It is Saturday in Pensacola, Florida, and we decide to sleep in. This worked out for Jessica, too, as she was on call until 6:00 a.m. Arriving in the evening, we weren’t able to see the damage lingering here until we were on our drive to pick up my daughter at Corry Station, where she is taking her Naval training for the job she will be performing while enlisted with the United States Navy.

Her facility is, like all other military installations, immaculate. I have often wished that cities would organize themselves as well as these posts and keep the landscape clean and in order. We get a brief tour of the grounds and are just as quickly on our way to get some breakfast.

Being here in the south Waffle House seemed like the obvious choice. Even finding an open restaurant is a challenge in Pensacola post-Hurricane Ivan, but Waffle House turns out to be a great choice. Auntie loves grits, Grandpa didn’t much like the waffle, Jessica had a wrap, and I had a waffle, hash browns, and sausage.

Stomachs full and without much of a plan we drive west along the coast. Mile after mile of devastation is all we see. We are all caught off guard as none of us thought the damage was so great or that it was lingering so long after Ivan hit the U.S. back in September. From Pensacola to Fort Pickens in Alabama, we drive through a ghost town.

A few people have come out for the beach; mostly, they are fishing. Some sit on porches in buildings that are largely vacant. The majority of people in the area are construction workers. Everything is damaged.

Beachfront homes lean on their stilts. Foundations of million-dollar homes have buckled, and their raised floors have fallen away, draining their contents and leaving empty shells. Some homes have lost walls, while others had their roofs torn off. In one home, we see through a hole in the wall a dresser with most drawers missing; the closet still has shoes in it. The couch is growing mold, as are the walls. A blade from a ceiling fan is missing, and an old purse, notebook, half-burned candle, and a still-standing open bottle of wine sit on the floor surrounded by sand.

High-rise condo owners weren’t spared either; it appears that most if not all, are closed. Facades are torn off; entire corners are gone. Cranes dot the landscape as things are being rebuilt. Resorts and luxury beachfront hotels are all closed. Debris lines the streets and parking lots. Plants, trees, and tennis courts look as though they were abandoned years ago.

The day is gloriously blue-skied, and the weather is perfect. The beaches are crystalline white, with the Gulf waters gently rolling in. A few feet away, a dishwasher sits in the sand, ripped from the home it once belonged to. Across the street, a couch is upended, sitting with other household things scattered willy-nilly.

Bizarrely, a built-in swimming pool floated away from its home and was redeposited where the driveway used to be. Some places have already been pulled out with no further sign of its existence besides some pilings, while others look like they may be salvageable.

Instead of chatting about military life the four of us can’t help but stand in awe at the power of the storm and shock at the tragedy of how life and property were cast aside by the heavy hand of nature.

As far west as we can travel on the 182, the picture is much the same. Time to head a bit north over to Fort Morgan, where we’ll catch a ferry to Dauphin Island. Almost immediately, a sign brings our attention to the fact that the ferry is not open but will reopen soon, another victim of the hurricane.

Although much havoc has been wrought upon these communities, there is still much beauty to be found here. Everything is recovering. The beaches are so very pristine. The forest continues on. Birds still sing, and here and there are the intrepid tourists riding bikes, walking, and playing golf.

At Fort Morgan, we pay a small fee to view this historic site. The large fortified structure came through the storm without a scratch. The massive walls stood much the same way they have for the past 150 years. What is broken and looking beyond repair is the dock where the ferry to Dauphin Island once stood. Crumpled, folded, battered, this dock we drove off with my mother-in-law just a year and a half ago is in dire need of some tender loving care.

Sadly, Alabama is in dire need of some cold, hard cash. Fort Morgan is run now by a skeleton crew due to budget cuts. I just want to scream at President Bush: yeah, go ahead and give more tax breaks to the rich and just have the states shut down our state historic sites and close the state parks too to finance changes in Medicare, whose costs will have to be absorbed by the states. Send troops into Iran with bags of cash so we leave our roads potholed. Don’t develop alternative energy; we can export suitcases of cash to the Middle East for oil and move to close down or limit access to our national parks. No child left behind means no cash for forests; log them out of here.

Sorry, but you can’t drive across this country seeing the decay, and ignore it. Of course, you can sit at home in a city that’s doing well and not have a clue any of this is happening, but I’m out here seeing it, hearing about it, and not being able to do a thing about it. America the Beautiful is going to need a Band-Aid.

Fort Morgan, though, is still here, and we don’t have a lot of time to visit it. The grounds are beautiful; the bunkers are mossy and wet, with stalactites forming from the minerals oozing through the old brick structures. Displays within the fort walls are well presented, but I wish the glass was cleaned a little more frequently. Old cannons dot the grounds, and darkened passages lend a mystery to the history this fort exemplifies.

A small museum helps tell the story of the coming and goings of this facility that had originally been built to protect Mobile Bay. Do your research before arriving, as the gift store is being starved out of existence due to those budget cuts.

Auntie and Jessica had a great time walking and talking here today. Later, Jessica told me of her respect for Auntie’s enthusiasm and genuine excitement at being at this historic site.

Grandpa had originally been a little reluctant to join us in the fort but ultimately joined the party. Due to the blood thinners he takes, Grandpa is most of the time quite cold; here on the open coast with a good wind, it was a bit chilly, but he overcame that to catch a glimpse of things and visit the museum with us.

I know Jessica appreciates getting to know these two a little better during the past year and a half. Often, she blurts out how funny or cute these two are, how sweet Auntie is, and how Grandpa says some surprising and laughable lines that seemingly come out of nowhere.

It would be nice if Jessica could join us for the next week, but the Navy has plans for her, and what the government wants, the government gets. Even these few short hours spent here she has been able to accumulate memories that will surely leave a positive impact on her and her future.

At 4:30, we are driving east and decided we should try to make the galley before closing time. Jessica calls a buddy and finds that the closing time is 5:30; it’ll be close but we try.

Not a chance; it is 5:27 as we enter Pensacola. Before going on a wild goose chase, we call information to find a Po-Folks, but while on the phone we pull into Barnhill’s. Wow, we were lucky. This is a buffet-style restaurant serving up southern cooking.

The menu includes fried shrimp, catfish, pulled pork, fried chicken, ribs, greens, yams, rutabagas, cabbage, green beans, and at least 25 other dishes. For dessert, we can choose from peach, berry, or apple cobbler, bread pudding, banana pudding with Nilla wafers, and another half dozen items. I am so happy this place doesn’t franchise and open in the southwest; I would weigh 400 pounds before Christmas.

With dinner finished, we went to the hotel and set up Grandpa and Auntie in their room. Jessica comes to my room to read the story of the road trip so far. With tears in her eyes, she smudges her mascara into a fright mask. Next, she views the photos we’ve taken after leaving Arizona and driving through New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida, and Alabama.

Just as we finish, a humongous man-eating Florida-style cockroach crawls across the wall. I open the door while Jessica, with Samurai-like moves, lunges at the roach and gently but firmly siphons the hand-sized mutating insect from its clutch on the wall and hurls it outside. Hey, Go Navy! That’s some training. I am impressed with the skill and dexterity that have developed in my offspring.

A friend drops by the hotel to pick up Jessica, saving me the drive back to the base and allowing me to sit down to relate another day on the road with family.