How to Read a Florida Gulf Coast Beach: A Guide to Shadow Dunes, Ghost Forests, and Other Telltale Clues from an Ever-Changing Coast

Introduction

Welcome to Florida’s Gulf Coast. Whether this is your first visit or your hundredth, there is always something new to see here. Yesterday’s smooth sands may today be pockmarked, and this spring’s hummocky dunes might be flattened by autumn. Last year’s two islands may now be one, or maybe last month’s quiet beach is now a bulldozed worksite. All of these changes are clues to the stories of the beaches.

In this book, we will be looking at Florida’s Gulf shores largely through the eyes of coastal geologists. So although shorebirds and seashells are a source of endless wonder, for this particular tour, we’ll quietly pass those by and focus instead on the lands and the sands themselves. Why are some islands short and stubby, while others are long and narrow? Why do some dunes line up all soldierly and orderly, while others are scattered and disheveled? Why do some beaches have sands of almost snowy pure quartz, while others are a hash of shell bits? Why do some shores have no beach at all?

We will start this casual, wide-ranging tour with a quick overview of Florida’s Gulf Coast, roaming from popular Perdido Key in the northwest to remote Cape Sable in the south (chapter 1). Then we’ll look a little closer at some large-scale coastal features and big-picture processes (chapters 2 and 3). Next we’ll head out into the salty air for a stroll (virtual or real, depending on where you are) to look over some dunes (chapter 4) and then the beach proper (chapter 5). While we’re there, we’ll kneel down for a close-up look at some smaller-scale, here-today-gone-tomorrow beach features (chapter 6) and at the very grains of sand themselves (chapter 7).

To this point, most of the features we will have seen in the book, from baby dunes to singing sands, could also have been seen by the Calusa or Fort Walton Indians that populated these shores centuries ago. To wrap up our tour, we’ll look at some things those people couldn’t have seen: some controversial coastal manipulations and engineering structures that are new to the shoreline (chapter 8).

Finally, we will conclude by looking briefly at what experts have to say about the state of today’s beaches and what is likely on the horizon (chapter 9). As people crowd the world’s shorelines in exploding numbers, ecologists say that sandy beaches are experiencing human pressures like never before and that evidence for ecological change is piling up worldwide. Oceans are rising and shorelines are moving, but in many places, we’ve drawn a line in the sand by building houses and high-rises right at the water’s edge— yesterday’s edge. Now what? Exciting times lie ahead.

Florida is a big place. The maps in chapter 1 will help keep you oriented, as will the little inset maps in many of the photos. A short glossary closes the book to help with unfamiliar terminology. You’ll also find in the back pages an index to help locate specific topics.

Spend some time watching closely the comings, goings, and shiftings of the islands and the passes, the beaches’ berms and bars (sandbars, that is), and you’ll come to see the coast in a whole new way. The people who know and love Florida’s Gulf Coast often talk about the strong sense of place they share. If you spend even a little time ambling among the region’s shaggy dunes or paddling its quiet bays, you too will soon come to know that Florida’s Gulf shores are very special places. The Paleo-Indians who lived here knew this, as did the coastal Native Americans, the Spanish, the French, the British, the Cubans, and the Americans who followed. Even when you’re not here in the salty humid air, you’re likely to find yourself checking tide tables and webcams from afar, following the summer turtle-nest counts and thinking of sea grapes and beach mice.

So let’s get started. Slip on some flip-flops or grab a comfy chair, and let’s take a closer look at Florida’s Gulf Coast beaches. Along the way, you’ll surely find that many things have changed since this book was written. That’s the nature of the coast. Islands shift, inlets shoal, dunes migrate, and development spreads. All of these changes are clues to the beaches’ first lesson: no beach ever stays the same. Now let’s hunt down some clues and tease out some stories. Let’s learn how to read a beach.

1 Florida’s Gulf Coast

A Region to Savor

Florida’s Gulf Coast is a vast and colorful region stretching across more than five degrees of latitude and six degrees of longitude (Maps 1.1 and 1.2). To drive from one end to the other takes more than fourteen hours, and that’s if you’re just traversing the coastal plain, zipping along on interstate highways for the most part. To actually visit coastal towns and beaches—to see the lapping waves of the Gulf of Mexico—you’ll need to allow for days more to meander down back roads and coastal byways, to pay bridge tolls and wait for ferries, to paddle across bays and hike across dunes. This region is one that’s meant to be savored.

A Feast of Beaches

When Ponce de Leon landed on an east Florida beach in the spring of 1513, he christened the ground Pascua de Florida (feast of flowers), perhaps in honor of a verdant landscape in bloom or maybe as an acknowledgment of his Palm Sunday landing. Had he disembarked on the opposite (west) coast on a more mundane day, he might well have named the peninsula feast of mangroves, feast of marsh grasses, or feast of beaches. All of these diverse pleasures are to be found along Florida’s Gulf Coast.

The Northwest Barrier Chain: Big Dunes and Sugar Sands

Turquoise waters, big dunes, and sugar-white sands lend a distinctive look to much of the 200-mile northwest chain of barrier islands and beaches (Figure 1.1), especially in relatively pristine stretches. Large, productive estuaries and rare dune lakes are another regional hallmark. The waves in this sandy stretch are the Gulf of Mexico’s most energetic, as evidenced by enthusiastic surfers and occasional rip-current warnings. The big protuberance of capes—San Blas and St. George—is the footprint of the Apalachicola River (Plate 1), which for millennia has carried sand from inland hills and mountains to the coast. Development on Panhandle shores ranges from very light to heavy. In some areas, the imprint of recent hurricanes is strong.

MAP 1.1. Florida’s Panhandle Coast

MAP 1.2. Florida’s West Coast

FIGURE 1.1. Topsail Hill Preserve State Park, home to rare coastal dune lakes (2010).

The Big Bend Coast: Marsh, Marsh Everywhere

East of Alligator Point, the barrier islands—as well as the waves and surfers—disappear for about the next 250 miles. This rocky flatland region is the sand-starved Big Bend coast, one of North America’s longest open-ocean marsh shorelines. It’s a sea kayaker’s paradise, with just a few sandy strips or mounds scattered here and there (Figure 1.2, Plate 2). Vast expanses of salt marsh and coastal swamp are underlain by a hard, uneven floor of flat limestone bedrock whose underground reservoirs feed spectacular freshwater springs. Surprisingly, one of the west coast’s highest points of dry land is also found here. An ancient sand dune at Seahorse Key, one of the Cedar Keys constellation of islands, soars to fifty feet—an almost dizzying height in this low-lying country. A few small maritime towns and stilt-house communities dot the shoreline.

FIGURE 1.2. Atsena Otie (cedar island) Key, site of an ancient Indian midden (2010).

The West-Central Barrier Chain: World-Class Diversity

Another chain of almost continuous sandy beaches stretches down the west peninsular coast for about 200 miles between Anclote Key and Cape Romano (Plate 3, Figure 1.3). This area, home to one of the world’s most diverse collections of barrier islands, is punctuated by two large estuaries, Tampa Bay and Charlotte Harbor. Offshore sands are patchy. The waves here are a little more energetic, as evidenced by the occasional surfboard. Many of the beaches are within easy driving reach of the Tampa Bay metropolis, the Florida Gulf Coast’s largest metropolitan region. Some of the beaches are highly developed, shaded by condos and high-rise hotels. Others are very lightly developed, often backed by low dunes. Many west-central beaches are artificially replenished: sand is brought to the beaches not by just Mother Nature but also by pipeline or dump truck to widen dwindling beaches and protect coastal buildings from an encroaching sea.

The Southwest Mangrove Coast: Forest Mazes and Shell Beaches

The southernmost segment of Florida’s Gulf Coast is a quiet region nestled between two prominent capes: Cape Romano and Cape Sable. A wide offshore shelf and extremely low wave energy characterize the open marine environment here, reminding visitors of the Big Bend area but with a tropical twist. South of Cape Romano, sand becomes scarce again as we enter the wild maze of the Ten Thousand Islands, one of the world’s largest mangrove forests. Here, small key (island) beaches are scattered among the leafy islets (Plate 4). South of the mangrove tangle is a marshy area where freshwater flows from the famous Everglades River of Grass. Remote Cape Sable, on the south end of this stretch, is a rare and precious bit of navigable solid ground in a landscape of mostly warm waters, soggy mud, sharp reefs, and dense vegetation. To reach the shelly southwest beaches (Figure 1.4), many of which fall within Everglades National Park, you’ll need a boat—and don’t expect room service. Kayakers’ tents, not high-rise hotels, are the norm here.

FIGURE 1.3. Vanderbilt Beach, a mainland beach. Naples (2010).

Movers and Shapers

We continue our tour by looking at some big-picture processes at work on the sea’s edge. In later chapters, we’ll revisit some of these topics in greater detail. What makes Florida’s beaches look and act like they do?

FIGURE 1.4. Cape Sable peninsula, the southernmost point of the continental United States. Everglades National Park. (Photo courtesy of Bob Showler, National Park Service)

Tectonic Setting

Florida has more than 4,500 islands, yet not one is a volcanic island. Why not? And why is the nearby mainland flat and stable rather than mountainous and rumbling with earthquakes? In the biggest-picture sense, the answer is plate tectonics—the scrambling around of the thin outer plates that cover the Earth’s hot interior. The movement of these plates influences the overall configuration of the Earth’s coastlines.

Coasts located where two crustal plates grind together—as in Alaska or California—tend to be hotbeds of activity, with volcanoes and earthquakes. Coasts riding passively in the center of a plate, far from the grinding edges—like the Atlantic Seaboard in the middle of the massive North American plate—tend to be tamer. The quiet Gulf Coast enjoys the relative calm of a plate interior (with occasional warpings and rumblings), but instead of facing a huge, wide-open (and widening) Atlantic Ocean, it faces the nearly enclosed Gulf of Mexico. This marginal sea is only about 1,000 miles by 550 miles in size. For comparison, consider that the width of the

Atlantic Ocean, as measured from Florida to Morocco, is more than 4,000 miles. Small basin size is one reason for the Gulf’s gentle wave climate: winds simply don’t have room to blow over water for great distances and build up maximum-power waves.

Sand Supply

Sediment supply (or the lack of it) profoundly shapes what any coastline looks like. Most of the durable sand on Florida’s Gulf beaches is quartz (silicon dioxide, the stuff of glass), derived ultimately from the Appalachian Mountains and the piedmont. Over many millions of years, the ravages of time and weather wore down the peaks and hills, chipping the landscape into boulders, the boulders into gravel, and the gravel into sand. Rivers, including the ancestral kin of today’s Apalachicola River, brought the gritty remnants to North Florida, and waves and currents then helped spread the sands down the peninsula and westward along the Panhandle. These days, inland areas supply essentially no new sand to the open-ocean coast. Today’s beaches must look to other sources, such as the inner continental shelf, nearby eroding bluffs, or neighboring eroding beaches. The Grayton Beach headland, for example, supplies sand to its neighbors to the west. For some beaches, especially the more southerly ones, seashells can be an important ingredient.

Waves and Tides

The local hydrodynamic regime—the area’s unique blend of waves and tides—is a big part of why Florida’s Gulf shores are so popular with tourists and locals alike. Waves are an essential ingredient for building beaches and barrier islands, those long ribbons of sand just barely offshore. The Panhandle is where you’ll find the U.S. Gulf’s highest average wave height, which is just under two feet. East of Cape St. George (Map 1.1), wave energy begins to fall off—so much so that the Big Bend area has in the past been called a zero-energy coast. Estimated average breaker height in this region is only about four inches or less. In the west-central barrier chain, average wave height picks up again to about half that of the Panhandle. The mangrove coast of the far southwest is again quieter, with breaker height less than about four inches on average. (Note: to really learn the ins and outs of your beach’s waves, strike up a conversation with some local surfers.)

Tides are also important in shaping the coast—especially the tidal range, the vertical difference between high and low tides. In places where the range is more than about twelve feet, barrier islands are typically absent. The waves don’t remain in any one place long enough to do their island-building work; they are constantly being shifted far onshore and then offshore as the ever-changing tides sweep the shoreline inland and then out again. Also, strong tidal currents tend to sweep sands offshore. Here in Gulf Florida, the tides are just right for barrier-island formation. Tidal range is up to three feet along the peninsular coast and smaller on the Panhandle—just over one foot at Navarre Beach, for example. Tidal range can also influence dune formation. The larger the tidal range, the larger the intertidal beach area that’s available to feed sand to the dunes. (Note: if you really want to know the ups and downs of your local tides, chat with the folks harvesting the waters with rods and reels and cast nets.)

Local Geological History

Beaches and barrier islands are influenced not only by what’s happening today (winds and tides and so on) but also by their geologic inheritance—the things that have happened in the geologic past. For example, Louisiana’s barrier islands sit atop abandoned Mississippi River delta lobes—thick, compressible, unstable piles of muddy sediment. So Louisiana’s islands are now sinking into the sea, as the sediment beneath them compresses and subsides. In contrast, Florida’s peninsular barrier islands sit atop a big, incompressible layer cake of limestone rock that built up in warm, shallow seas over many millions of years. This hard-rock substrate provides a solid, stable platform for the islands.

Local geological history can also make a difference on smaller scales. For barrier islands to exist, for example, the slope of the inner continental shelf must be nice and gentle. Consider also the locations of Anclote Key and Honeymoon and Caladesi Islands, which sit some distance offshore from the mainland. Geologists say the undergirding geology here determines in large part the island locations: these sandy barriers perch atop a subtle ridge on the limestone slab beneath.

Climate and Weather

Climate (think long-term) is another determinant of beach gestalt. You’ll find no fjords in Florida because thick glaciers, so busy to the north, never scraped the landscape here. Today’s Florida is warm-temperate in the Panhandle, transitioning southward to humid subtropical and then to tropical at about the city of Naples. Air temperatures are coolest in the Panhandle (average minimum in the 50s) and warmest in the south (average minimum about 70°). The western Panhandle is the wettest, with approximately sixty inches of rainfall each year. About half of that comes during the summer. To the south, around fifty inches of rain per year is average, with most falling in