South Miami Beach

We were “lucky” to visit this famous beach in October 2024, chased away by hurricane Helene from Siesta Key. We were spared thousands of spring break and tourist beach goers, showing off their naked bodies to the world while soaking in the sunshine.

The beach and the mosaiced boardwalk were empty of tourists as a second hurricane [Milton] had not decided yet where it was going to make landfall. After hurricane Helene’s devastation, people stayed home. A few locals were scattered on the beach or riding their e-bikes.

The hotel was one block from the beach, a short three-minute walk. The staff ignored us most of the time since we did not speak Spanish, “gringos” from other lands.

Miami Beach is a country in itself; it is part of U.S.A. in name only. Life here is vibrantly Hispanic and foreign to American culture in the rest of the states. Cubans like it that way and are proud of their Little Havana.  The food is mostly Cuban and tasty.

Nobody drives well at all, some don’t even bother with driver’s licenses, and, if you happen to be embroiled in a hit and run while crossing the pedestrian crosswalk, the police ignore the victim, and take off in a hurry, protecting their Hispanic brethren who broke the law and almost killed you.

The hotel rooms were tiny and humid, nothing ever dried, towels were missing, and service lacked a lot to be desired. Prices were high and parking cost a fortune per day.

The wooden trolleys were free, and the Uber drivers were sketchy. The outdoor spaces designed for walking and shopping were guarded by several armed policemen which left us with a feeling of unease.

The best part was the almost empty beach, with sand so soft that we sank deeply with each step. The lifeguards had interesting towers with sun-protection windows and all sorts of equipment intended to save the lives of those who were daring or reckless enough to brave the dangerous Atlantic Ocean.

The water was a beautiful seafoam blue, so opaque that I could not see my fingers three inches below the surface. We stepped from the water’s edge into this balmy ocean and immediately sank onto a three-foot drop, then another three-foot drop. It was so sudden that we lost our balance and fell in. By the time we touched the floor, the diaphanous water was above our heads, and we had to tread water while the waves were tugging us not so gently away from the shore.

While attempting to swim, I imagined all sorts of frightening scenarios lurking under this beautiful water, such as stingrays, sharks, or jellyfish stinging us with long tentacles. But the water temperature and the salt felt divine to the skin and joints.

I was familiar with the stingray from previous swims in the Gulf of America. Unfortunately for me, once I forgot to shuffle my feet, and I stepped on a juvenile stingray who whipped its tail and stung me in the heel. The tail lashed instantly like a dark stick and stung me. Once I yelped, my husband remarked, “it was just a wooden stick honey,” but then the heel started bleeding, and the sharp pain got worse, necessitating a doctor’s visit and x-ray to identify the potential presence of a barb. Luckily, there was none.

I know that I watch too many shark documentaries and videos of other oceanic creatures that fascinate me, but I have seen sharks come close to the water’s edge on Siesta Key where the gulf waters are infinitely less dangerous than the furious and opaque Atlantic Ocean.