May 6, 2021
Formulating a quick game plan, we packed our bags (literally bags, as we have no boat space to store luggage), loaded our folding bikes in a rental car, and headed north for the week end. The method to our madness was that this might save a day or two as we cruise, with Jekyll Island checked off our list.
We found a casual vibe, pristine and sparsely-populated beaches, miles and miles of paved bike trails, and the largest “cottages” one might imagine. Its history is predictable, that of European “discoverers,” pushing out the indigenous people, of privileged and elite settling a beautiful landscape in an attractive climate, made possible only with the brawn of indentured and enslaved people. Island history claims that Jekyll Island has been a vacation grounds for 3500 years on which tens of thousand of Native Americans hunted, fished, and gathered shellfish. First seen by French in 1562, and then settled by the British, its strategic military importance was recognized. It was, however, the American movers and shakers who bought the island in 1886 and formed the Jekyll Island Club, which captured our imagination. Said to be “the richest, the most exclusive, the most inaccessible club in the world,” despite members’ claim that Jekyll Island life was simple and carefree, it offered winter and spring camaraderie and diversion for people like William Rockefeller, J.P.Morgan, Joseph Pulitzer (of The NY Times—who kept adding onto his cottage as consolation to his wife who hated the island), William K. Vanderbilt, Marshall Field, and Richard Teller Crane, Jr. (of elevator and plumbing fixture fame—building the most lavish cottage on the island, with 20 rooms and 17 bathrooms). Too involved to fully flesh out here, I will briefly insert that the financial gurus of this elite club, along with other political and banking powers-that-be, secreted away in 1910 for ten days on Jekyll Island, formulating the basis for the Federal Reserve; the meeting which, when reported to the public three years later was referred to as “a hunting trip.” The Club era eventually came to an end as a result of World War II, and in 1947 the island was sold to the State of Georgia for use as a State Park, opening opportunities for recreation and pleasure along the Georgia Coast to everyone.
The island shows two personalities today. A modern Beach Village offers many public accesses to sandy shoreline bordered by dune grasses and scrubby cabbage palms, a convention center and tall hotels, and the requisite T-shirt shops. We were more charmed by the quieter, Historic Village. Simple, private residences, largely of the 50s ranch-styled vintage, line much of the road-way and camouflage discreet public beach accesses. The historic “cottages” are, disappointingly, not open to public tours, but rather, currently offer exclusive lodging and host events, such as weddings. Cycling amidst miles of grand Spanish Moss-draped Live Oaks was absolutely magical, and I imagined whispered secrets through the mossy beards of centuries-old sages and wizards. Moss-hung “picture frames” overlooking grassy fens and out to St. Simons Sound invited us to stop and gaze at the beauty, grateful for these protected spots, an invocation of silence.
We returned to Palm Coast only to learn that our ordered steering part arrived a day early! Having received excellent coaching from the marine shop, Steve had it installed in no time at all. A forecast for heavy thunderstorms cautions us to hold off cruising until Friday, making our stay in Palm Coast Marina a full week! In the meantime, we have discovered water in the forward bilge compartment, verifying, once again, the definition of cruising: “the act of fixing of one’s boat in exotic places.