‘Taking in the Sandbar at sunset’ By Juli Cragg Hilliard

Share it!

Share

Email This

The following article was published in Manatee magazine, April 24, 2006

Taking in the Sandbar at sunset

By JULI CRAGG HILLIARD

The little red boat pointed the way to the beach. As we rounded the
south end of the Sandbar, intent on a pre-dinner stroll along the Gulf
shore of northern Anna Maria Island, the small vessel in a quiet corner
of the restaurant’s front yard provided a grace note to open the
evening. I slipped off my flats as we crossed a short boardwalk to the
sand, and my husband gallantly carried them for me. It was Friday night,
high season and crowded. But we chose to walk before signing in for a
table for two.

Dining at a beachside eatery presents the possibility of toasting the
sunset from an outdoor seat, thereby casting oneself in a favorite movie
scene or on a postcard. Yet, an amble in the salt air as the day grows
late is equally inviting and romantic. You win both ways.

The tide was out. The sand, dotted only with smooth coquinas and other
tiny shells, felt cool and hard. The open water offered its own
hypnotism, absent of swimmers this brisk night. The few boats were
simple silhouettes on the horizon.

I’ve always said that if I were to live on any island, it would be Anna
Maria, with its laid-back soul and multiple municipalities with spirited
and quirky politics. Free of high-rises and neon, and marked mostly by
two-story condominiums over garages and modest one-story homes, it
possesses little in the way of franchised businesses, apart from a
Shell’s seafood restaurant, name-brand gasoline and a Domino’s pizza.

It seems private without being snooty. And, unless someone blasts a boom
box, this beach is quiet. Waves and seabird cries wash away tension.
Relaxation lends itself to companionability.

We passed a sandcastle. “Somebody will be increasing the price on that
soon,” my husband joked.

A family group beamed at a baby in a wagon. A man fished in the surf.
From the blue-gray surface of the Gulf, a dark ribbon uncoiled into the
sky, and over our heads soared a line of about 100 birds that we think
were cormorants. The sun went rosy and then seemed to flatten, top and
bottom, as it set. We had walked for an hour, and food appealed. Now
that we were ready, though, it would be another 45 minutes before were
seated.

The Sandbar is one of three restaurants that Ed Chiles owns in Manatee
County. We also have visited the Beachhouse in Bradenton Beach and Mar
Vista on north Longboat Key, but most often search out the remote
feeling of the Sandbar, constructed of weathered, untreated wood. It is
where we bring out-of-staters, so they can view the Gulf, listen to live
music, eat seafood, and sit with their toes in the sand. Once, we saw a
small sunset wedding about 20 feet from our table.

The indoor and outdoor sections of the restaurant have separate
hostesses, menus and kitchens. As usual, we wanted to sit outdoors.
Waiting, we lounged out of the wind in a breezeway, browsing posted
menus. A teenage boy trundled tall lamppost-like heaters to the deck.
The dusk water-colored the sky, past a string of festive lights that
hung over the tables.

When we were seated, it was not at any of the dozen or so sandy-toes
tables, but one on an upper deck, in a spot that felt distant even
though we could gaze on other diners and their plates. The breeze had
diminished with nightfall, but we were glad to sit near one of the
heaters. So was a small and unobtrusive cat.

We lingered over drinks, an appetizer of smoked fish dip with capers and
chopped onions, entrees of blackened grouper, and slices of key lime and
chocolate-peanut butter pies. One of the regular entertainers, John
Dewey, played guitar and crooned smooth-jazz, easy listening songs in a
voice like a sweet bell.

We were our own island, and a million miles from anywhere.