Treasure Island and St. Pete Beach
Do you like to take off in the car, motorcycle, or hovercraft to explore someplace new without any planning at all? It’s almost perfunctory these days to pull out the smartphone and get to Yelping or Tripadvisor-ing even the po-est of dunks. “Hmm. They don’t show a place to eat, but Rhonda’s Hair Port gets three stars.” We landed on Treasure Island with a map but without a clue as to where to eat or what to expect.
The name Treasure Island invokes a romantic ideal. Not in the modern sense, but in the pirate and booty sense. Which, now that I type it, sounds a bit romantic in the modern sense, too. Corsets and cocked hats aside, I wanted to assess the cut of the beach community’s jib. So one capricious morning we rigged the sporty little runabout and set sail on the macadam sea for Treasure Island, with no plans other than a cruise down the main drag, a walk on the beach, some tasty vittles and come what may.
Gulf beaches, we were learning, were slightly different from the beaches of Delaware, Maryland, and New Jersey that we visited while growing up. The basic street layout was familiar. Only there seemed to be a dearth of boardwalks and—dammit—french fry stands.
No, not every mid-Atlantic beach has a boardwalk, but the most popular ones do. Sea and sunbathers can rise from their recreation and walk up to one of several windows to order cold drinks, sandwiches, french fries, popcorn or ice cream. Or they can walk the boards and play arcade games, buy afterthoughts like sunscreen, bodyboards, or books, and of course, salt-water taffy. Then they can return to their towels and chairs well fed and with more crap to haul back to the car or rental house.
Now, I’m no philistine–I can appreciate a place just for its natural beauty and I love a nice quiet and pristine beach. Our visit to Bahia Honda fifteen years ago was an experience I’ll never forget (a lobster sunburn may have helped to etch it into my gray matter). And I’d actually be sad to see it sullied by snack stands.
We crossed Old Tampa Bay via I-275, then drove west on Central Avenue North (whatever, Tampa) to get to the barrier island south of Long Key. It is the barrier islands or keys that host the actual Gulf beaches west and south of Tampa.
Driving into Treasure Island, we may have had desires, but we had no preconceived expectations. We had heard of the place and it was in contact with the Gulf of Mexico. That was it. To be fair, though, the name Treasure Island suggests the sort of place we were searching for at that moment. It evokes a sort of touristy setting in the imagination. If any Gulf of Mexico coastal town was going to have the quintessential boardwalk scene, it would certainly be a place called Treasure Island. Alas, no.
This is not to diminish what was there; Treasure Island is a beautiful beach and seems a perfect place to relax on the sand. I’m just trying to find a place, one place, similar to the beaches I’m accustomed to.
We continued over yet another causeway bridge, this time, finally, into Treasure Island. Then I saw it: Dixie’s Dog House. My head had been scanning left and right taking in all the sights when the eyes landed on the sign. “Italian Beef,” “Chicago Style Hot Dogs.” I whipped the car down the alley and parked behind the shop.
I got the roast beef sandwich with some reservations that would be justified and a Chicago Dog dragged through the garden. Christa got a Cheese Dog. The roast beef was meh but better than Beanie’s. The Cheese dog was not bad, but meager for the price. The Chicago Dog was pretty good. I’d stop in again for the Chicago Dog but found no value in anything else. I typed further on it here.
So, we were now full and hadn’t even made it to the main drag. But that’s what flying by the seat of your stomach gets you: the surprises and disappointments of spontaneity.
Gulf Boulevard greeted us with the art deco facade of the Bilmar Beach Resort and totem style sign of The Thunderbird Beach Resort which set the stage for Treasure Island’s blend of modern and vintage architecture ranging back through the 1950s.
We turned right toward the northern end of the island to scoped out the main drag. Modern gas stations and fast food franchises shared frontage with souvenir shops between retro block motels and bungalow guesthouses.
It was apparent that irrespective of age the businesses and hotels of Treasure Island were well maintained. In contrast to the many derelict shells on the forgotten stretches of Rt. 301, these vintage motels looked brand new and inviting. Gulf Boulevard had a sort of Rt. 66 feel to it, modern additions notwithstanding, that made for a pleasant drive and I suddenly wished we had a convertible.
We parked on the last shady avenue before the bridge and walked off the granite grey onto the tan sand. My eyes needed a moment to adjust to the brilliance of the reflected sun. The gulf rolled in low, foamy, olive waves and a gentle breeze kept us cool as the rays heated our hatless heads. Compared to Lido Key in January, this stretch of beach was more populated, but still relatively empty.
The resident pipers, gulls, and terns were making the scene, doing their thing, with little regard for us. A passerby “dropped” a cracker and an alpha gull dove in for the win.
Low dunes knitted with sea grape and sea oats separated the buildings from the beach. They made the shore look more natural despite the concrete condos and hotels. That the structures were widely spaced and rarely climbed above six stories helped. Though a peer downcoast revealed an increasing height and density as the eye was drawn toward St. Pete Beach. Still, it was sparse and serene. And I wanted a boardwalk.
It wasn’t cold, in fact, it comfortably warm, but the steady wind made a dip in the sea unappealing to us. Though a few elderly couples wore long pants and windbreakers, others did not share our jeans and flannel outlook and went all trunks and bikinis, a few up to their necks in the gentle green gulf. I suppose if I had flown in and paid for a hotel, I’d be getting in my swim time, too. As residents (still sounds unreal) we’re going to need the thermometer to climb a bit higher before we dip into the sea.
As we passed a group of college-aged guys and gals doing what we do at that age, I had a moment of mourning for the lost days of youth. It hit me for maybe the first time as I passed them that I’m in my forties now and as good an old man to them as my eighty-year-old grandfather. They regarded me as much, in a way different than if I were in my late twenties and thirties–then with a competitive eye from the men and a… Look, I’m not going to pretend to interpret what’s in the eye of any woman, even with forty plus years of life experience and twenty years of marriage.
Suffice it to say, the youth now have a casual disregard for middle-aged me, as one regards a flock of seagulls standing on the beach. But I’d totally attack their tray of french fries if they had one.
A gull cried, the wind died, and I quickened my pace to meet Christa. As the air warmed we turned around after a bit and made our way back passed the sand castles and driftwood, the young folk and old folk and the flocks of birds existing for a moment between the marble dunes and the lapping slate sea. We turned right at the path between the sea oats and sea grapes and re-embarked the sporty little runabout.
Back on Gulf Boulevard headed south, I felt like ice cream and secretly surmised Christa would share my craving. A quick glance at the map showed a spot to be just ahead. We pulled into the Shake Shop to her delight but sudden disappointment when we found they only had soft serve. We were in a hand-dipped mood so, even though they get good reviews, we continued on.
We cruised past motor lodges and efficiency hotels with names like Ebb Tide, Swashbuckler, Sea Chest, and Tropic Terrace. Strip malls and shopping centers grew in frequency as we neared the southern end of the island while across the road the beach remained hedged by diminutive inns and resorts, new and retro.
We stayed on the narrower West Gulf Boulevard that traces the coast between residences that ranged from shoebox cottages to Admiral Boom style multi-level structures with rooftop decks and three-car garages. After scoping out a pink and purple crackerbox palace for sale—if we only had the means—we turned back for the main drag south to Long Key.
We hopped keys over the Blind Pass to St. Pete Beach. The road landed on the island between two marina restaurant/bars: The Sea Hag and The Salty Rim. As appetizing as they sounded, we made notes to investigate some other time and drove on through more of the same landscape as Treasure Island.
I know what you’re thinking: “Holy cripes. You’ve journeyed an hour and a half from home just to eat a shite sandwich and hot dog and then pass a bunch of places that you’ll later mention but never ventured into only supposing that you may go back someday and tell us about it, then.”
Yes. Yes, we did. But then we got ice cream.
We found ourselves on Sunset Way and decided to maintain our gulf-front cruising and continue our search for some semblance of a boardwalk, but none existed here, either. We were still itching for ice cream, so Christa assumed navigation duties to guided me back to Gulf Boulevard and Larry’s Ice Cream and Gelatos.
Now, Larry—that’s a name you expect to be owned by a swinging hirsute neighbor or a sloppy southern comic, not necessarily the purveyor of gourmet ice cream and Italian gelato. (Appy polly loggies to Larrys who don’t fit those bills, but be honest–what image do you get in your mind when you hear the name Rocco? Uh huh.) Regardless, Larry makes some mean ice cream and gelato.
The sweet and toasty aroma of hot waffles filled the air-conditioned parlor. A woman behind the counter peeled fresh discs from the iron and wrapped into a cone shape. Christa chose one for her treat while I went with a foam cup—gotta watch those calories. Less cone means more ice cream.
I always have a difficult time choosing a flavor at parlors and sometimes get two scoops of disappointment with a sprinkling of buyer’s remorse. They serve neither at Larry’s and I don’t think they ever could. Peering into the white freezer chests, everything looked rich and colorful and the flavors we picked were luxuriously delicious. The textures were smooth and creamy, the gelato as much as the ice cream. Larry’s Ice Cream and Gelatos has earned its place as a tradition for us when visiting St. Pete Beach.
We returned to the road and cruised the entire island through the Pass-a-Grille Beach Historic District. It was just more of the same ending in residences and with no boardwalk, so we turned around and decided to call it a day.
We passed the pink Don Cesar Hotel each way along Gulf Boulevard. It’s an imposing edifice and leads the imagination to an earlier time of lavish luxury. I’d have to look into prices when we get home. [Yikes] Maybe an offseason stay would fit our budget for an overnight getaway. [Nope]
Parched and growing weary of the trek, we decide to stop at a Winn Dixie for liquid refreshment—Milo’s iced tea—and then head for the Sunshine Skyway Bridge to get home.
The scenic bridge with its panoramic views completed the experience and we considered our day trip a success. It was really no more than a scouting foray, but it was certainly a picturesque and relaxing one. We will plan ahead next time we’re here and find some nice spots to eat at, including Caddy’s on the Beach and maybe The Salty Rim—it looks like they have fresh cut fries.
We both agreed that both Treasure Island and St. Pete Beach would make enjoyable and low key beach destinations, with or without boardwalks. The Chicago hot dog at Dixie’s was tasty and the ice cream at Larry’s was a memorable highlight deserving of an x on our map for when we return with empty tums in search of richer and bountiful vittles.
Thanks for reading!