I parasailed the Redneck Riviera and made it a little gayer
As I crouched on the back of the speeding boat, it hit me—I probably should've looked up what parasailing meant before agreeing.
As I crouched on the back of the speeding boat on my last day in Panama City Beach, waiting for the wind to lift me into the sky, it hit me—I probably should’ve looked up what parasailing meant before agreeing. My purple, parachute-like canopy spread like butterfly wings, and suddenly, it felt like I was skydiving in reverse.
As I cruised hundreds of feet above the sea, my life tethered by a single rope, I expected fear. Instead, I felt the most peaceful I had all year. The experience was calm, almost silent as if I were floating in the clouds.
With a literal eagle-eye view of Panama City Beach, I ingrained the experience into my memory while reflecting on what my cynical friends had told me when they saw online I was spending a few days here. I felt like I proved them wrong: the treasures of travel don’t cater to identity.
Pack your bags, we’re going on an adventure
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But let’s rewind.
“What a trash city! That’s where everyone from Kentucky goes for spring break because it’s the cheapest and closest,” an editor friend (reluctantly based in Kentucky) DMed me after seeing one of my Instagram stories upon arrival.
The beach was white as sugar, and the water crystal clear (sue me for the cliché, but if the shoe fits…). He must have been referring to the locals as “trash.”
This was reinforced when comedian Jessica Watkins DMed me her firsthand opinion: “The Redneck Riviera! (As it was delicately called when we vacationed there every summer of my childhood).”
Unbeknownst to me, Panama City Beach has a less-than-stellar reputation for people of color and queer travelers. As part of the Emerald Coast in North Florida, it’s influenced by a robust Southern culture.
Suddenly, I felt nervous. I brought my Black friend Teralyn, and I wasn’t sure if we were at risk of hostility. Despite a harmonious first day at the beach—where the sand, made of 99% pure silica quartz, is so fine it squeaks when you walk on it—and a ravishing dinner at Runaway Island, I couldn’t help but wonder if a microaggression was looming. And if it happened, would it be our fault for coming here?
Were we in their space, just as someone donning a MAGA hat might be met with bricks and stones in Fire Island? Who is allowed to exist where? As a gay traveler, I’m supposed to do my due diligence on LGBTQ-friendly destinations. But I’ve never been a person who places limits on my sense of adventure or Googles in advance. Spontaneity, for me, is the spice of life and the joy of freedom.
Screw it, I thought.
Teralyn and I agreed we could handle ourselves. After all, she joked, she was a hillbilly, having been raised and living in Palatka, Florida. It was funny how cultural connections could easily get lost in translation through appearances. I learned this firsthand when I returned to my native country Colombia in the summer of 2022 and was treated like a Gringo because of my pale skin.
On the second day, we ate donuts for breakfast at Thomas Donuts and rode the locally famous Skywheel, which I didn’t realize prepped me for the upcoming parasailing. Later, we tried to go snorkeling with Island Time Snorkel and Dolphin Cruise, only to be handed gear by the staff with serious faces while anchored near an island’s shore—aka, snorkeling for children. Surrounded by people who could be considered “rednecks” (what does that even mean?), my only real problem was the kids. If you want to have more fun, make sure to choose adult-only providers.
Dinner was at FireFly, and it was so freaking good that it could compete with restaurants in major cities. We had enough espresso martinis to power my flight back home. On the third day, we went paddleboarding at St. Andrews State Park. The lady working the counter was as helpful as a sack of potatoes and refused to move an inch to help us. She made us fetch our paddles without even bothering to guide us to it, and we had to track down our boards on the beach.
“It’s because I’m Black!” Teralyn said, “I recognize that look.”
“Or she could just be a lazy bitch,” I countered, trying to stay positive, but I didn’t want to dismiss her lived experience.
Teralyn and I literally had no idea how to paddleboard, so we just lay on the board and floated in the sea, once again ignoring the kids around us. Maybe their potentially racist or homophobic parents were ignoring us, too? Who knows. I wasn’t afraid to be the only guy wearing a Speedo.
At last, the final day arrived, and I had a lovely time. Teralyn left before I went parasailing, which felt like the ultimate end to an itinerary filled with comfort food and water sports. I knew that the hate marginalized people experience often comes down to luck, but queer people exist wherever humans are born. I was glad to have arrived without preconceived ideas that might’ve made me cancel the trip, though my only regret was not checking out Splash Bar Florida to see the local gay culture.
Yes, there was about zero diversity at the establishments and vendors we visited, but falling into those narratives allows for the erasure of queer history, as seen in Queering the Redneck Riviera, a book by Jerry Watkins III that explores the mostly-overlooked LGBTQ+ experience in this region of the United States.
Most cities have a history of prejudice if you look far enough, so new generations deserve a chance to be inclusive. I was proud that my presence temporarily made the Redneck Riviera a little gayer, adding one more torso to the Grindr grid.
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