Sunday Favorites: Experiencing Midnight Pass

Some places call you back. Midnight Pass is one of them. Ever since it reopened, I’d been itching to see it firsthand—especially after my original article about its long-anticipated return went locally viral.

The other day, I finally made the trip. Regrettably, I left my paddleboard at home, not wanting to wrestle it onto the roof of my car. But the moment I arrived, I knew I’d made a mistake. The water was stunning—crystal clear and smooth as glass, the perfect day for paddling. There was no way I could sit on the beach and watch.

So, rather than resign myself to lounging on the sand (I’ve never been much for just lying out anyway), I walked over to the bay side at Turtle Beach and rented a board from a guy near the boat ramp. “Been out here since the Pass opened?” he asked. When I said no, he just grinned. “It’s a whole different world.”

As I paddled through the channel, I could see exactly what he meant. The storm’s toll was undeniable—condos gutted, their interiors laid bare, once-lush yards now barren dunes. A little dock I’d known for years had collapsed, swept away by nature’s force. But the water—it was breathtaking. Before the pass reopened, the bay had taken on a tannin-stained hue, murky and brownish. Now, with the tidal exchange restored, it had transformed into a  clear blue-green. For the first time in years, I could see the bottom. Snook and sheepshead darted along the mangroves making me wish I'd brought a rod. 

An osprey was perched atop a channel marker, back in its nest—a good omen, I thought, as I made my way toward the bay. I noticed something else, too: the sandbars. They were new, appearing where none had been before, creating idyllic white-sand beaches you could simply pull up to. The changes weren’t just in the water—they were everywhere, reshaping the landscape in real time.

Then came the current. Before the pass reopened, this had been a favorite paddling spot for my eight-year-old son and me. But as I fought against the water’s pull, I knew it was different now. No way would he be able to handle it—heck, even I was struggling, and I consider myself a strong paddler. It was a challenge, but a rewarding one, the kind that makes you appreciate the power of the place.

I pushed on and caught sight of the old Mote Marine research tanks, once hidden from view, the shark tanks were now exposed by the shifting tides. The water inside was stagnant, much as it had been before, but much more blue.  Outside, the current moved swiftly, reshaping the inlets and beaches with every passing tide. I finally gave in, pulled my board onto the sand, and wandered along the shore.

Everywhere, people were shelling, collecting nature’s souvenirs left behind by the churning waters. The beaches were littered with them, tiny treasures scattered across the sand. Others were picnicking, soaking in the beauty of this ever-changing landscape. I took my time, appreciating the moment before paddling back, watching Midnight Pass breathe again.

Some places call you back—not just for nostalgia, but to witness their evolution. Midnight Pass is one of them, and I’ll be back again soon. Next time, though, my board is coming with me.