Ah, Publix. Purveyors of the best submarine sandwiches south of the Mason-Dixon line, if you ask this born-and-bred Yankee. Fortifier of countless million households. Love or loathe the great mechanisms and institutions of American capitalism writ large, you’ve got to hand it to a great southern grocer that employs a quarter million people across nearly 1,400 stores from Florida to Virginia to Kentucky.
But then let’s be honest: Who, reading this magazine, in their right state of mind, fancies a trip to Publix, or, more to the point, a Power & Motoryacht column on the subject of grocery shopping, over some jolly jig about a newlywed duo’s first humble little vessel or a freshly retired couple heading out into the sunset aboard their dream Grand Banks or Fleming? Well, bear with us for a moment, because boating couples young and old now have a new way to grocery shop—at least in southeast Florida.
Picture this: A long list of honey-dos from your darling companion, or a cacophonous slumber party hosted by your teen-aged offspring. It’s all you can do to keep your head on and your mouth shut. What are your escape options? Try to fix the screen door and mute out the teenaged brouhaha with a podcast or a Spotify playlist for disgruntled dads? Well, if one of those “honey-do” items involves a trip for provisions, maybe a cruise to Publix’s new waterfront Hollywood premises is in order. This gleaming new market is a 29,912-square-foot establishment set right on the Intracoastal waterway (311 S. Ocean Drive and A1A if by land). It boasts not just dock space for that brand-new center console you’re just dying to take out for a rip, but waterfront benches for errant chore-goers to enjoy their sub sandwiches away from domestic clamor and duties.
And if that’s not enough, use your imagination some. Sure, grab those groceries then as you pass the cooler section, snatch up a bag of limes and a sixer of Coronitas, or whichever sudsy adult beverage whets your whistle. Snag a pound of fresh shrimp too, either for the railside barbie you have tidily stowed aboard or, one better still, to bait the snapper rods which, conveniently, just happen to be rigged up and aboard, at the ready. Toss your booty in the Dometic or in the cooler on ice plates. Since everything is hunky-dory and you didn’t tell the family when you’d be home, consider that the snapper mom requested would be so much better fresh than store-bought. On your way back home, zig a left when you were supposed to zag a right and find yourself atop your favorite yellowtail reef just offshore. Maybe you find a little time and catch yourself a limit of flags—the foundation of a nice shrimp and snapper ceviche for when you pull up at home. Who’s to file grievances? Forget the fuel bill, never mind that it took an extra hour or three. You did your job and by Jove, you managed to come into possession of a cooler of fresh—even lively—yellowtail for dinner. Fair dinkum. That run to the grocery store doesn’t sound so bad after all, does it?
