freckled faces and wind blown hair blur against the backdrop of the ocean as they compete to be noticed by any one of the young girls who sit blushing and giggling and pretend not to be watching.

In this beautiful and solemn landscape you could not imagine why there is chaos in the world. You are simply drawn into this scene, which plucks at our heartstrings, with such wholesome exuberance as if it had sprung forth from a Norman Rockwell painting. Thoughts of down-home goodness and American virtues seem immalleable.

Except for the 100,000 screaming spring breakers at the band shell.

The writhing mass of thousands upon thousands of drunken (and otherwise afflicted) college students are screaming, singing, sweating and swaying to the rhythmic beats of the pop band du jour. They hail from the north, south, east, west, and all points in between, and have converged upon the city and it’s glorious beach in their annual pilgrimage and quest for mischievous days and lascivious nights.

They do not worship the sun. They worship the keg, the thong, the bottomless beer mug and the topless sorority babe. They are loud, yet incoherent. They are all 100% sure that they are going to get laid by the girl or guy of their choosing. They are also 150% sure that if they bare their naked bodies to the world, their moms will never know. They are the MTV2 generation. They are the future leaders of the world. We may never recover.

It's the party to end all parties. It's Mardis Gras in the sun on the beach dubbed by many as "Playtona." It lasts a week or two at most for the masses, but for the locals it runs for three months. For an entire season, the scent of seabreeze in the air is temporarily overwhelmed by testosterone and cheap beer.

“Playtona”

The beer continues to flow as the transition from designer thongs to the more conservative, and sometimes more creative, cut-off blue jean shorts makes it’s way over the horizon. Short, clever lounge chairs are replaced by the tailgates of pickup trucks as grass roots American families reclaim the shoreline.

The screaming of students and rhythmic music are merely a memory as the cheering of fans and the roar of engines erupts from the speedway. The deafening crackling and throaty emanations of new day chariots guided by modern heroes reverberates through the city, and testosterone gives way to adrenaline as even the locals feel their feet grow heavier on the accelerator.

The tension mounts as the high-octane gladiators parry for position in decal-clad armor. Ever faster, they streak around the interior of the concrete coliseum, in pursuit of a flag and honor. Ominous white clouds of smoke billow upward as they careen out of control. Shrieks and sparks and the gnashing of metal upon metal bring gasps to the wide-eyed crowd. In the end, a lone hero spins triumphantly upon the meticulously manicured field, having bested his comrades and rivals.

As the fans depart the speedway and the city, they daydream of unbridled horsepower and endless open roads on which to burn fuel and rubber; their Pavlovian reactions to the taste and smell of high-speed pandemonium. They come back to the their senses only as they realize that they are in bumper to bumper traffic, and that noone outside of the speedway has moved more than a few feet in the last hour.

No sooner does the seabreeze swoop in to diffuse the carbon monoxide steeped air, than you hear a thunderous rumbling in the distance and feel the earth shudder beneath your feet. But this isn't California; this quaking isn't even subterranean. The clouds of dust rising on the horizon and the frightful clamor rolling toward you is not a storm or natural disaster. It is the tempest of 100,000 fanatical cyclists descending upon the Harley holyland, their motorcycle Mecca.

For the next two weeks, the scent of leather fills the air and the sounds of perpetual thunder resound through every corner of the city and echo off of the waves as they tumble to shore.

The big burly bikers of old, have been replaced by successful businessmen, attorneys, cops and engineers. Middle aged men with brand new leather jackets, token wives, girlfriends or just the same "old lady" scoot about the city and it's beach, soaking up the sun, the beer, and enjoying the fruits of their success and the sights and sounds of a biker's paradise. Pride in a workhorse machine has transformed into pride in an American icon, it's emblem displayed, flaunted in virtually every available inch.

Glorious historical hole-in-the-wall biker bars such as the Rat Hole, Boot Hill Saloon, Iron horse Saloon, and the Shark fill to beyond the brim during the one time of the year visitors outnumber their regulars 100 to 1. The myriad of shows, displays, games and events culminate in one enormous parade of beautifully painted, chromed horses of iron that stretches for miles as they make their way from the city and disperse back to all corners of the globe. Already they are planning for next year's event.

As the sun slowly sets, your eyes are drawn to two figures walking hand in hand along the shore. He's slender and tanned, white-haired with wise eyes, wearing almost too colorful a shirt, and walking a bit more gingerly than he once did. She's a tad shorter than she once was. Her long silver locks lick wildly in the breeze at her conservative oversized hat, and you can still make out the sparkle in her eyes as she looks up at him and he grasps her frail hand gently in his.

“Calming or Hectic, Romantic or salacious, but always Forgiving”

It is not until this very instant that you realize the impact of what you have seen from this one spot; our entire life and livelihood played out before you. From the wonder years to the golden years we have transformed this landscape only as much as it has transformed us.

The world's most famous beach can be calming or hectic, romantic or salacious, but it is always forgiving. It constantly reminds us of our place in the order of the universe, and even as we change, it changes to accommodate and nurture us. Insofar as a single public space in which to be human, young or old or frantically in-between, I could not suggest a more healthy place under the sun.

Though I am not officially associated with the City of Daytona, I would encourage you to experience it for yourself.