Hurricane Helene a year later: A long walk on Pinellas beaches
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Early on in my 11-mile walk on Gulf Boulevard. Photo: Kathryn Varn/Axios
On a muggy morning in September, I left my car in a St. Pete Beach parking lot and began to walk.
Why it matters: After last year's surreal day at the beach in Hurricane Helene's wake, I wanted to not just see but immerse myself in our most vulnerable coastal community a year later.
The big picture: 11 miles up Gulf Boulevard later, the walk laid bare the tension of a place very much still in recovery:
- "NOW OPEN!" banners near deserted pastel motels, sunbathers mingling with construction workers, dumpsters and storage pods sharing the horizon with the serene (for now) Gulf.
Zoom in: A mile or so in, I ran into Jessica Breese outside the souvenir boutique she opened in 2019, Breezy's Beach Shop.
- "I make everything," she said of the coasters, T-shirts and magnets lining the shelves.
- She adjusted. "I made everything," she said. Just the day before, she'd closed the shop for good.
- Helene's vicious storm surge didn't breach its walls, she said, "but it destroyed everything else."
The Bellwether Beach Resort that funneled foot traffic to her shop has been closed since the storm. Then came the fire at Dolphin Village across the street.
- "It's just been — you can't," Breese said. "It's too hard."
- Along with her father's cancer diagnosis, it all felt like a sign: It's time to go back to Ohio.
I walked on, past the still-closed Post Card Inn on the Beach, past the now-open Grove Surf & Coffee, past the real estate office that's "NOW LEASING," and into a quiet neighborhood dotted with for-sale signs and RVs in driveways.
- That's where I spotted John Foley working in his garage. We settled on his front porch, him smoking a cigarette, me chugging water, and talked about what it was like to watch his whole life disappear.
Flashback: As Helene approached, three weeks into his retirement, Foley was at work again, prepping his home, then hunkering down.
- His DIY seal job actually worked, he said, but then came the sewage, rising up through the pipes in smelly spurts.
- It wrecked everything, most painfully a scrapbook that belonged to a family friend who was like an uncle to Foley, chronicling his service in World War II.
The latest: A year later, he's only about halfway through the process of gutting and starting over.
- "I'm absolutely just physically and psychologically worn out," Foley told me. "I didn't expect a retirement party like this."
- Approaching 70, "I'm too old to move," he told me. He's also too old to weather this again. And so he sleeps on a cot in this strange purgatory.
I crossed Blind Pass into Treasure Island, land of kitschy beach stores and colorful vintage resorts, most notably the Thunderbird and its iconic neon sign.
- A few months ago, travelers and residents celebrated the decimated resort's plans to rebuild.
Yes, but: Now, those same plans are central to a tension playing out in this enclave of 6,500. Thunderbird's owners have asked the city to loosen restrictions on height and density for certain hotels and resorts.
- The return on investment of rebuilding the current 106 rooms "does not pencil out," owner Gilad Ovaknin told city commissioners at a meeting this month.
- For some residents, the potential for high-rises and more people poses a direct threat to their quality of life. "Let's not throw out the soul of our community and what makes Treasure Island so cool and funky and special," Isle of Palms Civic Association president Barb Adams said at the meeting.
Walking past windows covered by plywood, low-lying cottages gutted to the studs and the Thunderbird itself, still standing but fenced off and locked in time, it's hard not to think about the words of planning and zoning board member Mark Zdrojewski.
- "We can't live the way that we have for the last 30 years."
Over Johns Pass and into Madeira Beach: more of the same. I stopped for a hearty, fresh salad from Corner Kitchen & Coffee House and felt renewed gratitude for local restaurants.
- In the Redingtons, even the grander built-up mansions remained works in progress, pallets of pavers in a driveway here, a portable toilet in the front yard there, and down the block, a vacant lot where a mermaid-adorned fortress once stood.
I hit my goal of 10 miles on the southern end of Indian Shores, but I pressed forward for one more mile.
- I had a stopping place in mind: the legendary beach dive Mahuffer's, a still-standing miracle shaded by Australian pines and plastered with grimy dollar bills.
- Just a year ago, the water was lapping at the bar where I sat, sipping a $5 Jai Alai (what a deal). The bartender pointed out the new white drywall rising about halfway up the wall that was already covered in messages: "Welcome back motherf-ckers."
Maybe it was the buzz, or the exhaustion, or both, but I felt warmth blossom inside me. So much destruction, so much left to do, and yet, the gritty soul of this place lives on.
In the bathroom (with a shower curtain as the door, because of course), I changed into my bathing suit and headed across the street to the beach.
- I lay back in the gentle surf, resting my swollen feet, buoyed by the salty Gulf.
