Mosquito Coast

Rudolf Tomasello Photo from Town of Jupiter Website

     It seemed inevitable.

     As kids, my neighborhood gang was bound to do a few foolish things at least once or twice before we turned eighteen. 

     Our biggest “stupid kid trick” involved fog trucks.  These were trucks with mosquito misting systems attached to them that went all around North Palm Beach (and throughout most of Florida, I've heard) during the rainy season to try to keep the mosquito population down.

     Fog poured out the back.  That looked cool to us and we, totally ignorant of what was being sprayed, rode our bikes in and out of it, reveling in the novelty. It smelled odd, but the billowing white clouds were irresistible. Parents yelled, kids were sent to showers and then to bed. We gradually got the idea that riding through mosquito fog was not the brightest idea we’d ever had.

      South Florida has always had a mosquito problem.  Muck and marshes were, and are, perfect breeding grounds. After daily summer afternoon thunderstorms and the occasional hurricane, standing water adds to the problem. Those mosquitoes aren't just irritating, they can spread disease and they had to be dealt with swiftly.

     The Mosquito Information Site (yes, it really exists! Here’s the LINK!) states that many European explorers wrote about having to “sleep on the beach covered with sand” to escape the hordes of blood-sucking menaces.  There was even a Mosquito County created in 1824. You know it today partially as Orange County – home to Mickey and Minnie. It was split into several different counties over the years.

     The Mosquito Information Site says the first mosquito association was formed to do battle against the formidable foe in 1922. Good thing, too. The Spring, 2011 Lake Ida Current quoted long-time resident Haide Zelder as claiming that in the early days of the Delray/Lake Ida area, mosquitos were “so big and black, like a swarm of bees; we’d have to run!”

       I’ve heard rumors that in Jupiter as well as Delray (then Linton), settlors were careful not to leave their homes without long sleeves. In those days before mosquito repellants, it took mere moments for insects to swarm and land on unsuspecting skin to feast.  All mosquito feasting is not in the past, though.  I recently heard about two friends who, while visiting the Florida Oceanographic Institute on Hutchinson Island, were repeatedly bitten. The husband posted on Facebook, “It’s safe for everyone else to visit. My wife and I made sure the mosquitos have already been fed.”

Photo from ilovenewton.com

    Now that I have you itching in sympathy for our ancestors who braved the hordes, I’ve got to let you know that not only does Florida still use fog trucks, but we now have mosquito control from helicopters, too. There’s some controversy as to whether or not the spraying causes damage to other, less irritating, Florida wildlife.

     I can honestly tell you, I haven’t ridden my bike through mosquito fog in years. Of course, not having a bike may have something to do with it. As a child, I was always fascinated with the fickleness of the mosquito. The female mosquito will feast on a poor innocent person while nearby, someone else sits relatively unscathed. I’m one of the latter. Perhaps there was a benefit to riding through the mosquito fog after all.* 

Copyright (c) 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

*NOTE: I AM NOT ADVOCATING PLAYING IN MOSQUITO FOG. I really do NOT think it's responsible for my natural mosquito repelling ability. The fog is a pesticide and it's really not a good thing to play in, or allow your children to play in or around.

Double Roads

Double Roads. Juno Beach.
View to North. 2012

             For most children growing up in Palm Beach County, the beach is a constant source of entertainment and enjoyment. As I was growing up in North Palm Beach, we had to travel south to Singer Island or north to Juno Beach and Jupiter to get to the ocean, but the destination was always worth the drive.

            In the 1960s and seventies, we had to jump and slide down big sand dunes to get to the sea in Juno Beach. It was an art to avoid the roots of seagrapes and random rocks to keep from falling head over heels.  Once on the beach, walking to the surf usually involved a lot of mincing steps in a futile attempt to run over the steaming sand, superheated by the glaring sun. My personal favorite was jumping from towel to towel until I reached the cooler wet sand. I still see people doing the towel dance.

            One of our favorite destinations was Double Roads. Literally, a double road for a block or two along A1A just north of Marcinski Road in Juno Beach, Double Roads was a dirt road to the east of two lane A1A. Rumor has it that beach erosion gradually required the dirt road be paved. I couldn’t tell you, but its certainly paved now and sturdy wooden stairways from the street level to the sand have been installed. No more tumbling down a dune.

            In those days, someone was always holding a bonfire on the beach in the evenings. Then, as now, teenagers liked to socialize without parents and parties around bonfires were frequent.  From the stories my Facebook friends have shared with me, some were much more exciting than most of the parties I attended. “Submarine races” were as popular then as they are now and spending the night cuddled in blankets under the open stars pure romance.

            Opposite Double Roads, where condominiums are now, boys used to practice their “Dukes of Hazzard” moves in the sand, driving in wild, wide circles over the scrub in their souped-up cars. Once, a van even went off the road, over the dune and onto the beach several feet below. No one seems to remember if it was occupied at the time.

            Crab walks were another evening delight. Crabs would leave the beach in huge numbers and attempt to cross Double Roads and A1A by the light of the moon. All those white bodies scrabbling over the road was enough to give anyone nightmares.  Unfortunately, cars kept driving and the trip became deadly for the crabs. Innocent travelers with their windows down to enjoy the salty seabreeze were treated to the crunch of crabs as pale bodies became easy prey to car tires. The smell of crab parts in the undercarriage the next few days was an unwelcome souvenir of the evening drive.

            When I was camping with the Girl Scouts at Camp Welaka, one of the best field trips was to the beach. The Camp would load campers into vans and drop us off at the beach to walk silently in the dark looking for nesting sea turtles. Once a turtle started laying her eggs, we could turn on flashlights and watch. As the cool, salty breeze blew stiffly off of the ocean, we’d stand mute and watch as nature provided the show both on the beach and in the starry sky.

Double Roads Looking South.
2012.

            Double Roads is right where it’s always been, on A1A just north of Marcinski Road. Still open to the public and a great place for a walk on a clear night, but I wouldn’t suggest a bonfire. I’m pretty sure you need a permit for that now.

(This column first appeared in seabreezepublications.com in The Florida You Don't Know.)

Copyright 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

War Off the Beach



Historic Hartman House circa 1930s
Posing on the front stoop is my father, Norman Hartman,
and his big sister, Marjorie Ann

             When my father, Norman Hartman was ten, the world was at war. In Europe, World War II raged and Germans were the enemy.  There was more going on during that time in South Florida than I realized.

               In the summer months when it was hottest in Delray Beach, Norman and his siblings would sleep on the second floor front porch of the house they grew up in to catch whatever sea breeze might still be moving. More than once, they heard a boom and, turning east toward the sound over the ocean, would see the sky lighting up in bright yellows and oranges.  It wasn’t fireworks.  The flaming sky was a sign that a German U-boat had torpedoed another ship trying to make its way up or down the coast. The neighbor a couple of doors down, Sam Ogren, Jr., and others would run for their boats and race out into the ocean to pick up survivors. Sam actually received a commendation for his rescue work during the war.  My Uncle Allen remembers survivors huddled in my Great-Uncle Lloyd Benson’s kitchen at his dairy farm near where Briny Breezes is now located. The day after an explosion, my father and his brother Warren would hike over to the beach to pour through the debris that came ashore—mattresses, wood, odd bits of belongings and once, even the wing of a plane.

               Germans actually controlled the Atlantic Ocean for the first years of the war and caused quite an interruption to shipping along the entire east coast of the United States. The big ships that couldn’t make it down the Intracoastal Waterway had no choice but to take their chances on the open sea.  Airplanes flew numerous missions up and down the coast trying to spot German submarines. There’s a great book by Michael Gannon named “Operation Drumbeat” which details the German military action of the same name. Operation Drumbeat was meant to cause major trouble and it was highly successful for a while.

             Because my great-grandfather, Fred Hartman, was a German immigrant, the FBI came calling. My dad remembers the children being shooed out of the house by his mother while the interview with “Grosspapa” was conducted.  The FBI wanted to make sure that even though he had relatives and family in Germany, Grosspapa would contact the FBI if he were ever contacted by a saboteur, even if it were a family member.

               There was a huge military base in Boca Raton, part of which is now the campus of Florida Atlantic University. Instructors at the base were teaching the brand new field of radar.  My grandparents rented rooms to several officers and their wives, some of whom came back year after year after the war to rent a room, vacation in Delray Beach and visit with the family. My dad’s favorite was named Gordon “Gordy” Apple. Although it’s claimed that Norman and Warren tormented Gordy and teased him unmercifully, it was Gordy who took the two young boys to the garage at the back of the house and worked with them to build a working radio.



The Historic Hartman House 2011

               The house my father grew up in is still in its original location at 321 N.E 7^th Avenue in Delray Beach and has just recently been reopened as The Historic Hartman House Bed & Breakfast. Benita and Jordon Goldstein, the owners, have lovingly restored and renovated the 1926 house and it is truly a trip into the past, albeit quite a bit more luxurious than the original version. If you stay in the Highlands Park Suite, you can stand in what was the second floor front porch and look east. If you use your imagination, you can imagine being ten years old and realizing the battle was not an ocean away in Europe, but mere miles away, right off of your beach.

 

(This column appears in Southern Exposure, September issue published by Seabreeze Publications, Inc. at seabreezepublications.com.)