with the doors locked. Woe is us! We were all
pretty glum, just sittin’ there.
The silence was broken by Billy.
“Let’s go camping,” he said.
“What, Billy, are you nuts? It’s too hot and the
mosquitoes would eat us up.”
(Note: You had to be on Gasparilla Island in the
1940s or earlier to really experience mosquitoes
as God made them and set them loose.)
“No,” Billy said, “I know where there aren’t any
mosquitoes in the evening and night. There’s
always a good breeze off of the Gulf and blows
the mosquitoes away from the beach.”
So I headed for home to get ready.
“Mom, can I go camping?”
“You have to ask your father.”
Okay. A quick trip down to the barber shop
to ask Dad. Absolutely not, said Dad. Back to the
house.
“Mom, Dad said yes.”
We had lots of Boy Scouts camping gear. We
scrounged up a couple cans of pork and beans
and a can of spaghetti. We had canteens. I don’t
remember what everyone brought but Billy
brought a big chunk of salt pork. Boy, that’s some
good eatin’ on a cold biscuit. Fried, of course.
There were six of us but I don’t remember all.
There was me, Billy, my brother Dave, Skipper
Harrison, and I think Billy Smith and maybe Bobby
Hill from Holly Hill. We had someone drive us to
the north end, but I don’t remember who. We
went to where the road jogged to the right to
Gasparilla. We were dumped off there and we
walked straight ahead a couple hundred yards to
the beach along Gasparilla Pass. We followed that
beach around the north end to the gulf beach.
We were having a good time, but I can’t tell
you much about what we talked about. We were
just learning to smoke cigarettes, look at girls
differently, and cuss, so we had some really
imaginative repartee. We spent a couple hours
getting the pup tents set up and messing around,
and it was getting late in the afternoon.
No breeze yet. The fi rst buzzing of the
mosquitoes started.
“Where’s the wind?”
“Yeah Billy, where’s the wind?”
It was almost dark and millions of mosquitoes
came out. A shout went out.
“Come on guys, let‘s pile on Billy.“
Boy, we got him good. Knuckles to the head,
and think of the Indian rubs. Sand down his pants,
and we got a few really good expletives off.
We fought him, then built a smudge fi re. We
got branches off the Australian pines to swat the
bugs.
Along about 11 p.m. we’d had enough, so we
headed for the water. We were in water about
three feet deep and we squatted there with
just our noses above water. Just before daylight
a good onshore breeze came up and blew the
mosquitoes away.
So all‘s well that ends well, more or less. We
didn’t let Billy forget the camping trip for several
years. We were a sad-looking group when we
got back to Boca Grande, covered with mosquito
bites, all sandy and smelling of smoke.
I think things changed quite a bit after the
bridge. I’m always grateful that I experienced
Boca Grande when it was still old Florida. I don’t
pretend that I’m any kind of a writer but I try to
write as I remember.
All the best to all you Boca Granders.
- JSL
J.S. Lane and his family today.