Footprints are seemingly fossilized in gelatinous sand that has a peculiar red tint. For a while, the beach goes largely empty and silent — save for the sounds of cars rushing past and the occasional mullet flopping in the water. Pink and orange clouds overshadow the industrial skyline, and dolphins poke their fins out of the water. And if you sleep in your car when it's parked by the mangroves — as he does occasionally — it doesn't count as camping.
Dogs run without leashes. Car stereos compete to provide a soundtrack for the evening. Pink and orange clouds overshadow the industrial skyline, and dolphins poke their fins out of the water. And if you sleep in your car when it's parked by the mangroves — as he does occasionally — it doesn't count as camping. They're mostly young adults, though there are two small children hopping over a puddle. Gartman said the regulars know there are some unspoken rules. Farther down the beach, 3-year-old Lorelay Mooney, in a giraffe-print swimsuit with a pink tutu, dunks her arms into the water looking for treasure. August 30, Remnants of the night before line the shore at Gandy Beach. They park on the beach and along the mangroves. Jim Gartman, 64, is one of those folks. He's one of just a few people on the beach on this summer weekday. But the moment is short-lived. For a while, the beach goes largely empty and silent — save for the sounds of cars rushing past and the occasional mullet flopping in the water. Aside from "no camping" signs, there is little law enforcement. Smoke slowly billows from a fire pit, with beer bottles and eggshells scattered in and around the white ashes. By midnight, there should be about 15 more cars and three times as many people, according to Joseph Bosworth, The garbage, debauchery and unsightly scenery deter tourists and locals alike. Though cars zoom by at 60 mph a few dozen yards away from the shore, the thin strip of beach lining Gandy Boulevard is calm on a Friday morning. People park on the sand. Homeless people stay on the west end of the beach, and the east end is more family-friendly. The white plastic cover on a full-size mattress collects rainwater in brown puddles. Mud splashes up onto passengers in a Jeep with no doors. In the mangroves, a leopard-print bra is tucked between two branches, and condom wrappers and more beer bottles lie nearby in the dirt. Zach Wynne, 19, and Jordan Fuqua, 20, had blasted through the water-filled ditches looking for a cheap thrill. She runs to her mom each time she finds new bounty — pieces of garbage, broken glass and a piece of charcoal. Robbie Iverson, 19, and Brandi Dorr, 30, back their pickup truck up to the water and sit on the end of the bed, their feet dangling. There are no rest rooms, snack bars or kayak rental kiosks.
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