In Search of Skink and Tea Cake by Jane Tolbert

Now that I have moved from Melbourne, I can return as a tourist and visit new places. As a long-time Florida resident, I really wanted to meet some of those quirky characters described by Carl Hiaasen and Zora Neale Hurston like Skink in his shower cap or Tea Cake!





Florida is a land of contrasts. After leaving the glitz of the Mall at Millenia, I stopped at the Lone Cabbage Fish Camp, located on SR 520 just west of Cocoa on an isolated stretch of road. The place is known for its airboat rides, which cost $22 and take visitors at speeds of up to 45 mph through grassy marshlands where the St. Johns River blends and meanders in marshy wetlands. According to the ads, the “Lil’ Twister” costs a little bit more. No quirky characters—just tourists, a fly yellow Corvette and some fancy duallies lined the sand parking lot. No wildlife either. But tourists there lined up for local fried specialties—gator, turtle and catfish—and airboat rides.



Beachside, the narrow barrier islands nestled between the lagoon and ocean, has been known as the “best kept secret.” Long known to surfers and turtle watchers, it’s also an area of restaurants and small cafes, quiet beaches. The mom and pop motels have been replaced by chains. Gated communities. Paved bike paths. Panera Bread and Starbucks. Families on bikes and roller blades. No drunks, bums or former governors in shower caps. Any semblance of quirky had become gentrified.





Maybe if I tried US 1? Or would I have to go to places like Everglades City to experience the characters of novels? That would have to wait for another trip.

The drive north on I-95 from Melbourne to Ormond Beach took me past endless developments, then endless miles of cabbage palms (our state tree). At Route 40, I joined the lines of motorcyclists, which had come to Daytona for Biker Fest. Bikini clad bikers, boots, tattoos, long hair, military pants and generally no helmet. They traveled as an orderly group, but they took over parking lots and lanes of road.


Past Barberville with its junk yard that now that carries 10-foot tall pink, cast-iron chickens, flower pots and just about anything else. Past Astor, which has Blair’s Jungle Den, a drawbridge and waterfront cafes and what looks to be a 1,000 year old oak with a plaque commemorating the travels of William Bartram. Billboards advertise whoopie pies, road signs warn of bears for the next 23 miles, and there are always trucks selling peanuts.

I drove into Gainesville just after 90,000 Gator fans settled in for the homecoming game against Mississippi State. Turned out to be a quiet evening. The Gators lost the third game in a row. Anyway, quirky characters didn’t usually wear orange and blue or attend tailgate parties.

5:54 a.m. Sunday morning. The squeaky wheels of a shopping cart grated over the rough pavement. The sounds of bottles and tin cans.
“Where are you you little monkey? I’ll git ya!” Of course, the monologue, peppered with curse words and obscenities, has been toned down somewhat.
From one of the houses, the sound of “Shhhhhh.”

“Don’t SHHHHH me!” And the character began to thrash the bushes in the marshy woods across the street, a place most of us would not venture in the daytime, not to mention the early morning hours, when hoot owl and predatory birds scream as they swoop down for a kill.

Tea Cake, who had been bitten by a rabid dog? One of the governor’s developers he had abandoned in the swamp? And did I really want to find out at 5:45 a.m.?