SALTWATER FRIENDS
Looking for something very important that I immediately forgot when I found this:
A memory in a drawer, wedged between a faded Florida postcard and a roll of old film.
It just came rushing back.
Let me take you there—
1993—somewhere between a lunch reservation and Escambia Bay, back when parts of Pensacola still felt like Old Florida. Before the condos. Before the Bluetooth.
Five of us packed into a weathered motorboat that ran better than it looked, cruising across the bay like we had nowhere better to be—and that was the point. No smartphones. No GPS. No playlist. Just Buffett on the radio, salt air, and sun-faded signs.
We pulled up to a weathered seafood shack and marina, a nod to a timeless fishing village from a classic novel, perched on the Blackwater River—the kind of place you had to know to find. We were dripping from the humidity and boat drinks, sun-soaked and half-salted by the bay.
Inside, it was fried grouper, sweet tea in mason jars, and a ceiling fan that coughed and spun like it was tired of trying. No frills. No rush. Just the kick-back kind of place where the menu sticks to your arms and nobody seems to mind.
After lunch, I decided we needed a photo—something to mark the day. I’d brought my old Canon, loaded with 35mm black-and-white film I usually saved for weddings or funerals. My friends were already on the dock, waiting by the boat. “You too,” they said, waving me in.
So I set the timer, balanced the Canon on a piling, and ran like hell—barefoot, grinning, trying to beat the shutter.
I made it just in time—midair for a second, then landed right in front of them, knees bent, hands on thighs, doing my best “I belong in this picture” pose.
And that’s when the dock gave up.
No warning. No creak. Just a sharp CRACK!—loud and final, like the dock had made a decision we weren’t part of.
The boards buckled. The whole thing shivered once, like it was reconsidering its purpose in life. My knees wobbled. A Styrofoam cup of sweet tea shot across the planks like it had somewhere better to be. And behind me, someone shouted what may have been, “Save the hush puppies!”
We hit the water in a tangle of arms, laughter, and poor decisions. I kept the camera bag dry. The dock? Gone. Called it a day.
And it got the shot. One perfect, black-and-white frame of five happy fools, half a second before the world gave way.
That’s what I’ve got now. The photo. And a memory that still smells like hush puppies and boat fuel.
Buffett was right, you know.
If we couldn’t laugh, we’d all go insane.
And let’s be honest—
“This morning, I shot six holes in my freezer / I think I got cabin fever / Somebody sound the alarm...”
—has never felt more accurate.
Bonus: Here’s the memory in a drawer—a moment captured with the Canon of the five of us.
Turns out it wasn’t just in my head.
July 1993. Seafood Restaurant & Marina, Blackwater River.
Four made the shot. One went swimming. The dock called it quits.