G.A.S.P.

(Great Adventures to Scenic Places)

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February 13, 2000

I was up early the next morning (2-13) and off toward Port St. Joe. It’s only about 70 miles, but I wanted to leave enough time to go an additional 20 miles (out on a peninsula) to a State Park if I couldn’t find other suitable accommodations for the night. Having been through a number of seacoast towns this size (about 4000 population) and smaller, I expected that Port St. Joe would have numerous motels and at least a couple of RV Parks. Wrong! Port St. Joe is sheltered from the Gulf by the peninsula where the State Park is located. No waves, no beach. No beach, no tourists. No tourists, no motels or RV Parks. No motels or RV Parks, no place for Gary to spend the night in Port St. Joe. Well, there was one motel – a third rate, never remodeled, 45-year-old place right in the middle of town. I cringed, but I took it. Going to the State Park would have meant not only an extra 20 miles this day, but an extra 20 miles the next day as well.

Things turned out for the best, however. Once settled into my motel room, I turned on The Weather Channel and found out that my locale was due for thunderstorms and was currently under a tornado watch. The thunderstorms came to Port St. Joe in the middle of the night, and a tornado hit SW Georgia (not too far from where I was) killing at least 19 people. It was a good night to have a roof over my head – even if it was a 45-year-old one.

On my way to Port St. Joe, I passed through Panama City and Panama City Beach. Particularly in the beach area, I started looking at license plates of cars parked near to the road. There were many from New York, Michigan, Ohio, Indiana and other northeastern states, but I swear there were more from Ontario than all the rest combined. Who’s minding the store up there – almost everybody must be in the panhandle of Florida.

I also passed by a large number of robins today. I kept asking them if anybody was from Ohio, and they kept saying something back to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Maybe it was “No, we’re from Ontario.”

Just before I reached Port St. Joe I passed into the Eastern Time Zone. My bicycling friend David should be relieved to know that my watch now matches the local clocks. Just as I feared, however, I am now getting started later in the morning than when I had that “extra” hour in my day.