a
All Star Travel Logo
RegisterSign In

Florida’s Best Small Beach Towns

by | Apr 22, 2021 | Travel Tips

 

Sleepy coastal towns mean laid-back, toes-in-the-sand fun. So, go ahead and catch some rays — and more — at one of these three gorgeous beaches.

Gorgeous coastlines are just one reason to visit St. Pete Beach, Pensacola Beach and New Smyrna Beach, where funky vibes and friendly locals are par for the course; gathering spots for fresh sea- food and cool cocktails sit on the edge of the sand, while shopping and pool- side lounging await just blocks from the water.

ST. PETE BEACH
Driving over the Howard Frankland Bridge, with a view of Tampa’s crowded skyline in my rearview mirror, a sense of calm comes over me. I’m getting close to miles of pristine beach. Passing Tropicana Field and downtown St. Petersburg, I’m on my way to an off-the-beaten-path gem — St. Pete Beach and its surrounding islands. Gulfport Boulevard, where I get off, is a stretch I know well. My husband, Jason, went to Stetson University College of Law just down the road. As the modest beach town emerges, I think about it within the area at large, with its historic law school, the Dalí museum and the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team (always at the top of the league).

I roll my window down and take in the view of sailboats from the Corey Causeway. People (myself included) have a tendency to lump all of St. Pete Beach together, and continuing along Gulf Boulevard through Treasure Island, Madeira Beach and Redington Beach — each amounting to about two square miles — I can see why. The only delineation happens to be bridges and subtle road signs. Blink and you’ll miss ’em. This, I think, is a great thing. An Old Florida vibe thrives here — there are flamingopink condos, hole-in-the-wall beach bars, an old soft-serve ice cream joint shaped as, well, a giant swirl ice cream cone, but there are also new beachfront homes around John’s Pass, newly opened restaurants and modern drawbridges.

The one thing that keeps me from running straight out to the water and curling my toes in the warm sand is Salt Rock Grill. For boaters, the restaurant is a quick trip up the Intracoastal, just north of Mile Marker 17. Locals head to the bustling tiki deck for fresh mojitos. What a life. Seated outside on the patio, Jason and I indulge in fresh hogfish, which we learn was caught just a few miles away by St. Pete fishermen. Chef Barry Spaulding tells me that about 60 percent of the fish on the menu are caught locally.

“We have about six or seven boats, each with crews of two or three, that use our docks,” he says. “In return, we get first choice on whatever seafood they bring in once or twice a week. Right now it’s stone crab season, so they’ll go out close to shore and check all the traps. Spaulding knows his way around his kitchen. He’s been here since it opened 16 years ago. More importantly, he knows his way around St. Pete. “I’ve lived here more than 50 years. I love the weather,” he says.

We watch the sky fade into sunset while eating a piece of Key lime pie and then head south to check in to the Postcard Inn. Completely reinvented about two years ago from its previous incarnation as a Travelodge, it fits in perfectly with St. Pete. It’s overflowing with character in a beach-house-kitsch-meets-vintage-Florida way, starting with its rough sawn wood exterior. No cookie-cutter rooms here — but a motif is constant: surfoards and large-scale surf photos by local artists. No matter what time of day, it appears to be a favorite beachy-chic hangout, with a packed pool and beach bar. It’s the ideal spot for us this weekend.

The next morning, I overhear a couple talking about how the waves are perfect. Waves? On the Gulf coast? The water is notoriously flatter than its Atlantic counterpart. When we finally throw our suits on and roll out of our first-floor room onto the beach, it dawns on me. The waves are perfect in that they are nonexistent — great for stand-up paddle boarding. Using rental boards, couples glide up and down the coast for hours, catching rays and getting a great workout.

Meanwhile, at the bar, a couple from Ohio is celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary with frozen cocktails. “We’ve been coming here for 20 years,” the woman tells me. “We would have never known about this beach if our Florida relatives hadn’t let us in on the secret.” On our last morning, we go toBeverly’s La Croisette, a tiny place in the Historic Corey Shopping District. Beverly’s serves 3,100 plates each week, and the wait is 45 minutes, but ohso- worth-it. We browse the nearby Corey Fresh Market until our table is ready. The breakfast wraps our weekend, and after one last dip in the Gulf, we merge onto northbound Interstate-275, homeward bound. — Ashley Fraxedas

THE FACTS

 

PENSACOLA BEACH
The rainbow-finned sailfish with carnivalesque flashing lights atop the signage on the way to Pensacola Beach seems to be winking at me. Against a charcoal sky, this quirky sign designed
in the 1950s has become my beacon — and the guiding light, I’m sure, for millions of others who have traveled sans GPS to this cool retro beach town in the far northwest corner of the state. The dazzling light display directs me to turn right, which leads me to the bridge that drops me on a sliver of land nestled between Santa Rosa Sound and the Gulf of Mexico. My destination, the new Margaritaville Beach Hotel, is just another turn away, at which point I can see the island’s virgin white sand dunes hugging the road. Tourism officials tout Pensacola as the “world’s whitest beach,” and on my first impression, I concur.

At the hotel’s entrance, surfboards stand like sentinels, and colors from the beach and water drench the lobby. Jimmy Buffett lyrics posted on the walls subliminally suggest I stop at the bar aptly named Frank and Lola. For those who are not Buffett fans, the song is about a couple that takes a second honeymoon to Pensacola in hopes of jump-starting their love life.

Observing the couple next to me, I quickly conclude that that’s not their situation. Jack and Janet Hatcher from Baton Rouge have that warm, Southern-hospitality attitude and they tell me they come to Pensacola Beach often — as do others from Alabama, Mississippi, Texas and Georgia. (The license plates in the parking lot confirm it.) “We don’t have beaches quite like this one in Louisiana,” Jack says. “It’s one of the prettiest,” Janet adds in her Southern drawl.

At the first peek of daylight, I tear open the draperies in my room and gasp. The view is amazing: sparkling diamonds dancing on translucent blue water. A long, lean fishing pier extends into the vista. The first order of the day is to walk in the quartz sand. It flows like water through my fingers and doesn’t stick in between my toes when I put on my flip-flops. Kicking up my heels in the cool water, I stroll the shore, checking out the puffy dunes studded with sea oats and the blue chaises and umbrellas, all the while thinking: Why the heck did it take me so long to visit this piece of paradise?

Next on my itinerary is an old-fashioned bicycle ride. Perched on the cushy seat of a beach cruiser, I pedal along the developed stretch of the beach road that connects the two pristine segments of the Gulf Islands National Seashore. It’s not long before I discover a string of oldschool beach bars and pull up in front of the Sandshaker. Seems the drink of the day — and every day — is the Bush- wacker. Beverly , who owns the bar, tells me that the concoction originated here in 1975. The recipe goes something like this: Mix white rum, coffee liqueur and crème de cacao with soft-serve ice cream, and then float the preferred Bacardi 151 rum on top for a serious kick.

Across the street at Flounders Chowder House, I hook up with some friends. A rusty shrimper’s boat at the entrance hints at the restaurant’s quirkiness. The bartender draws a draf beer from a scruffy old fire hydrant mounted on the bar, and a server scurries by with a slice of a three-layer Key lime pie. It’s a pleasure to discover Pensacola Beach’s carefree spirit — no golden arches or high-style boutiques, just an Old Florida beach town with a sprinkling of Southern charm.

Sunday morning, I fuel up at Native Cafe, a cozy breakfast joint, where the crab cakes Benedict is awesome. Local artist Jon Selby Winslow’s canvases of playful pelicans and lazy seaside cottages cover the apricot-colored walls. A few doors down, two blonde sisters from Germany run Geronimo’s Outpost. It’s brimming with nautical tableware and Florida souvenirs stamped with gators.

An afternoon drive to Fort Pickens, a redbrick fortress built in 1834, on the western end of the island, takes me past periwinkle-blue houses perched on stilts prior to entering the unspoiled Gulf Island National Seashore. The next few blissful miles are filled with sculpted dunes and views of sailboats on the placid Gulf water.

My last stop is the Grand Marlin Restaurant on Santa Rosa Sound. Upstairs at the oyster bar, Matt Brestan is prying open shells. “Since last year, I’ve shucked some 250,000 oysters,” he tells me with a look of disbelief. “All from Apalachicola,” he adds. After sampling the plumb salty-sweet bivalves, I order lobster fingers with a honey mustard that’s made with regional tupelo honey. Homeward bound, I pass the iconic sign, giving a wink to the beloved sailfish. — Patricia Letakis

THE FACTS

 

NEW SMYRNA BEACH
I’m walking on the hard-packed sand, with a gusty salt breeze in my face. Tiny terns race the shore- line, and the surfer dudes maneuvering through
the windy swell and foam are mesmerizing. This
is New Smyrna Beach, where the surf scene is world-famous; quality surf is a given just about
265 days of the year here. Spanning a little over 30 square miles, the quiet coastal barrier island tucked between Daytona Beach and the Kennedy Space Center is surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean, the Intracoastal Waterway, the Indian River as well as the Mosquito Lagoon (where anglers catch giant redfish). It’s the nation’s second-oldest city (St. Augustine, about one hour north, is No. 1), and it’s got some surprising history, with ties to smugglers and big-time Chicago gangster Al Capone, whose brick house still stands.

I pick up my beach pace as I turn the key in the ocean-side gate at my rental condo. Located on South Atlantic Avenue, it’s a primo spot of real estate along New Smyrna’s 13-mile stretch of sandy shore. My trusty map guides me to Flagler Avenue, the main entertainment drag, where I find bars, restau- rants and a smattering of art galleries and boutiques, including Friki Tiki, where tropical sarongs tempt. Flagler Avenue has a relaxed Key West mood, sans crowds. I’m astonished to find a beach access ramp for cars at the end of Flagler Avenue. It’s an “urban” beach zone, and driving and parking are permitted 15 feet seaward of the dunes or sea wall.

I hear that sunset at the Grille at Riverview is a must. It’s situated just below the tip of the Flagler Avenue North Causeway lift bridge. I get out of my car and am caught off guard by a woman leaving the Riverview Spa with cotton between her freshly painted toes. She tells me she just had a pedicure with a warm-stone foot massage and rambles on about the spa’s waterfall pool. I stop to grab a brochure.

The sky’s taking on the orangy hues of the setting sun when I reach the Reef bar at the Grille at River- view. I find a seat that’s seen better days at the blue-tiled bar; no stools are available by the open- air windows facing the Intracoastal. No matter; awesome views are within sight. Pelicans fly past in V configurations — nature’s sign that the water is rich with fish. As a guitarist croons James Taylor’s “Handyman,” I spot a Kevin Sorbo look-alike (the actor who played Hercules in the cult TV show). “Sorbo” is the captain of a megayacht in one of the slips. He chuckles when I ask for the name of his vessel. “Off the Grid!” he exclaims. “That’s much better than the last boat I captained, which was calledI Love My Wife.”

With only a faint glow of last light, I depart for the new Gnarly Surf Bar & Grill. Chef Danny Veltri is a winner from the 2009 Fox culinary reality show Hell’s Kitchen. The Gnarly’s interior is surfer cool, with a bright Caribbean palette; surfoards cover the ceiling, and an island vibe predominates with tribal masks and wall lizards. A stocky fellow by the name of Donny in a Tommy Bahama-style shirt joins me at the bar. He’s retired and lives nearby on a golf course. After ordering a Florida Lager, Donny admits he’s usually at Tayton O’Brians, the Irish bar, on Friday nights. “What’s going on here?” he asks, looking around at the decor. I conclude he’s not a surfer. When my dish arrives, I turn my attention to the sautéed white shrimp in a dark rum cream sauce with fresh vanilla, coconut milk and pineapples.

Saturday, I meet up with Erik Lumbert of Paddle Board New Smyrna Beach. He tells me about the paddle trip to the disappearing island — an island that only appears during low tide as the water recedes where Ponce Inlet and New Smyrna almost meet. Then he shows me Canaveral National Seashore. For $2.50 per person, we’re in. It is the most pristine beach I’ve ever seen. There’s a dichotomy to it, with the wave-filled Atlantic on one side and the placid lagoon on the other. As an armadillo crosses the road, I’m lost in the wild beauty of the surroundings. Our last stop is JB’s Fish Camp, where dolphin and manatee sightings are near daily occurrences and fishermen arrive at 7:30 a.m. to snag redfish. Now all I need is a pole. — Susan Friedman

THE FACTS

The best move I made on this trip was getting a great deal on my rental car through All Star Travel. I read the reviews of their great customer service, and I checked out their site to see how it works. I was not disappointed! I know they offer cars all over the world, so the next time I travel, I’ll go right to All Star Travel.