7th Invades St. Augustine Part 1: The Old Spanish Fort
Posted by 7th on August 18, 2004

A few years back, I was living alone in an apartment in Jacksonville, Fl, a good three hours from my parents. Purely on accident one night, I let it slip over the phone to my mother that my set off days were mondays and tuesdays. From then on out, about once a month, I'd juuuuust be waking up on monday morning, looking forward to my first free day of goofing off and movie watching, when my doorbell would ring. There would be my Dad, cheap ass cigarettes in hand, ugly old foam baseball cap atop his bald brow.

"Come on boy, let's go."

I never knew where Dad was taking me until we arrived, and quite honestly, I don't think he did either. He was the kind of guy who just liked to jump in the truck and go. A "let's just see where the road leads" kinda guy. Even in his young years, he was known for just up and moving out of state without telling anyone. They'd stop by his house, only to find it deserted. A few weeks later, he'd call from Tucson Arizona or one of a hundred different places he hung his hat, just as happy as a clam to be somewhere new. And I think that after he settled down and got married, a part of him missed that. So whenever he had an excuse, he'd jump in the truck and take off. In those years (if I only I knew then that they'd end up being some of his last) that excuse was usually me.

But to get back on track here, one of those trips ended up being to the scenic city of St. Augustine, which is about 45 minutes south of Jacksonville, right down I-95, just a little ways north of Daytona Beach. Primarily famous for being the oldest city in the nation (and also for being the most haunted locale in the state) St. Augustine is also known for its kitschy tourist attractions, and its overall touristy feel.

The first thing I noticed as we pulled into the city proper was an old carousel, just kind of sitting there right in the middle of the intersection. There's no other rides, no stores around it, just an old damn merry-go-round in the middle of the fucking street. I'd like to know what city planners were in on that decision.

"Hey guys, how's this for a laugh? Let's put a big, round spinning object right in the middle of the central intersection and fuck with some tourist heads."

"Stupendous!"

"Ingenious!"

"I farted!"

"Sounds like a plan, Bartholemew! Let's call it a day and go grab a Moolata!"

St. Augustine is right on the coast, though the area where Ponce De Leon and his murderers comrades landed is now just a knee deep bog back behind the Fountain of Youth Park... St. Augustine has very pretty beaches, but it's not exactly party central. If it's Beer raids and T&A galore you want, you'd best stick to Daytona, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, or my personal favorite, Panama City. Basically, the only tits you're likely to see on this beach are either leaving nipple trails in the sand some three feet behind the owner, or are firmly obscured by an infant's mouth.

Off in the distance you can see in the pic above a tall, white building. This is the oldest hotel in St. Augustine. I can't recall the name of it, but it is one of the stops on the haunted city tours they run every night. Supposedly, you can see headless soldiers and other paranormal visions whilst staying there. And then when you check out and get the bill, the sticker shock will likely cause you to join them as a permanent resident. I know it's all about nostaglia and what-not, but I'd rather stay in a nice, modern resort that's clean and has 200 HBO channels than stay somewhere where I'll lie awake at night and know that unsanitary, foul-smelling, 17th century era Europeans most likely fucked in the bed I'm sleeping in. Missonary style. Without protection.

Oh, this is rich. Rather than drive from attraction to attraction (they're not exactly right next to each other as they are in Gatlinburg) many people choose instead to park their cars and then pay to ride in this stupid lookig train all over town. And let me tell you, it causes a real shitass traffic problem. There's nothing more annoying than getting stuck behind one of these trains.

Seriously. Well, just look at it. It's the Ron Jeremy of public transit! I'd have to be going 80 mph through inner city streets to make my way around this fucking centipede of a transit system! And one other thing, for all you potential tourists out there. It should go without saying that these vehicles have next to no air conditioning, other than the wind. So get ready to enjoy a hot, leisurely scenic ride that reeks of car exhaust and tourist funk.

The first thing you notice when you approach the entrance to the fort are all the caution signs warning you not to go near the "moat stairs." Now I'm sure that, back in the 1700's, this moat was filled to the brim with water and the body parts of various dead prisoners that were thrown over the side. but now, there's just grass. Now someone tell me just what the hell is so dangerous about grass? Were these posted for people with topical allergy problems? When the hell did crabgrass become a public health emergency? And if they have this moat, why don't they just fill the damned thing? Sure, it would be a breeding ground for mosquitoes and God only knows how many disease carrying bacteria, but it would make for much better pictures to go in the vacation slide show you'll force your relatives to watch upon your return. I consider it a lost opportunity for a precious Kodak moment.

Yep, that's my dad, making his way past what has to be the smallest drawbridge I've ever seen. There's no other explanation for it. This bridge just had to have been some sort of after thought.

"Hey, Montoya. I think we have una problema."

"Que?"

"How we gonna get over this fucking moat? We need bridges."

"Ah, chenga te, hijo de punta! We don't need no stinking bridges!"

It's comical how small this drawbridge is. Short of lepers, blind people, and one-legged kids, I can't conceive of this thing keeping anyone out. Even my dad got a laugh out of it.

Speaking of my dad, take a look at him. Kinda clear where I get my build, eh? The man was a piece of carved granite. You could bounce quarters three feet off his biceps. He was only five foot nine, but he walked like he was seven foot ten. I don't think I've ever known anyone else like him, and if you'll pardon a bit of a maudlin moment, seeing this pic after so long just makes me wish his heart had been as strong as the rest of him... But enough of that, on with the tour.

The first thing you see once stepping into the fort are the stone steps leading up to the upper parapets. From there you'll have a great view of the bay, ships sailing by, old cannons, and old people in swimsuits. And as much as I'd love to get an eyeful of some octogenarian's camel toe, I think we'll head through the first floor first and see what wonders we may find there...

Wandering about the complex are these guys dressed in "authentic" polyester uniforms, playing their little war marches as they go by. Occasionally they get some mild applause, but more often than not what I heard after their passing were eight year old boys snickering about men who wear panty hose.

God I hope they're paid well. I sure wouldn't want to traipse around that old wreck of a fort dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy and playing "Don Diego Get Your Gun" ad nauseum. At least the Disney characters have an underground complex to cool off in when they're not groping underage titties bringing laughter to children of all ages and creeds. All these guys have is shade, and in case you hadn't notcied, there isn't a single damned tree in that courtyard.

And then there's the... ahem... security. What is it with Floridian companies hiring this washed up old bastards as security guards, eh? What the hell can they guard against? Melanoma? Too much oxygen on the premises? Puddle of Ben Gay that fall from the joints of their clientele? Just look at this guy. He's not the man with no name, he's the man with no metabolism. They might as well just park Tutankhamen's mummy out front and stick a gun in its hand for all the good this guy will do.

What, you think a short-timer like Dudley Do-Wrong here is going to risk a heart attack or stroke to run down some idiot who steals a plastic water gun shaped like a Spanish cannon from the fucking gift shop? The last time any part of this guy moved fast was when he stopped to have lunch at Taco Bell.

The first room on the first floor tour is a sort of museum that has various artifacts and diagrams showing what the fort was like in its heyday. There were several interesting exhibits, but I kept coming back to this hunk of iron, described as an old cannon from the Spanish settlement (if I recall correctly, the cannons on the parapet were installed later by the British when they occupied the fort.)

I couldn't help thinking that it looked like a humungous pile of dog shit. And with it being in the poor shape that it is, what do we have besides these people's word that it's really a cannon at all? What if it's some kind of 17th century Spanish sexual torture device? Or Chinese handcuffs for prisoners suffering from gigantism? Makes you think, doesn't it?

The next room is the officer's quarters. Now this is some sad shit. First off, there's (again) no air conditioning. but even the putrid aroma of tourist funk cannot cover up the stink that still permeates this room. Have you ever been to one of the Disney parks, or some other big name theme park, and got stuck in line behind a group of Iranians, and they have that "Man suffering from rickets of the armpit who treats it with medicinal camel shit" stink? Well that's what it smells like in this room. When you think of how many men it would take to be living in this cramped little space long enough to create a funk level of Hobo Power factor five that would last for 300 years, it's just nauseating. You might as well snort rotting rat entrails up your nose then hock them out your mouth and floss your sinus cavities with them. It still wouldn't be as bad as the stink in that room.

Here's a good look at the beds they had to sleep on. Hard wooden frames, and canvas sacks filled with straw. Just screams comfort, don't you think? I bet half these guys were hunchbacked before they hit thirty (for those who lived that long.)

The really creepy part lies in the "mattress" itself. The light in there wasn't the best, but if you look closely, you may notice a vaguely human-shaped depression in the straw... Yeah, the body outline of the last guy who slept in that cot (and likely died there) is still imprinted in the mattress. It's not very often that I see something that makes me think simultaneously of Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho and Ned Flanders, mind you, but that cot fit the bill. You have to treasure moments like that, you really do.

The next room is the soldier's chapel. The fine adorned gold cross that once hung on the wall has long since disappeared, and I have my doubts as to whether that podium is authentic or not. But it's a rather solemn room. Very quiet, with just a hint of sunlight coming in from the high-mounted windows. Of course, you need only turn around and have that zen moment ripped from you by the site of...

A fucking happy face made from cannon ball impacts! How fucking weird is that? And even more so, this was in the side wall, at a ninety degree angle to the window... So how the fuck did they get there, unless some nut went postal and decided to express himself abstractly upon the chapel walls? Well, there's one other possible answer. Perhaps they were just fucking with the heads of the residents in the adjoining room...

Yep folks, this is the jail cell, where prisoners were left to rot in next-to-complete darkness whilst the Spanish were out looking for Injun Gold and water that reversed aging... God damn people were stupid back then... Then again, we live in a culture that believes in UFO's, Bigfoot, and that Greedo shot first. So maybe I'm too quick to judge.

But I digress. This is easily one of the creepiest rooms in the whole place. You can just sense death here. It's thick and pungent in the air, like Christina Aguilera before her hourly douche. But the bottom line is this: sometimes there are things in life that are worse than death. Observe...

What can you say when someone gives you a view of their fucking colon while you're trying to take a picture? I mean, I can see the guy is older than All Your Base jokes, but can't he just feel the burn for once and SQUAT?! In a room that already smells of death, this is not something I want shoved in my face. Keep your wrinkled seat pads out of public view. Now, where was I? Oh yeah. You think you have it bad? Check this out.

I know. you're probably wondering "Why would the Spaniards bother to build ash trays for peace-pipe smoking Native Americans?" Well, allow me to shatter your preconceptions my friends. That's not an ash tray. Oh no, no no. That, believe it or not, is the prisoner TOILET. A square block covering a five inch by five inch hole that drops to the primitive underground sewer system. Which only serves to prove a theory I've been wokring on for years. Native Americans had small, square asses. Just remember folks, you heard it here first.

As you can see, the fort is right up on the water, to better spot possible invaders sailing into the bay. You'll also notice from this picture that the walls of the fort were built in a star of David-shaped configuration. According to the free literature, this was supposed to make it harder to attack, and harder to aim cannons at do the tricks it played with the eye's perspective from afar.

This could be true, but perhaps the Spaniards were also counting on the possibility that some space-bound alien Nazi's would fly over and be highly offended by it. Hey, it could happen, I swear. After all, check out what I found when I ventured inside one of the watch towers...

Here, hidden behind some old dead vines that I shoved to the side, I found dozens of number sevens carved into the wall. No dates, no roman numerals, no ship sighting numbers. Just dozens and dozens of sevens. Perhaps some Indian shaman foresaw my coming and hid something within the wall for me to find, and marked it with sevens that his uneducated mind would know nothing about. I started to try and knock the rocks loose to find what lay beneath, but alas, I'd forgotten my knife, and try as I might, my wallet chain was doing little damage. I decided to leave it to fate and headed back to the entrance, where my old man was waiting for me. But just before I left, I decided to stop for a quick piss break in their public restroom. What I found there simply has to be seen to be believed.

I couldn't believe my good luck. I felt like Indiana Jones when he first found the Ark. Here I'd come to the fort thinking I'd just take a few pictures so I could make fun of it later on the website, and instead I stumble upon authentic fossilized Indian Shit! I obviously don't read Navajo (or whichever tribe roamed these parts in ages long ago) but I like to think that it says "Don't forget to wash your hands."

Next time out, we'll look at Old St. Augustine, The Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum, and The Fountain of Youth...

-=7th=-