If you haven’t seen Mississippi’s Gulf Coast since CNN coverage of Katrina, you owe it to yourself to take a trip. Now, I’d suggest attending “Cruising the Coast,” which is one of the nation’s largest collector-car events. But if you can’t make it for that, at least meander down for some time in Biloxi. Mississippians went to work after the storm and you’d never know the coast had been so savagely rampaged.
With our new wheel, we motored along right through to Alabama. I’ll admit that after three months on the road, it was a fine thing to be back in the Heart of Dixie. Tempted to head north to Birmingham? Yes indeed. But I set out to accomplish all 48 states, and I’m bound and determined to finish.
We stayed the night at a Hampton Inn outside of Mobile. A huge fish dinner (fried, naturally), helped. So did a few attitude adjustments (brown liquor). That evening, we watched the sun set on the USS Alabama. Being a Navy man, as I’ve mentioned, I’m partial to large grey objects loaded with guns. I have been all my life. When I was a tot, they took us on a field trip to see the mighty World War II battleship, moored in Mobile Bay. At the time, I was fairly bored going through all the chambers of the ship. After all, if you’ve seen one steel room, you’ve pretty much seen them all.
That’s how things are in the Navy. If it moves, salute it. If it doesn’t move: paint it grey.
Anyway, our second-grade mob of youngsters eventually reached the bridge. In World War II, they really knew how to create a bridge. Lights, buttons, brass, horns, and wheels are everywhere. Being a kid, of course I had to press every single button on the bridge. Right next to the wheel, there was a huge lever to signal the engine room. I shifted it to “All ahead, full” which is pretty much my constant signal to any engine.
Suddenly, a giant motor started. The whole bridge shook. I looked at my best friend. Had we started the USS Alabama?
“Man the wheel!” I hollered at Jay.
“Edward, keep a weather eye out for the teacher!” I barked at my friend Ed.
“Everyone! Prepare to shell Cuba!” I hollered to my assembled classmates. I figured Cuba was the nearest communist country that needed a good round of Volkswagen-sized shells.
“Son,” said the guide who had been lurking in the corner, “That noise is the air conditioning starting up. Not the engine room. We’re moored in sand and concrete, anyway,” he intoned.
Party pooper.
Today was the first time I’d revisited the old girl in 20 years. She looked none the worse for wear.
My family always spent our summer vacation in a small beachfront community called Navarre. When I was small, there was nothing there but the whitest sand in the world. It’s like sugar. And while I know that sounds like an exaggeration, it really isn’t.
My cousins from Colorado visited us one summer in June. Before they’d left on their drive from Colorado Springs, the city was hit by a large snowstorm delaying their arrival. My youngest cousin, Brad, had fallen asleep in the back of the family sedan as they approached the panhandle. He awoke at the beach house in Navarre, looked out the window, and sobbed, “Oh no! More snow!”
It’s that white.
Down the street there’s a house I’ve always found remarkable. It’s a house that we simple called the “Flying Saucer House,” for obvious reasons. I just had to snap a picture of the Brougham in front of that house–rockets and space ships together in one shot.
Mrs. Murphy and I continued our jaunt eastward. As we rolled into Destin, a beautiful green and gold hotrod pulled out into traffic. “Wow, he looks like he needs to be a member of Motorpool,” Mrs. Murphy said. The driver quickly caught up to us, waved, and I threw a Motorpool t-shirt through his open window.
The driver yelled back, “Follow me!”
Now, both Mrs. Murphy and I are anxious to get home. It’s been a long trip. The goal for tonight is Savannah, which is an eight-hour drive from here. Where could we be going. But word to the wise: a road trip is not a road trip unless you take the unexpected opportunities that come along. So we did as we were told and followed the custom car to the nearest parking lot.
The driver of the fabulous custom cruiser introduced himself as “Cadillac.” In fact, everyone in Destin calls John Entrekin “Cadillac.” Even his business card says “Cadillac.” So why is he driving a Chevy?
“I just haven’t found the right Cadillac yet,” John said.
He kindly invited Mrs. Murphy and I for lunch. Why not? We had some incredible food, ate a mountain of fried shrimp, and met some of John’s friends. All in all, it was a great time. (And here I have to thank John for mailing me my camera bag, which I mistakenly left on the back of my barstool.)
The drive to Savannah was long and slow–one of the longest of the trip. We finally arrived at midnight, pulling into the cha-cha Thunderbird Inn. It’s really not so much of an inn as a motel, but what a cool motel. And indeed, it’s a bargain in pricey Savannah.