As Coastal Development Surges, a Segregation-era Sanctuary Hangs in the Balance
Words by Alli Patton
Even as the sea-battered structure gives way to bulldozers and excavators, a sun-bleached script still heralds the price of a sandwich and a soda. Stubborn to the bitter end.
Decades earlier, Reynolds Sandwich Shop catered to beachgoers worn from long days in the sun. Back then, fish plucked straight from the ocean were transformed into lunch within a half-hour, and a burger and a drink totaled little more than a dollar. Though those days have long since passed, the building stood for years as a quiet reminder of a time when mere fun and relaxation were hard-won liberties for some.
Now, the landmark is gone. In its place is a vacant lot, freshly tilled like a new grave.
“Heartbreaking.” That’s the word Ron Miller uses to describe the scene. He recently witnessed the leveling of the summertime staple of his youth, watching in real time as memories became rubble and debris. He is no stranger to the changes American Beach has endured of late, and Reynolds is just one more casualty of time and progress.
Having grown up less than an hour away in Jacksonville, Florida, Miller frequently visited the historic beach community, situated on the southeastern shores of Amelia Island, in the late 1950s and early 1960s. He remembers its simple joys, best of all.
“We made our own fun,” he recalls of those days spent riding cardboard scraps down the sand dunes or cooling off in the local pinball room, El Patio. It, too, has since been demolished. “We’d play ball. We visited each other’s houses and just had a good time creating things to entertain ourselves.”
At that time, American Beach was all Miller had known of sand and surf, and as a child, it was the only spot he had ever swam or fished in. This was not out of preference, but because widespread prejudice left him and his family with few options.
“When I was a kid, we couldn’t just go to certain beaches here,” he explains.
This was the South under Jim Crow, an era of institutionalized racism when laws were put in place to segregate Black and white citizens and enforce a near-hundred-year-long system of inequality throughout the southern United States. For decades, Jim Crow dominated everyday life, segregating education, transportation, dining, and even restrooms and drinking fountains.
African Americans were barred from public spaces, like parks and swimming pools, as well. Along the Florida coast, many beaches also denied their entry, with one Jacksonville area ordinance from 1924 stating that integrated bathing in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean could result in a 90-day jail stint and/or a $100 fine.
When I was a kid, we couldn’t just go to certain beaches here.
In the face of ever-present discrimination, the constant threat of legal action, and often violence, African Americans carved out spaces for themselves to find relaxation and opportunities for leisure. Along North Florida’s eastern coastline rose a handful of resort communities, such as St. Augustine’s Butler Beach and Mayport’s Manhattan Beach. American Beach, however, would come to offer an unparalleled oasis to beachgoers during Jim Crow.
Founded in 1935 by the members of Jacksonville’s pioneering Afro-American Life Insurance Company—chief among them being Abraham Lincoln Lewis, or A. L. Lewis, Florida’s first African American millionaire—American Beach would come to be known as the “Negro Ocean Playground.” What began as a 33-acre beachfront operation, originally meant to serve as a space for the insurance company’s outings and employee gatherings, soon grew into a 216-acre paradise for all.
On the land that wasn’t purchased by company leaders and shareholders, the average African American family could build summer homes, and entrepreneurs were able to establish restaurants and nightclubs. It flourished as a seaside neighborhood, but it wasn’t long before American Beach was the coastal destination. By the 1950s, the resort was an epicenter for entertainment, recreation, and community. African American vacationers from across the country arrived in droves, and from Easter to Labor Day, the beach remained packed.
Miller remembers the crowds, detailing the swells of people by the thousands. As he recalls, “It was a beach where people were constantly coming and going, so I met new friends every week. If the family was only coming for a couple of days, I had a new friend for a couple of days.”
Weekenders would fill the A. L. Lewis Motel or various guest lodgings, with homeowners even renting out rooms to accommodate the masses. Day-trippers would arrive during the night and sleep in their vehicles just to get a prime spot on the beach the next morning. People would be bused in after church services, making a break for the surf, some still in their Sunday best. During the summer, automobiles thronged the shoreline with barely enough room between them to open the doors, and vacationers, nearly shoulder to shoulder, would get to relax and commune with one another away from hatred and humiliation.
There was always something to do. Surf fishing, kite contests, beauty pageants, and car races were regular daytime activities, and at night, American Beach was just as lively. Establishments like Evan’s Rendezvous and Duck’s offered dancing and live entertainment, often welcoming the likes of jazz great Cab Calloway and soul icon Ray Charles. American Beach, as a whole, became a destination for Black luminaries and a hub for culture. There, it was not uncommon to bump into writer Zora Neale Hurston or rub elbows with legendary right fielder Hank Aaron and boxing phenom Joe Louis.
More than the influx of people every summer season, though, Miller remembers the sense of community that was nurtured among guests and neighbors.
“It was very much a village of people,” Miller shares. “Everybody cared for everybody. Everybody was everybody’s mother. Everybody was everybody’s child. You were guarded. You were looked after the whole time … It was just a great place to live, a joyous place to live. I loved coming up there.”
By the end of 1964, however, American Beach would be rocked by change. The passing of the Civil Rights Act that summer outlawed racial discrimination and segregation in public spaces, effectively dismantling Jim Crow. African American vacationers began setting their sights on the destinations that had been previously off-limits to them for so long.
Then, when Hurricane Dora made landfall that September, laying waste to several homes and businesses on the resort, American Beach found itself struggling to rebuild. This devastation, coupled with the shifts the Civil Rights Act brought about, left the resort in a state of limbo, eventually shuttering many of its amenities.
By the 1970s, several historically Black resort beaches in the South had fallen victim to real estate developers, and American Beach was no different. As they began to close in, attempting to pick apart and buy up what land they could, a descendant of A. L. Lewis returned, poised for a fight.
Everybody cared for everybody. Everybody was everybody’s mother. Everybody was everybody’s child.
Lewis’ great-granddaughter, MaVynee Betsch, had left the area in her youth to study at Ohio’s Oberlin Conservatory of Music. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, she traveled and performed as an opera singer in concert halls across Europe until the need to preserve her home called her back.
She would devote the rest of her life to the conservation of American Beach, giving historical tours of the community, fighting to protect its dune system, which she lovingly named “NaNa,” and advocating for the area to be added to the National Register of Historic Places. Betsch succeeded in 2002, with parts of the resort listed as the American Beach Historic District.
In that time, she garnered the nickname “The Beach Lady.” She dressed colorfully and wore jewelry made of seashells and stone. Her natural hair was around seven feet long and fashioned with various political pins and buttons for social causes. Betsch’s profound voice and radical image are still a presence throughout American Beach, even after her passing in 2005.
Without Betsch’s efforts, Miller says American Beach would have been “gobbled up” long ago, and today, it seems he’s picked up her fight. He, alongside his wife, Avis Miller, established Coast One Tours to preserve the rich history of American Beach through ancestral, as well as deeply educational, island-wide voyages.
On their tours, it’s evident just how much American Beach hangs in the balance, especially now.
Flanked by the Omni Resort & Spa to the south and the Ritz-Carlton to the north, what’s left of the once-bustling destination is shrinking. Today, just 100 of its 216 acres remain, with American Beach looking far different from the oasis it was six decades ago.
The formerly buzzing Evan’s Rendezvous—which used to draw a crowd so thick, it was said that, if you passed out, you’d have to do so standing up—and the once-rarely-vacant A. L. Lewis Motel are still standing, yet lie inoperable and at the mercy of time. Many of the area’s modest bungalows and beloved businesses are also at risk, either of dilapidation or outright demolition, likely to be replaced by the more modern vacation homes that have begun dotting the neighborhood.
Efforts to preserve the community, however, remain active and ongoing as other American Beach residents and descendants work to safeguard their home. Attempts are reportedly underway to sustain Evan’s Rendezvous and the A. L. Lewis Motel for the future, along with collaborations with Nassau County to conserve even more historic infrastructure.
The area’s fragile ecosystem is also a priority, with beach-driving restrictions and the protection of native turtle nesting grounds serving as major points of focus.
While it’s difficult to imagine American Beach fully restored to its former glory, its golden age—and the haven it once provided—still beckons. Images and artifacts from those days reside within the nearby A. L. Lewis Museum, and the excitement and fun of those bygone summer months live on in the stories of Ron and Avis Miller. Yet the empty shore and construction-lined streets of today reveal something vital: the continued need to protect and preserve an important piece of history.
As Avis shares, “There’s nothing that we can do to preserve American Beach of old. All we can do is preserve the land and let everybody know about American Beach. That’s why we established our business, because educating people on how African Americans lived and how we can progress is so important.”
The Millers may be among the few remaining advocates passionately championing the life and longevity of American Beach, but their cause is far from lost. Much like the faded words that clung to the remains of Reynolds Sandwich Shop, they, too, hang on. Committed to the bitter end.
“We gotta keep fighting,” Ron says, “and fighting and fighting to hold on as much as we can.”
It’s evident just how much American Beach hangs in the balance, especially now.
