All my life I could count on the rocks of Honeymoon Island. I don’t know the complete history of Honeymoon Island, but I seem to recall a story about a developer who thought it would be a good idea to stabilize the island by dumping tons of rocks on the shoreline. In any case, the rocks were the sole sore subject of the island since I came to Florida as a young lad during the summer of ’79. If you weren’t interested in unprotected walking on the beach (re: barefoot), the island was great. The woods were a great place for exploring, the rocks were great for throwing… and if that wasn’t enough… for a long time the north part of the island was a haven for nudists.
This was great stuff for any kid with a good pair of shoes: adventure, ammunition, and titilating urban legend.
Several years ago the state took over the whole kit and caboodle, and the nudists (real or legend) have been long gone. But we still had the rocks to kick around.
Wouldn’t you know it, we went to the beach last week and there were no rocks. For the first time I can remember there were more people than rocks. It was a regular hot-bed of Florida style frolicking in the sand and surf.
At this point I’m not entirely sure it was real. I may need to go back to verify my previous findings.