Driving on the Beach

One of the reasons we chose a 4-wheel-drive truck camper over a conventional RV was because we wanted to drive on the beach;  seagulls whirling alongside, the waves erasing our tire tracks behind us.

This was not exactly what we had in mind.

Cars were lined up bumper to bumper for blocks behind the beach access ramp, blocking a major intersection. Every time the light turned red, someone got caught in the middle, sending the oncoming drivers into a full-fledged display of road dominance, revving engines, squealing tires, obscene gestures and verbal threats. Granted, in the Sunshine State such behavior can be triggered by something as innocuous as slowing down to change lanes.

When we finally reached the entry kiosk, where we forked over $30 and they photographed our license plate.  The gate opened and we followed the traffic out onto the “World's Most Famous Beach."

To our left was an inviting stretch of golden sand with a scattering of beach chairs and colorful umbrellas. On the right, a tailgate party stretched as far as we could see; except instead of celebrating the football, they were celebrating the beach, or just celebrating period. Every vehicle blasted its own stereo, so as we drove past it sounded like a very bad and/or very drunk DJ was mixing rap, country and pop. Alcohol is prohibited on Daytona Beach, but they don’t have enough cops to be sniffing every thermos and solo cup.

We drove about a quarter mile in search of a parking spot. Four-wheel drive was hardly necessary, and there was no need to deflate our tires any, because the golden sand was packed hard as asphalt. Feet from our tires,  young women sprawled flat on their towels, as oblivious to the immediate danger of getting their skulls cracked open as the long term danger of sun exposure.  Children ran back and forth to the surf with pails of sloppy wet sand. The traffic signs were sparse, but everyone appeared to be staying in the lanes and respecting the 10mph speed limit, including the young men cruising back and forth in jacked up pick up trucks with rims that looked like the inside of jet engines. This was truly miraculous, considering the level of driving we had witnessed so far in the Sunshine State. I personally wouldn’t have take a small child there, but it didn’t seem like utter reckless endangerment.

Later, I found Just a few weeks earlier a woman was run over while sitting in her beach chair, not by a drunk or speeding driver but an elderly driver who didn’t even notice she'd hit anyone. Fortunately, the victim did not suffer life threatening injuries. Unlike accidents on roads, beach driving accidents are not nationally reported; therefore statistics are hard to come by, but over the last fifteen years a disturbing number of beach-driving related injuries and some fatalities (including two children) have been reported on the beaches of Volusia County, which includes Daytona and neighboring New Smyrna and Ormond beaches. In most cases the drivers were found to be following the rules, and simply didn’t see the victim amidst the chaos.

Beach driving is a longstanding tradition in this part of Florida, which is probably why it is still permitted despite valid public safety and environmental concerns, and the objections of local hotels looking to maintain their own private beach fronts.

In the early 1900s, before Henry Ford introduced  assembly lines, automobiles were still the play things of the rich. Florida’s Atlantic coast, with its long, wide beaches and hard-packed sands, turned out to be the perfect place for wealthy northerners to play with their new toys. The first speed trials were held in Ormond beach in 1902. In the 30s, tens of thousands gathered on the beach to watch stock car races, which continued until 1958, when they moved to the new Daytona International Speedway.

Daytona had not been on our itinerary. We only stopped in Volusia County to look at a boat, which we ended up not buying. And while we were there, we had freak accident that almost destroyed our camper. We spent the night at the closest Cracker Barrel, which turned out to be directly next door to the Daytona Speedway. Normally Daytona would be our cup of tea, or cocktail glass, but after the day we’d had, we were in just the right state of mind to give ourselves over to the all-American free-for-all vibe. 

 No need to haul any beach gear, no packing a picnic launch; we brought a whole beach house on the back of our truck. 

RVs are not allowed on the beach, but the rules didn't say anything about truck campers. In some places, like state campgrounds, truck campers get lumped into the RV category, and are subject to the same restrictions.

We sat and watched the traffic roll by, sipping the Cali Cocktails By Snoop Smokin' Strawberry Margaritas we picked up at Publix, so of course we had to put on the dog himself.  As it turns out, when everyone has their stereo on, they drown each other out, and you can't hear anything outside the radius of the nearest speakers.

As usual, the truck camper attracted admirers. Nobody remarked on the jagged scar running from the door frame and the top corner. 

A young woman gave me the thumbs up. “Living the dream girl!” 

“Hell-yeah!”