The woman sat alone, in a pair of khaki shorts that showed a bit too much thigh. Her greenish blue top matched the beach bar's color scheme of teal and pink flamingo. The breeze played tricks with the lady's silver poof of hair. Large, dark sunglasses covered nearly half Lone Woman's face. She had to be well into the fourth and final chapter of life — or at least quite close. But when the one-man band set his synthesizer to "Brown Eyed Girl" and lent his everyman voice to the familiar words of that Van Morrison groaner, Lone Woman tapped her finger in time against the side of her margarita cup and smiled wistfully.
Sometimes her wrinkled foot and white sandal flopped along to the rhythm as if she were recalling a long-ago dance partner. Lone Woman sat at a table in front of the musician, but her stare wasn't directed at him or the Gulf of Mexico or anyone in Woody's Waterfront beach bar. She appeared to be gazing down memory lane. Well, either that or she was looking at me, wondering why the hell I was gawking at her with pen in hand.
"She's got those big, dark glasses on and probably looking right at you," Pops said as I scribbled into my notebook in between sips of beer. We had arrived around 2 p.m. last Saturday at Woody's. It's a single-story building made of stucco and wood that sits at the mouth of Blind Pass on St. Pete Beach. There's an indoor bar and dining area and a deck that faces one of the many places where the Gulf of Mexico meets the Intracoastal Waterway. The inlet was created by the hurricane of 1928 — at least that's what the back of Woody's kitschy menu says. It also informs customers that the place was established as a bait-and-tackle store in the 1940s and today has "evolved into a tourist and family restaurant." Guests are encouraged to "Ask for your free Woody's bumper sticker." After all, it's "an authentic 1960s beach bar — a vintage one of a kind."
Yeah, the slogans that adorn the menu are as corny as the idea of listening to some dude doing played-out oldies over prefabricated backing tracks. But it was a flawless Saturday afternoon; a constant, salty breeze filled the air. Dad and I drank $2 beers and talked about stuff like Kirk Gibson's 1988 World Series home run. It was one of those afternoons where cynical, savage thoughts have no place.
"Look, there goes your girlfriend," Dad joked as Lone Woman walked off. She looked satisfied, or at least happier than when we had first seen her an hour before. Margaritas and familiar music are good for ya like that.
On the deck, couples observed pelicans swooping down for their prey, sons and fathers fishing off the sea wall, a dolphin or two (I spotted one right when we got there) and the boats swinging around the sandbar on their way up the Intracoastal. Sometimes the smell of fuel was overpowering. Other times, the sight of the young women in bikinis made it worthwhile — in all, though, there wasn't much to look at as far as young bodies at Woody's on Saturday. Oh well. Inside, at the bar, a congregation of mostly men watched the Tampa Bay Rays.
I returned from the restroom to find Pops being chatted up by a red-faced fellow who looked and sounded like he'd been guzzling beer since he rolled out of the local shelter. He had on a pair of imitation Oakley sunglasses, a UF cap, a "Latitudes and Attitudes" T-shirt, khaki shorts and well-worn flip-flops. He smoked generic cigs. A weathered knapsack occupied the stool next to him. A proud Florida cracker originally from Coral Gables who used to be a shrimper and now installs neon lights — that's how our new drinking partner Steve described himself.
"Looks like that Ike might swing around and get us," he said. "Y'know, just like Charley did in 2004. I was living in Punta Gorda when that happened. I saved my mom. Lot more people died than was reported, y'know."
Steve definitely had been drinking for some time, but he proved harmless, even when we copped to being yankees. "We've lived here 20 years," my dad said diplomatically. "I think that qualifies us as Floridians."
Steve just shook his head and smiled. He kept asking us what other bars were nearby, and Dad and I were certain he'd be asking us for a ride somewhere — something we weren't prepared to give. We were going to bolt behind his back but waited for him to return from the men's room. He shook our hands and kindly said goodbye, sounding grateful for the conversation. Steve didn't want anything more from us than a bit of company.
Woody's Waterfront Café and Beach Bar, 7308 Sunset Way, St. Pete Beach, 727-360-9165 or woodyswaterfront.com.
This article appears in Sep 10-16, 2008.
