There are people I remember, there are places too. One comes to mind, Places, that is. Dauphin Island, Alabama. It’s a long spit of land just out west of Mobile Bay, long been peopled by generations of beach lovers. Some Governor of that State got pushed into passing legislation that allowed the investment of big bucks to build a bridge for Mo-beal big dogs to get the people out to a beach so quiet and peaceful. Cottages were built, marinas, a golf course.  The auto accessible island was to become one of the first vacation beaches for the less than Trés Riche.  Every year sun and sand worshipers poured out there to enjoy Mobile Bay fishing and Gulf Coast sand. Not so frequently came the Hurricanes. They came late in the summer often raising whatever was standing above the sand, and one last time taking almost half the land with it.

Enough of that! Saturday’s sunrise brought an urge for an adventure. My daughter and her husband, Brett, were in town. So as to capture them, I proposed a drive down to a place they’d never seen.  Like countless others over the past 60 years, the family climbed into the trusty sedan and off we went. 

Holly’s days of sun tanning are over.  She once loved to sit in the sand and soak it all up.  Too hot, too moist now days.  Elizabeth’s skin is much like mine, ready to blister in seconds.  Brett, the one of us ready to face most any oncoming adventure, encouraged us to be patient facing the traffic we encountered.  His attitude is perfect for an adventure. 

We never heard the familiar call from the back seat so much a part of auto tours, “Are we there yet?”, but it didn’t take long before the question “Where will we have lunch?” was heard.  Sure that fresh, fried seafood could be found, I proclaimed that no lunch would be had until we were south of Mobile on the Dauphin Island Parkway. 

Out came the IPhones.  What’s her name, the Nazi inside those things, Sari?, was queried.   Turned out there were several mentioned, one of which had no Web Site, a clear indication that it was run by a local and older than 35.  Bailey’s Seafood House was exactly where that Nazi indicated it would be.  Sure enough, it was old and tired with only two pickups in the shell paved lot. The words “Carry Out” were hand-painted out on the sign brought indications of something or someone peculiar. 

Lunch was just great fun.  The place, clean and tiled with ceramic dairy blocks, was huge, and there were black & white pictures of days long past from the hay day of Dauphin Island traffic. Built in 1947 and founded by the current owner’s dad, it was clear that many a crab, among other desirable exoskeleton-bearing aquatic invertebrates, had been stuffed in that place.  Bill Bailey, the current owner came over for a visit and being the perfect restaurateur, gave us suggestions and historic facts. Who couldn’t like this guy?

Two pieces of history, far from verified by that IPhone Nazi or anybody else, came to light.  Bill’s dad ‘invented’ the West Indies Salad.  We ordered two. Plainly served, very simple, purely delicious, we decided the crab came from the Bay, and that Bill, Jr’s claim was true.  Then came fried crab claws, and the same verdict from the judges, since the things were full and crisp. His Dad invented those too!

The oysters, shrimp, and mullet were perfect, maybe the best fried oysters I’ve been served anywhere. 

Down the Causeway we drove, finding the Dauphin Island bridge just where it had always been and leading to the same place.  That’s not exactly true, since it’s been hammered back and forth by the same Hurricanes that have slammed the Island.

The island, populated with it’s typical raised beach cottages was clean, a bit tired maybe, and a bit less white than those farther to the east beyond Mobile Bay muddy water. 

At the end of the road west insult ensued.  That now abbreviated west end has a public beach blocked with a sign that demanded $5 from tourists to park on the sand.  We turned around with a ‘Harrumph’ and drove out and away. 

Here’s one quick picture proving the day had existed, and that our toes had indeed touched the sand and salt water was snapped.  Here it is.

Fun Adventure.